AN INDEPENDENCE DAY TRIBUTE TO ONE OF THE MOST INDEPENDENT AND UNIQUE AMERICANS WE EVER BEFRIENDED -- THE LATE, GREAT BOB STUPAK 1942-2009
Editor's Note: In 2000, we abruptly changed careers by our own design. Before relocating from Ohio to Miami, we toured the nation -- interviewing legendary characters. Bob Stupak, the Casino King, stood out more than anyone else.
But he agreed to an interview only on the condition that it be published after he died. Though he was more than 20 years or senior, he had recently beaten the odds by surviving a horrific motorcycle crash. He was always lucky, so he probably figured the story would never see the light of day -- because he would somehow beat the house odds and outlive an interviewer young enough to be his son. He lost this wager, succumbing to leukemia less than a year ago.
So now his cantankerous soul can mutter in his Pittsburghese accent from the great Stratosphere in the sky "dat SOBing reporter got nothin' right about me and now that I can't sue 'eem, he's gonna print the whole #$%@ing story without recourse." The following is the whole bleeping story, frozen in Las Vegas in the year 2000:
PART 3: FEAR STRIKES OUT
That second day, I rose early and aimed my crappy little rental car out of the Las Vegas sprawl and into the Nevada desert. I drove into California and roamed through Death Valley. The stark openness was deadly beautiful and the long ride killed plenty of daylight hours. By late afternoon, I was back in town. I exited the highway and found a phone booth in a shabby part of town. Little did I know, I was a few blocks from Stupak’s present home.
I dialed nervously. That same jaded voice answered, again on the first ring. To my surprise, the irascible one gave in. I had an address and was to show up at 6 o’clock sharp. I hurried back to the hotel and showered away the desert sand.
Stupak’s house is quite modest by casino owner standards. It’s a large ranch, but the neighborhood is worn and tired. He’s actually just a few blocks east of the Naked City, an area so-named because Fifties showgirls used to sunbathe nude at their cheap apartments there. The area could just as easily get its nickname from the cluster of strip joints, porno book/video stores and hourly motels that dominate Las Vegas Boulevard north of Sahara Avenue.
I went up to the gate, pushed the buzzer, and a worried-looking Bob Stupak showed up at the door. He sized me up for a minute, then buzzed me in. I was bursting with questions to ask, but he shushed me after ushering me through the foyer and into his large living room.
He was watching the end of a film on American Movie Classics. While the Mitsubishi big screen flickered through the final minutes of Fear Strikes Out (the true story of Boston Red Sox outfielder Jimmy Piersall, who battled mental illness), I looked around to see a house decorated in a stereotypical Vegas Guy motif. Big black leather coaches, tacky statuary, casino memorabilia and dozens of framed pictures of Stupak with celebrities defined the decor.
The stench of nicotine was everywhere. A long-time chain smoker, Stupak had an ash tray on the coffee table, another on the armrest, and a third on his lap. All were overflowing with ground-out butts.
As the movie credits rolled, the interview subject I’d pursued for days -- actually, years -- turned to me while lighting another cigarette.
“There’s a book, it’s all in there,” Stupak said with a pained look.
“I know,” I shot back. “It’s called No Limit. I read it and besides, they don’t pay writers to copy other people’s work. If I’m going to profile you, it’s got to come from your responses to my questions.”
Still looking pained, thumbing the TV remote and giving attention to anything but the stranger he’d just invited into his home, Stupak said his life could be summed up with two words:
“persistence and determination.”
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