I always wondered if you could trust a Las Vegas Host. I met mine two years ago. Since then he has made everything continuously easier and smoother. He constantly maintained a professional demeanor so it was always in the back of my mind. The little adventure I’m about to detail provided a clear answer. This prose is written as a favor to him, who now works for Nightlife Unlocked. After what happened, it’s the least I could do to thank him.
I stumbled out of the Uber at 10:35 PM into the Bellagio with three Jack Daniels and sodas coursing through my veins. God bless McCarran Airport for that one. My two friends and I were in town for a quick 26-hour getaway so we had to make the most of it. My Vegas VIP Host (Let us call him L for brevity’s sake) greeted me at the porte coshère with a handshake/hug combo usually reserved for people with more melanin in their skin than myself. We didn’t bother checking into the hotel. We just threw our bags at the bell desk and walked towards the gathering crowd. L briskly walked us through the masses waiting outside. Before I knew it we were seated at the best table right in the middle of the dance floor at the Bellagio’s crown jewel, Hyde Nightclub.
Once inside, we proceeded to order an obscene amount of alcohol in bottles reserved for victorious Roman generals. Each procession of bottles was getting more and more ridiculous. The MC, an Indian guy (dot, not feather) with a giant beard and a funny hat kept yelling my name over the slamming music. I have to admit, I loved it. As this bacchanal unfurled into the night, I would every now and then see L, casually sipping on a water bottle, with a faint smile and maybe a few words of instruction for the waitress. The last thing I remember was the busty blonde from Chicago grinding her pelvis into me while telling me how she loved the way I ordered bottles.
I don’t remember how I responded because when I opened my eyes it was to the ringing of my cell phone. I was in my suite at Bellagio, still in my suit from last night. Neatly arranged on the nightstand were an unopened bottle of Tylenol and a cold Gatorade. My luggage had been delivered, and my watch, wallet, and cellphone were intact. L was on the other end of the ringing phone. I apparently had too much to drink and blacked out. I was a bumbling sloppy mess. L had arranged for my safe arrival to my suite, as well as the care package. My own loser friends had ditched me and were just getting back from Sapphire strip club. I was slow to recover but eventually made it out to the pool that day.
When I saw L later, I couldn’t find the words to thank him for getting me back safely. Since then I run any Vegas decision past him no matter how infinitesimal. L always goes above and beyond what I would expect from any human being, much less someone who I only met two years ago. So can I trust my Las Vegas Host? I think the answer is a resounding “Yes”.