At this point, it’s time to put up or shut up. Be a man (or at least as much of a man as I can be considering the powder blue Prius and intimate knowledge of Little Mermaid song lyrics), and finish the job. I summon the elevator, pick up the container (at least 150 lbs at this point) and make my way yet again to the casino floor. This second time around it’s definitely a bit more difficult to blend in to the crowd. Sweat begins to pore from my brow. Face is of a shade that Peter Pan and the lost boys would sing a song about. Shirt is starting to look like the dryer neglected to do its job. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get to the room, and the thought of a return trip to the cars is not something I can even entertain in this moment.
For the next 15 minutes I can only imagine the surveillance crew’s discussion. Is this guy carrying a Winnebago? Is he extremely drunk? Should we dispatch homeland security, or just sit back and laugh?
I make my way through the casino and down the long hall towards the actual tower I seek. The bad thing is, it seems like I’m only good for about 20 feet at a time before I have to set the package down. And what’s worse, I’m positive if I set it down on the floor, I will never be able to hoist it again. So I stagger and I sway. I zig and I zag. I find an empty chair here, and a bench over there. A café table on this side, and a decorative wall on that side. Up with the container, down with the container. My breath is gone, my arms are dying, and with each new bead of sweat my grip becomes even less stable. In this manner, I make my way down a crowded Caesar’s Palace shopping corridor about the equivalent of two city blocks.
With hope nearly gone and strength all but cold in the morgue, I see the tower at last. One final push and I will call it a day. If they ask me to go back for another load at this point, I will offer them a quote from the great philosopher Eric Cartman, “Screw you guys, I’m going home!” I stumble into the elevator, gingerly set down the wine, and tell myself I only have to pick it up one more time.
The elevator doors open, and I make my lift. A World’s Strongest Man competitor I am not, but you would never know it by the volume of my grunt. “DDEEYYYAAAAY.” I can finally see the room. Five doors down. Gonna make it. Four doors down. Almost there. Three Doors Down. I’m getting closer to pushing me off of life’s little edge. Two doors down. Everything stops. Arms stop lifting. Legs stop moving. This is the end, my only friend, the end (wow, if you have any more musical doors references please let me know). With the last fiber of strength I can muster I’m able to set down the container without destroying the contents. But I can go no further.
I wait a few moments outside the door collecting my breath and my thoughts. As I enter the room I make eye contact with my best friend (I know he was right behind me initially, but he must not have taken my detour to the wrong tower…and he must of had a slightly lighter first trip than me) and he can see I’m at my wits end. “Dude, where’ve you been?”, he says with genuine concern. I ask him to come out in the hall with me. I need help, I say…I just can’t go one more step with this anchor…can you carry it the rest of the way? He follows me out and bends down to pick it up. I’ll remember that laugh until they put me in my box. Crazy laughter, as he instantly downloads a mental picture of what the last 40 minutes of my life must have been like.
We make it inside the room and he sets down the container. The 30 feet he was forced to carry my burden has taken a toll on him as well. Without missing a beat he turns to me and says, “So…would now be a bad time to tell you we had a bell-hop bring up all the stuff?”
It’s 6:30pm, and I’ve yet to eat a single bite all day.
