Reno's Soft Underbelly, Continued

After checking in to our hotel and playing a few quick hands of blackjack, my brother Bryan and I wanted to have a drink or two at a regular bar--not in a casino. We had a cold frosty at my old standby Doc Holiday's across from Harrah's, then walked about looking for another spot. There was a decent billiards bar, a Reno chic lounge with a DJ spinning chill jams and then there was the Riviera Lounge.

Bryan saw the neon Bud sign from a block away. I discounted it, as we would be getting farther yet from the casinos and the cold was wearing on me, but Bryan wanted to check it out. As we closed in, the establishment revealed itself to be a seedy motel bar set back in a parking lot which etched images of rooms by the week or hour and their likely patrons. I was guessing this dive hotel and bar was the last step before homelessness or the first step afterward. We walked in, sat down, ordered our drinks, and looked up at the flickering screens behind the bar flashing hard core porno. And I mean hard fucking core, eager home movie stars, sloppy and rough, fingers and thumbs and tongues. Women with jailhouse tattoos and gap toothed white dudes with afros.

My gin and tonic was enroute as I took inventory: two cowboy hat wearing, leather faced baby boomers, one younger Latin cat in all black, and our very standoffish young female bartender. The place had two stripper poles and four tables which were "reserved for couples", the signage alerted us. There was also a "couples room" in the back, where another patron, a women I believe, emerged as we were leaving. We were already putting our drinks down pretty quickly when we were notified it was last call. At 11pm. They were probably just getting rid of us, but we were ready to go.