Chapter Eight

It was a relatively short ride to Las Vegas from our campground, in spite of touching three states.

The Strip, back then, was not unlike the “main drag” in any large town. But instead of car dealerships, shopping malls and fast-food joints, Vegas had hotel/casinos. There is very little of Las Vegas Boulevard from 1978 that is recognizable today…aside from street names.

Here are a few statistics to give it all some perspective: The population of the city in 1978 was roughly 160,000. Today, it’s 2.9 million. In 1978, Sin City welcomed 11 million visitors. In 2019 — pre-Covid — they entertained 42.4 million.

Coming off a week in the desert, we were downright giddy while pulling into Vegas and the prospect of staying in a hotel room. Clean sheets. A hot shower. Food and drink.

But it should go without saying that as college students, John and I were on a fairly tight budget. And we still had a long way to go. So, we cruised The Strip a few times looking for a hotel that might be in our price range: Cheap.

We finally decided to try the Hacienda Hotel/Casino at the south end of Las Vegas Boulevard, across from the airport. Not sure why. Maybe it was the neon caballero on his stallion out front. Or its “affordable” location at the south end of the Strip.

The front desk clerk told us it would be $18 for the night, and they’d throw in a roll of nickels.

Sold!

The Hacienda was built in 1956. It had seen better days, but the hotel’s casino was popular with locals and is still remembered nostalgically. But as is Vegas tradition, it was imploded in 1996 to make way for something bigger, better, more luxurious: Mandalay Bay, which would eventually become one of the most infamous, notorious hotels on The Strip.

In 2017, a lunatic on the 32nd floor would spray bullets down on a concert crowd across the street. It would be the largest mass shooting in U.S. history. Fifty-nine dead and 527 wounded.

Hacienda Boulevard still borders the north side of the property, the only evidence remaining that our hotel ever existed.

This was my first time in a casino. I was on sensory overload. The flashing lights, the bells, the clickety-clackety-clack of the spinning slot machine wheels. The shouts of victory, the moans of defeat. We threaded our way through the busy roulette and poker tables, around seemingly endless banks of slot machines, and finally found the elevators to our room. The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke and broken dreams.

We unlocked the door of our room and were greeted by bright bilious green deep shag carpeting. John quipped, “Obviously they don’t want us spending a lot of time in the room.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” I replied.

We threw our knapsacks on the beds. Showered, changed, and quickly got back on The Strip on the hunt for food. We’d passed a large sign for a 24-hour $1.99 all-you-can-eat buffet down the street near the MGM.

All you can eat? We took it as a challenge. I’m pretty sure we won.

After consuming our fill, we walked around the MGM. Easily the largest hotel I had ever been in, at the time. It just seemed endless. One of the hotel’s big attractions in 1978 was their jai alai fronton. Completely foreign to me; John was a veritable expert. Three frontons had recently opened in Connecticut. Milford, Hartford and Bridgeport. So, he at least knew the basics.

We watched a few matches, as I tried figuring out the objective of the sport. Eventually we began making a few $2 wagers. I managed to break even on some show bets. John hit a quinella which easily covered our all-you-can-eat orgy and bar tab.

(Note: The MGM Grand would crap out two years after our visit. Defective wiring triggered a catastrophic fire that killed 87 guests and injured hundreds of others. It took a decade to settle all the lawsuits.)  

After wandering up and down The Strip, we landed back at the Hacienda. We tried our luck on a few slot machines. This didn’t require a significant investment. In 1978, they still had penny and nickel slots. And as long as you were dropping coins, you were drinking free. The Cigarette Girl was handing out free smokes, too.

I wasn’t having much luck, so I sat down at a blackjack table. Minimum bet: $1. Pretty steep, but I bought $20 worth of chips. John wisely headed up to the room to get some sleep. Just before dawn, I finally called it quits. Walked away from the table with $20 in my pocket. I didn’t win, but considering all of the free drinks and cigarettes, I certainly didn’t lose.

Well, aside from some sleep. When you’re 21, you’re virtually bullet-proof. If I tried that stunt today, it would take me days to recover. Maybe longer.

I napped until check-out. John got some breakfast and hung out by the pool.

I’m not sure how or why we came up with the idea, but we agreed that it would be smart to cross the Mojave Desert at night on our way to San Diego. The fact that the truck lacked air conditioning might have been a factor, as was the fear of the radiator overheating and spewing its contents all over I-15.

After checking out of the hotel, we managed to burn some time sightseeing. Toured downtown, walked around famous Fremont Street, and passed by a wedding chapel where you could get married by an Elvis impersonator.

We were in no hurry. Had a leisurely dinner and eventually pulled out of Vegas a little after midnight. It would be a seven-hour drive. We didn’t want to show up on my aunt and uncle’s doorstep too early.

John took the first shift while I slept in the back. Somewhere around Barstow, we lost part of the exhaust system.