EIGHT DAYS A WEEK: THERE'S A SLOT MACHINE IN THE MEN'S ROOM
As we approached the immense imitation-wood-paneled front desk, our faces were damp with sweat and smudged with dirt, the overall effect being sort of a mud pie with eyes. My clothes were sticking uncomfortably to several key portions of my anatomy, and were rapidly growing colder and colder in the sudden near-arctic coolness of the grossly over-air-conditioned hotel lobby.
I felt like a bag lady.
Chapter 55 of Larry Duplechan's Eight Days a Week: