3 p.m. Wednesday
I've only had four hours sleep, but I'm in better shape now than Robert Oleysyck will be in 79 hours. Oleysyck, a fixture on the Vegas club scene, is in a booth under the Palms marquee, hoping to break the world record for nonstop DJing by performing for 84 hours straight. It's where he's been since 10 a.m., when he opened up with the Chemical Brothers' "Where Do I Begin," and it will be his home for the next four days.
Resting on the DJ rig is a blue glass stone with a Cancer symbol. It's a gift Robert had given his girlfriend, Melissa D'Amico, which she has loaned him. "It's so I can have her with me," he explains. A back room holds a mattress where—according to rules established by the folks at Guinness World Records—Robert is allowed one 20-minute nap every four hours once he's banked enough total time. All of this is being overseen by medical personnel and witnesses who log in every song. But while the booth is also equiped with three plasma TVs, a DVD player and an XBox 360, it's not equipped with a working air-conditioner, making the inside temperature 90 degrees.
For now, the 35-year-old is in good shape. One wrist is bandaged, holding in an IV plug for electrolyte therapy. He's got a steady stream of fresh food and a carton of Marlboro Golds (he was told it's better for his body not to introduce any more stress than necessary, so the smokes stay). But he didn't sleep well the night before, both because of his schedule as a resident DJ at Tao, Ra Sushi and Empire Ballroom, and because of the marathon. "The wheels start turning," he says by way of explaining what needs no explanation. "I was up at 7:30 a.m. and I'm just not used to that."
10:05 a.m., Thursday
"I'm on cruise control," he says. The AC still isn't working and it's still 90 inside. A sheet has been hung over the window but it can't stop the sun's rays from beating down on the walls and roof. Robert takes a towel out of an ice chest and goes outside, dousing his face and head. He doesn't want to talk about how many more hours there are to go. He doesn't want to talk at all. "No offense."
6:30 p.m., Thursday
Robert has been reborn through the miracle of air-conditioining. Two home units have been bought and stuck through the wall. The temperature has plunged into the lower 70s, but there's fresh bad news. One: There's been a mistake in tabulation. Breaks and naps get deducted from the total, so that means instead of ending the marathon at 10 p.m. Saturday, he won't end until 4 or 5 a.m. Sunday. The other bad news comes from me. I tell him a DJ Promo in Australia has just gone 87 hours nonstop. That means Robert's end-time will move away even further, to 9:47 a.m. Sunday.
10:45 a.m., Friday
Robert has taken two naps now. "It's amazing how well they work." What's more amazing, to me at least, is that he hasn't shaved or showered since he started, and yet there's not a whiff of B.O.
7:25 p.m., Friday
Those naps have become more and more important, giving Robert "something to look forward to."
3:30 p.m., Saturday
An old lady stands outside the booth, waving and giving Robert a thumbs-up. It's the grandmother of a friend who's been coming down each day to offer encouragement. Robert's own mother came by earlier. "She's proud of me, but she thinks I'm crazy." But despite the crowded pool party that's just wound up and the upcoming Camp Freddy concert, those two are the only passersby aware a world record is being challenged.
3:15 a.m., Sunday
A media blitz at 10 p.m. Saturday sucked up a lot of Robert's energy, and I'm told that at one point he started to hallucinate. Melissa is inside, along with the medic.
5 a.m., Sunday
Melissa starts to pack up in anticipation of the end. It's a help to Robert, a physical sign that his own physical punishment is nearly over.
5:47 a.m., Sunday
It's the 84-hour mark, and with four hours left to go, Robert opens his first can of Red Bull as he steps outside to stretch (caffeine had been avoided because of its spikes and dips). Five blondes come off shift from Rain and rush over—right past Robert—to stick their heads inside the booth and ask where the DJ is. They dart back around to the front and start dancing, stopping to lift up their shirts to the window, making even Melissa laugh. Hey, it's encouragement.
7:55 a.m., Sunday
Robert's legs are sore. An oxygen tank is next to the turntables; he used it once to help clear his brain of any toxins that have built up from not getting solid sleep.
9:15 a.m., Sunday
Fatigue has come crashing down on him. He can barely talk, and sits in a chair at the turntables, his body nearly prone as he picks CDs and vinyl.
9:30 a.m., Sunday
He passes the last medical checkup.
9:37 a.m., Sunday
Robert whispers, "Okay, I'm done." The question he's avoided for 88 hours comes back: What will be his final song? Melissa suggests picking one at random from the laptop. It comes up as Oingo Boingo's "Pain." Ten minutes later, while the song continues and everyone in the booth cheers, the new world record- holder pokes at a cherry juice stain on his T-shirt.