VEGAS MISADVENTURES AND ELEVATORS

The Paris Hotel and The Linq seen across from the Bellagio (Brienne Wolfe/Union Weekly)

We didn’t own the night

By Brienne Wolfe Contributor

“We’re only going to be there for a night,” my mom said. 

We were in Las frickin’ Vegas. 

We’d driven for five hours through the Nevada desert. We were going because a friend of mine had never been to Vegas. My mom called it “a girl’s night out.” 

We weren’t sure what kind of girl’s night out happened on a Tuesday. That may have influenced our mutual decision to drink. And this is where our tale starts to take a turn for the stupid, boys and girls.

Vegas is known for its who-the-fuck-cares lifestyle and makes things that are frowned upon in most cities totally normal. It’s a shit show and it’s great. But with great power comes great responsibility. 

Lack of responsibility one: we hadn’t eaten since we left. 

Lack or responsibility two: we drank coffee to make up for that first fact.

Lack of responsibility three: my friend didn’t read the bottle we were drinking. It ended up being 80 proof Hennessy split between one 5’1” girl and a 5’6” girl with thirty pounds more on her.

By the time it was 11:30 p.m., the Hennessy was gone along with two shots of whiskey between the two of us. We went to go have dinner at midnight with my mother and cousin. Once the food kicked into our systems, it was all over.

My friend turned gray. My body felt settled deep into its bones and let me tell you, it was not a pleasant feeling. Everything I heard was muffled and everything I touched felt numb. My friend went to the restroom and started praying to the porcelain God. By the time the night was over, she’d spent three hours doing that. 

“Go back to the room,” my mom said. 

The Paris Hotel and The Linq seen across from the Bellagio (Brienne Wolfe/Union Weekly)

It was a long that ten-minute journey back. I had to walk through a restaurant, a Japanese garden, the casino, and lastly—get into an elevator. I fucking hate elevators. But I got on the elevator anyway. As soon as the doors closed, you know what I heard people yelling? 

“No no, wait, no!”

The people shouting this probably wanted me to hold the elevator for them. But in my mind, it was an omen of impending demise. The elevator doors shook. A high-pitched grinding noise pulled the cables taut. And I was going to die.

Thankfully, God is not so cruel. I got out, made it back to my room, and sat down. I sent a quick text to my mom and was ready to put this whole night behind me when I heard a bang and a shout:

“Security!”

Nope! I hid in the closet. No way. They came in and after a few minutes, I decided to try and fool them into thinking I was fine. It turned out to be my cousin, trying to make us all laugh amidst the vomiting and room spinning.

Don’t scare your friends when they’re drunk, guys. It’s totally not cool. 

When we finally left the city—two days later—we were death warmed over. No amount of coffee kept me awake. No amount of water washed the vomit taste out of my friend’s mouth. And we swore never to repeat this trip again. 

In the end, what happens in Vegas doesn’t stay in Vegas.

It only stays in Vegas until it’s brought up at the family dinner table. 

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