Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

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When the building imploded it was like they ripped my fuckin’ heart out.

I watched as forty-four years of history-forty-three of which I was a part-collapsed in a heap of mortar-and-brick rubble. But I was surprised when my shoulders came down with the building, and my insides unclenched.

Only a few hours ago I was standing at my post in the pit among the blackjack tables. Forty-three years ago Jack Entratter had hired me, and three hours ago the current owner, Sheldon Adelson, had been decent enough to walk out ahead of me and allow me to be the last person to leave.

At seventy-six I didn’t have that much time left to make memories, but that was one I wanted to have. Now I stood under the great Sands marquee with the other employees who had hung around-Sheldon standing on my right, Las Vegas great Wayne Newton on my left-to watch as the walls came tumbling down.

Suddenly the air was filled with dirt and dust. People began to scatter pretty quickly, some coughing and covering their mouths.

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