He’s perplexed. Then he looks at the rest of us and back at his own attire. He shrugs. “I like to be comfortable. You guys look like you’re going to a funeral. I look relaxed.”
“You look like a loser,” I argue. “And that’s unacceptable for tonight. My guidance will only get you so far. If you wanna attract quality snatch? You need to step up your game. That means a half-decent suit, or at least a pair of pressed slacks—preferably ones not made from the same material as prison jumpsuits.” I toss back the rest of my drink. “And what the hell is with your hair?”
Warren’s wavy, light brown locks are less tamed than usual. They’re higher—poofier—like an old lady fresh from the hairdresser. He pats the top of his head self-consciously. “I forgot my gel. But it’s cool—chicks dig the curls.”
“Yeah, if it’s 1998 and your name is Justin Timberlake.”
Jack intervenes. “I’ll hook you up, dude. I always bring my buzzer along. We’ll trim the mop-top, slick it back—your own mother won’t recognize you.”
Steven sets his Scotch down on a coaster. Then he taps his chin thoughtfully. “And I’ll call the concierge—have them send over something from the Armani boutique near the lobby.” He eyes Warren up and down. “You’re a thirty, maybe a thirty-two waist, with a slim-cut jacket. A light blue tie will really bring out the color of your eyes.”
Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to another edition of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.
And Matthew makes it so much worse. He claps his fingertips together daintily and says in a high-pitched voice, “Makeover time!”
My eyes narrow in his direction. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“Too much?”
“Definitely.”
Twenty minutes later Warren is decked out in a slick navy suit, black shirt, and shiny Prada shoes. His hair has a neat wet look—short on top, combed back at the sides. He looks . . . passable. Extremely awkward and uncomfortable—but passable.
I stand in front of him and brush off his shoulders, inspecting his clothes like a general at boot camp.
While he whines like a bitch. “It itches.” He rolls his neck and steps from one foot to the other.
“Stop fucking fidgeting.”
He pulls at the collar. “It’s stiff.”
“It’s new—it’s supposed to be. Stand up straight.” Jesus, do I sound like my father or what?
I drape the blue tie around his neck, to demonstrate how to tie one. But then I think better of it.
There’s an excellent chance I’ll end up strangling him with the damn thing. And a trip out to the desert to bury a body would be a major inconvenience right now.
Steven, who has turned patience into an art form, takes my place. “Okay, Billy, the rabbit comes out of his burrow, goes around the tree . . .”
You can tell a lot about a person by the game he or she plays at a casino. Adrenaline junkies, those willing to take big risks for an even bigger payoff, they orbit the craps tables. Craps is a game of skillful luck. It requires a certain finesse—quick thinking and decisive action. Then there’s blackjack. Unless you’re a freak-of-nature card counter, you have to stick to the rules. Assume each card’s a ten, stay at fifteen even if every fiber of your being is screaming to hit, and wait for the dealer to bust. If you don’t know how to play, stay the fuck away. Blackjackers tend to throw quite the hissy fit if you take “their” card. After blackjack, there’s roulette. Roulette is all about odds. Play black or red and you have a slightly less than 50 percent chance of winning. Statistically speaking, it’s your best shot at beating the house.
At the low end of the gambling totem pole are the slot machines. A monkey could play them. Put your money in, pull the lever; money, lever; money, lever. They require no proficiency or knowledge and they’re programmed to favor the casino. The longer you play, the more likely you are to go broke.
The only people who play slots are the aged, the mentally infirm, and suckers.
“Cool—slot machines! That’s all I play. I’m so good at them,” Warren says.
Saw that one coming a mile away, didn’t you?
I slap him on the back and steer him toward the high-roller section. “Tonight you’re gonna play craps.”
“I don’t know how to play craps.”
“Then you’re going to watch and learn. Craps is a man’s game. All the hottest girls hang out at the craps table because that’s where the money is. If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, than he has to go to the motherfucking mountain.”
“What mountain?”
For a second I forgot I was talking to a real, live sphincter. “Never mind. Just pay attention.”
Matthew, Warren, and I get our chips while Jack heads over to blackjack. Steven gets comfortable at a $5,000-minimum roulette table. He’s all about statistics and odds. At the craps table, I’m rolling and Matthew handles the bets. Right out of the gate, I roll a seven, and the crowd goes wild.