Poolside in Vegas

Shortly before I met my former husband Steve, his folks retired to Las Vegas from Long Island, New York.  Which meant that for the duration of our 11-1/2 years together (the last 10 being married), we made usually twice-yearly pilgrimages to Sin City to hang with Marvin and Bea at Sunset Park, the over-55 mobile home park they called home.  As we would enter the park upon our arrival, I was always acutely enamored by the abundance of garden gnomes, horse jockeys, and plastic deer that dotted the rock-covered gardenscapes of the residents.  As one can probably imagine, there wasn’t much greenery besides cactus.  But what the park lacked in flora was made up for in spades by this quaint bit of whimsical Americana that gets a bad rap.  Somehow it worked here.

The proximity of Sunset Park to the Strip was ideal.  Not too close, not too far.  It meant that I might forget I was in Vegas for a stretch, but when Steve and I wanted some action -- like a buffet dinner at the Bellagio or a comedy show featuring Rita Rudner -- it was only a red rock’s throw away.  Marvin and Bea were always sporting in lending us their car.

On our first visit together to Vegas, Steve introduced me to his casino of choice, the Gold Coast.  It was only a straight two-mile shot down from Sunset Park, and because it was off the Strip, the gambling was cheaper (and I’d like to think the odds were better).  For the first seven years of our visits, we could always find $2 blackjack tables at the Gold Coast.  Affordable gambling that entertained us long enough in a night that it justified our modest losses, if indeed things went that way.  There was one memorable night, however, where I was on an amazing roll.  I was feeling good, not really paying attention to my chips.  It was all about the game.  I was in love with the action that night and somehow I was pulling right, sticking right, and often enough, the dealer’s hand just wasn’t as pretty as mine.  I left the table that night $500 in the black, Jack.

Steve was my blackjack mentor and coach, and a very good one.  He was a smart player.  If he himself could not occupy the anchor seat at a table (which is the last one to receive a card from the dealer in the rotation), he was always very cognizant of who occupied it.  If he deemed the anchor an idiot after a hand or two (i.e. pulling when he or she shouldn’t), we left the table.  I respected Steve’s adherence to strategy and not impulse, at least when it came to blackjack.

But of everything that our Vegas junkets afforded, my favorite pastime was sitting poolside.  Sunset Park had a pretty decent clubhouse and pool.  The pool was a nice size, clean, a comfortable temperature, and an optimal aqua blue.  Pool time was my time.  And during my time, the pool was usually empty.  I think it was only used each morning for an hour of water aerobics for the ladies in residence.  So by the time I got there in the afternoon, I had my choice of chaise lounges and umbrellas.  I established my camp with a loud and colorful beach towel (thanks to Bea) and laid out my accessories; sunscreen, a bottle of water, sunglasses, a magazine, maybe a book.  I am not one content merely to sit poolside.  I love to swim, to troll the bottom, to get wet.  Which, true enough, is not a difficult undertaking in Vegas when it would often reach 100 degrees during our visits.  I love the water.  My mother once said that if I hadn’t been born a human, I would have probably been born a fish.  And besides, I always like to give the sun something to dry off.

What really enhanced the poolside experience for me was the music emanating from the clubhouse speakers.  The demographic of Sunset Park inspired a particular genre and era of sound; generally ‘40s, ‘50s, and ‘60s.  Songs like “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” “King of the Road,” “She’s a Lady,” and voices of the likes of Rosemary Clooney, Nat King Cole, and Frank Sinatra wafted over the water, summoning that bygone “Mad Men” era.  If there had been a poolside bar serving Manhattans, the scene would have been complete.

In many ways, Vegas defined that chapter of my life:  My marriage, my 30s, my sense of play back then.  I was plying the depths of a clubhouse swimming pool, taking chances at $2.00 tables, finding aesthetic satisfaction in garden gnomes.  What happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas.