Paul and I flopped out in our frozen, Pepto-colored hotel room at The Mirage, staring at the walls. In the background, an episode of "The Love Boat" was playing on the 28-inch Zenith. My head was still throbbing from the hour I'd spent at the blackjack tables downstairs.
"I don't want to be here anymore," I moaned.
"Well, what are you gonna do about it?" Paul shot back.
"You know, I've never seen the sun set into the Pacific," I rambled half to myself. "Only sunrises in Nags Head when I was 10."
Paul responded in his hairy bass, "Wanna go to San Francisco?"
I turned to look at him, "Are you shitting me? That's gotta be 800 miles away. Maybe we could just do LA or something. We've only got one day left."
Paul droned, "Fuck LA. I wanna see San Francisco."
"Do you realize how much driving that means?"
Paul nodded slowly.
"Fuck it," I shrugged. "Let's go."