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CHAPTER 18 The Millennium Waltz A Story in Three-Quarter Time JULIE M. CRANDALL AND MARY HELEN BROWN If such a thing exists, on a normal day in Las Vegas, time doesn’t much matter. Food, drink, and entertainment are available constantly, 24–7. No clocks are present in casinos because the management does not want to distract the slot players and the players at the gaming tables from the business at hand. Of course, a show might start at a certain time, and one must place bets at the sports book at the right time, but for the most part, day runs into night and night runs into day without notice or comment. Tonight, December 31, 1999, however, time is everything. I approach the Las Vegas Strip from the south and park in the free parking garage of the Luxor Hotel. I step on the Strip at 3:00 p.m. The casinos shimmer as the sun peeks between the buildings. I hear cheers and screams as I stroll down the strip. “Oh, yeah, 2000.” “Only nine hours to go; let’s party, baby.” The people around me are young, their clothing baggy and loose, their hair a rainbow. They are trying to make a fashion statement although I’m not sure what kind. They speak in a mixture of slang and obscenities. The streets are lined with small chain-link fences placed to keep revelers from darting into the streets. Police officers guard the fences and offer directions and information to the visitors. They seem tense as they observe the passing crowd. Occasionally, they search backpacks, duffel bags, and purses looking for any sort of contraband, mainly drugs and weapons. An agitated rent-a-cop asks three hookers to move along. They had made their business obvious by making an offer that was overheard by too many people. 189 I wander into a couple of hotels, the MGM Grand and New York, New York. Both reek of stale beer and cigarettes. Elevator music fills the air, and frenzy fills the table. Celebrity impersonators—Cher, Elvis, and Barbra—belt out their hits. The limits on the gaming tables are raised in honor of the occasion; the standard bet is $25. “Seven,” yells a croupier. “Awww, crap,” comes a response, “dammit, dammit, dammit.” I walk past the slot machines. A klaxon sounds, a light flashes, and a small, frail looking elderly woman jumps and screams, “Yes, yes, yes!” She shows everyone her jackpot and proudly sits awaiting the pay-off. Her jackpot is high enough that it cannot be paid off by the machine. “Congratulations,” I say to her, secretly despising her good fortune. I make my way back to the street party. The sky is turning from orange to a deep purple. The millions of neon lights lining the boulevard flicker on. The neon buzzes as the lights heat up. A siren howls in the distance. Youngsters appear from adjacent streets, obviously dropped off for the experience. The Strip turns into Mardi Gras West, complete with bare breasts and beads. Money, kisses, beads, and sexual favors are offered for quick flashes. I head down the Strip, but stop when I hear a muffled voice from a megaphone . A doomsday group preaches that the millennium marks the end of the world. Most carry signs, but one carries a megaphone and addresses the crowd: “God will destroy you in hell if you don’t repent. Have you ever noticed the word SIN lies in casino? You go inside and you pray to God. ‘Oh God, help me hit this slot.’ Have you deserted God?” Members of the crowd respond to this and other similar messages. “John 3:16, jerk. Do you know what that says? For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, whosoever believeth in him shall not perish from the earth, but have eternal life. You know that one, Jackass?” Others in the crowd shout out verses. One of the doomsday prophets yells: “You are a sinner for coming to Las Vegas, gambling and then reciting the Bible.” One young man proves to be a formidable opponent for the prophets. Andrew dresses in baggy jeans and a tight shirt. He discredits verses from the megaphone man by reciting them correctly. He lectures them on peace and understanding . He receives hoots of support from the crowd, but after several minutes, he realizes his cause is futile, takes a long drag off his cigarette, slams down...

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