Sunday, 1145PM"Naw man, I ain't got any... but you run out there and find me some crystal meth and we'll talk."
If that had come out of nearly anyone's mouth besides
Iggy's, I might not have caught the humor. I think I know the guy well enough by now to know when he's just dicking with someone, in this case some transient wandering through the poker room at the Plaza.
Moments earlier I spotted this dude ambling from the floor of the casino, making a bee line right for Iggy, who was on the periphery smoking a cigarette. He looked like a cross between one of those Warner Brothers' Hatfield/McCoy yokels and Charles Manson, and certainly smelled like the corpse of Marty Feldman. He was going on at least five days of not shaving, and his Fuller brush mustache was easily the product of a couple years of growth. He was in a t-shirt and shorts, and was wearing a blue baseball cap backwards over his tangled greying hair. Over the arch on the back it said, "ANCHORAGE, ALASKA."
"I don't do that sort of stuff," he stammered. "It's all pot man, I'm a pot guy." Uh huh. He was shuffling sideways, nearly teetering off-balance as he rocked from left to right.
"I did crystal meth at a place called 'Humpy's' in Anchorage once. You ever been to 'Humpy's?'" He turned to face the question from Iggy, and sure enough the front of his hat featured a fish and the words "HUMPY'S SEAFOOD RESTAURANT."
"Hump... uh... um... no, I never been to no 'Humpy's.'" I'm not sure if he thought this was a trick question, but it was apparent we were making him nervous. At that moment a rather attractive Hispanic girl in her early 20s walked by and into the bathroom. "I'd like to get me a piece of that!" he shouted, barely containing a gurgling chuckle afterwards.
"You know what they appreciate?" I offered, gesturing towards the bathroom. "When you keep an eye on them in the bathroom. You know, follow them inside, take a peek under the door. Just keep that mustache of yours from dragging in any puddles though, would ya?" Iggy coughed into his hand to hide a giggle, and the dude peered around my shoulder at the Hispanic girl who had not yet disappeared into the bathroom.
Iggy saw his leering and said, "You should think about her when you masturbate." I popped right back with, "I polished my knob in a little joint up in Anchorage called 'Humpy's.' You ever been to 'Humpy's?'"
He shook the cobwebs as he turned to look up at me. "Whas Humpys?"
"Seafood joint. Restaurant."
"What type of fish do they serve?"
Without missing a beat I said, "Sturgeon." I have no idea why this was funny, but Iggy started cracking up. Maybe it was the puzzled sideways look our transient friend shot back, along with some muttering like "Perch! Salmon! I like salmon!"
Iggy walked back to the Dealer's Choice table, and the longhaired weirdo took another shot at panhandling. "Do you have any money? For rolling papers?"
"You know, I'd just be encouraging your bad habits by giving you money."
"Well, I don't have any."
"Bad habits, or money?"
"Yeah..." He had a faraway look in his eyes. I was done dicking with him.
"Alright man, keep that mustache clean. Have a good night."
He loped along past the Hispanic girl, looking her up and down before heading out the back door into the Vegas night.