UNSTABLE FABLES
If Aesop Was a Bitter Cynic Living in Modern-Day Nevada
Morals for today
I understand why they build these places without any windows. When you’re as hungover as I am, the last thing you want is the morning sun drilling another hole in your skull.
This particular bar at Caesar’s has a pair of muted TVs at each corner — for the benefit of those who can’t do without an umbilical cord to the outside world. The morning news shows tell me it’s early and the banality of the content tells me it’s Monday.
The bartender slithers over.
“How you doing?”
“I can barely keep my ears up.”
“More hair of the dog?”
“Yes please.”
The dog at the other end of the bar gives us a dirty look as the bartender pours another shot of rye. It occurs to me I should have used a different idiom when ordering.
“Listen,” I say, “if you really want to give me poison for the antidote, you’ll throw in some Addies, E-bombs, and the starting lineup at Cheetah’s.”
“Pretty brave for a guy like you to show up to a place like that.”
“It’s true what they say about liquid courage. Plus, the girls are professionals. They know it’s bad business to eat the clients.”
“Sounds like a fun night.”
“Three nights.”
The bartender doesn’t blink. This guy’s either seen it all or is biologically incapable of blinking.
Just then, the TVs light up with a flurry of graphics announcing some BREAKING NEWS!
An aerial shot reveals a crowd lining a city street with a fat ribbon stretched across one end.
A caption rips across the screen: “TORTOISE TRIUMPHS BY TORPID TENACITY!”
The crowd goes crazy as the chelonian in question lumbers across the finish line.
I drain my drink. “Everyone loves an underdog.”
The dog at the other end of the bar shoots me an evil stare.
This guy is way too sensitive. I tell him to get bent and turn back to the TV.
Now all the reporters are shoving flashbulbs and microphones into the turtle’s face. And he’s just eating it up. Another caption flashes across the screen:
“TORTOISE: ‘SLOW AND STEADY WINS THE RACE.’”
Gotta hand it to him. This guy gives good copy.
Next up are all the pundits and commentators and before you know it, they’re flashing a photo of me on the screen along with another caption:
“HUBRIS HAMPERS HURRYING HARE!”
The bartender puts it together. “Say, isnt’ that — ”
“Yeah.”
“Oof. Tough break, buddy.”
“You might say that.”
“You don’t look too upset.”
I lean over to the bartender. Maybe it’s the sauce loosening my lips, but I feel an overwhelming desire to make my confession. And worse yet, it’s not guilt, but pride that’s driving the bus.
“Listen… I’m going to tell you something. And if anyone ever asks, I’m going to deny it and call you a lying son of a bitch.” We ignore the growl from the other end of the bar.
“Sure. Whatever you tell me is protected under Bartender-patron confidentiality.”
“Promise?”
“Stays in Vegas.”
“Okay… When I leave here, I am going directly to the sports betting desk to withdraw my very substantial winnings from the very substantial bet I placed on our champion’s very unlikely victory.”
The bartender smiles and pours us both a shot. I think he’s finally impressed.
“Here’s the real moral of the story,“ I tell him, “Never bet on yourself.”
