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As soon as the arm recoiled on the slot machine, a cocktail waitress asked if the gentleman would like another drink—while nickels spattered into the coin trough and prayers rose all about them.

Oh the precious metals that began to fall, to come out of hiding—and the lovely noise that rushed into our ears and made our hearts beat. Oh the thrilling moments.

In the casino at the Stardust, cameras were made ready, and microphones taped to gafts—their cords tangling like reptiles among the ashtrays, advertisements, and the ankles of ample women. Then a crowd, sensing celebrity, gathered around a great, black boxer as he chided the newsmen before speaking in front of America.

Adrenalin flowed:   at the Frontier, at the Sands, at Caesar's Palace, and in cheap motel rooms where the prints above the bed—gaudy desert landscapes—illumined in the color televison's glow. As hope grew and expectation hovered, adrenalin flowed—and the lady drank White Russians!

Aces were split; bets doubled. Long white legs wrapped down and around rising bar stools.

Under the marque of the Golden Nugget, beneath the hundreds of conventional bulbs, she feels the whir of the turbines holding back Lake Mead. And marvels. It is always three o'clock in the afternoon and ninety-eight degrees. She could press neon to her skin and feel the cool.

A door bangs across the hall from room 319, and from the swimming pool a child waves his arms and is understood by mothers smiling from air-conditioned rooms everywhere.

Madame *** changed her name back to Lois and took a job in a coffee shop where only locals ate, and spent her tips on piano lessons for her son. A dentist, above the extravagence downtown, reamed the decay from a lingual pit and filled it with precious metal, charging the woman for Novacain and the Novacain his assistant spilt.

Caravans set out from Los Angeles. From Orange and Fresno. And the Grand Hotel was admired by students of architecture everywhere.

Billboard lights repeat their patterns without end; and neon continues to glow while the seasons never change inside the casinos. The moon howled acrossed the desert and quickly left town as the next shift of dealers clocked in. At times, which one might consider indifferent, the sun came and went—at times, the blind man grumbling on an accordian cooled his eyes with silver dollars.

Lunge, dice—roll, carom off the felt walls and the spilling chips—black cuffs, white fists and ambling fingers—animations and sorrows, exhilaration and despair—again, rise and roll.

Because when they rolled away—on come, the hard way, on pass line or don't pass and sent us out into the bright evening heat. Or left us reeling at the table—a line of chips between our hands pulsing like a heartbeat. Or heading into elevators and the grayness of multi-story parking lots. Empty pockets, emptied of emotion, stunned by adrenalin—still longing for the right moment, and knowing it is not enough. Still wanting for that thing we only suspect, but do not know.