Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand
It has been another long day. Up at my normal time in the east, I walk the vacant hotel floor with a few retirees and addicts spinning the slots. At the lonely card tables, dealer’s heads drift to the side - nearly falling asleep, but catch themselves before going under with a jolt of their head back to the starting place.
After breakfast is the first meeting. We then move to a private bus that takes us to several off property locations all across Las Vegas that will hold 1,500. By the airport, down to Freemont, back up the strip, over to the hotel, past the hotel, fancy night clubs – we put on a few miles. Nothing is a perfect fit, but there are several close enough, and one that is way off the mark.
During the afternoon I sat in on several more meetings. Some vendors promise the moon and the stars when I only want a decent price on renting a computer. We discuss the alternatives to the floor plan.
For dinner, it’s Italian. I enjoy the world’s best spaghetti and meatballs (the world’s best meatloaf is served from a small restaurant in Chicago in case you wanted to know and Spencer is still the world’s best cat) and the conversation is a delight.
I am tired. A good tired. The kind of tired you get from accomplishing something and working hard. I call it working, but Lord knows I have a great job – great for me at least.