A boys weekend in Vegas. Every moment, any moment has potential to be a laugh-master.
For the boys who love those Jesus Sandals, I present a Crazy Classic:
The Elevator.
After 8 hours of sun and fun and techno insanity at Tao Beach, 8 of us pile into an elevator headed to the 49th floor.
We are unsteady and lit to the bah-jeezus belt. We pile into this ornately styled box like an eight legged psycho patient. Laughter and boisterous shouts precede us.
As we pack in, all available space disintegrates.
There is a college kid in the corner, a couple of tiny Japanese women pressed against the rear mirror and some body’s grandma right in the middle.
We take over the elevator like Sherman took over Atlanta. The doors shut and the overwhelming sense of insanity fills the tiny compartment like a jack hammer in a phone booth.
Double-A towers over grandma eclipsing the light. She seems calm as if she is about to frost a cake.
The Japanese women are quiet, but that is a mask of deception, like kabuki theater. I have seen a mouse cornered by a cat, and that is the look I see in their eyes. The tiny women with their visor caps and sequined Elvis T-shirts have that “Godzilla is about to stomp on a building look”
The express elevator jets upward bypassing the first 37 floors. Like a 6″ by 6″ rocket sled, we pull at least a G on our ascent to the penthouse.
I wouldn’t swear to this in court, but I think I hear one of Double-A’s testicles hit the floor.
Meanwhile the claustrophobic elevator is filling with the aroma of alcohol, chlorine and pent up Crazy.
My ears pop.
On cue, our resident good guy, Buck, blurts out; “Hey anyone’s ears pop?”
That’s when MacGruber pipes up. The tall and lanky lad is a school administrator by day and a wanna-be Scotsman by night. It’s not night, but the amount of shots he has consumed has closed his eyes to the extent that light entering his pupils has diminished fooling his brain into thinking it is night. And nighttime is Brogue-time in MacGruber’s world.
“I believe my ears are a ringing as well. How bout you lassie?”
With blood shot eyes that look like he has been swimming in hot sauce, he smiles at the little old lady who barely comes up to his navel.
Grandma is easily 80 years old and she smiles a smile that lets us know this tough old bird has been there and back. She probably built bombs out of muffin mix back in WWII. A couple of drunk dummies aren’t going to shake her constitution any.
Double-A laughs out loud. I believe he wants to take off his prosthetic leg and start breaking the glass in the elevator, but he controls his Paul Bunyon like self.
Gonzo is blotto and blurts out a random series of unfiltered thoughts that would be better off not uttered. His Mexican skin is dark brown and his spiky hair defying gravity.
“Damn Vato was that cocktail waitress hot or what?”
The two Japanese women try to inhale themselves into their own lungs and disappear, but they cannot.
“Yeah, did you see her when she bent over and that string came out of her…”
We all cast a glance at Gonzo who smiles sheepishly, suddenly remembering that our elevator granny is listening in.
The elevator stops on the 37th floor.
The door opens and nobody steps off.
The college kid giggles as his marijuana induced high is peaking.
Grandma looks around bravely, surrounded by the Godfather, Macgruber, and Double-A.
“I guess nobody is getting off,” she says with a taste of apple pie in her voice.
The doors shut and the elevator lurches forward.
“I think I just dropped a nut,” MacGruber drones on in his fake Scottish accent. I look at the ruddy faced Scotsman whose eyes are so red, you wonder if his suffering a brain hemorrhage.
“And what about that Persian girl dancing on the day bed,” Gonzo continues. “I mean her ****’s just fell out of her top,”
The Godfather laughs looking at his inappropriate and very drunk brother in law.
The elevator door opens again.
“40th floor,” Buck shouts, as if nobody can see the huge digital display before us.
Everyone stares at the Japanese women, trying to push them out the door with our thoughts.
The women fight their way from the rear of the elevator, pushing past the mastodon sized slab of beef that is Double-A.
The women move rapidly from the elevator, as we all burst out laughing.
You can sense their sphincters unpuckering as they move down the hall.
The college kid is drooling spit from the corner of his mouth.
“I don’t think they liked us,” MacGruber says in a slurred Scottish gibberish only a sheep would understand.
The elevator jerks to a stop again on the 41st floor.
The doors open and we all stand pensively.
Three seconds pass. Then four. Then five.
The doors begin to close.
Suddenly the college boy lunges his arm forward.
The elevator door jerks back open.
“Oh man, I almost forgot what floor I was on.”
He laughs stupidly and exits. He turns and smiles at us like we are long lost buddies.
I wave to him as the the door closes. BYE BYE. And he too, is a memory.
We all burst out laughing.
Grandma stares up at the horde of men towering over her.
“You all here together?” she asks.
I’m not sure what happened next, but suddenly we burst into song. We are screaming God Bless America, serenading Grandma in a tribute to the USA and to her longevity as a citizen of the world.
I can’t swear to this, but I believe Grandma was singing along as well as the elevator stops on the 48th floor and the door opens.
Grandma exits and we all finish our song screaming at this point.
GOD BLESS AMERICA.
The sound is deafening as it echoes up and down the elevator shaft.
Grandma smiles and waves goodbye as the door closes.
We all fall into each other realizing that crazy can bust loose anywhere, anytime and at any elevation.
Hello 49th floor.
And that is crazy!