It takes me 20 minutes, but I figure it out: I’m not at the bar next to the Las Vegas Country Saloon; this loft area is the Las Vegas Country Saloon.
I order an amaretto sour for S. and a gin and Grand Marnier for myself. S. says she isn’t thirsty, so I’ve got to drink a very bitter cocktail and a very sweet one in tandem. Alone, both drinks are lovely. Together they’re disgusting. I choose to drink both because 1. I already paid for them, and no purchased booze should go unconsumed, and 2. S. wants to ride the Fremont zip line. I’m bad with heights, so I need all the alcohol I can get.
Wait—do amaretto sours even have alcohol in them?
At 2 a.m., S. and I suit up for the ride. We’re the last two of the night. The kid fastening my support straps tells me, “This is my last night, so if you die, it’s not like they can fire me.” In another dimension, I laugh at his joke.
I wish I could tell you the zip line was as scary as I’d feared. But the evidence proves otherwise: They snapped photos of me mid-zip, and in them, I’m smiling. So I must admit, crotch pain aside, the zip line was a blast.