Thursday, May 31, 2012

Office Space (Soft Focus)





cal
      ling employ
                              ment game lay li
                                                              ne profess
                                                                                   ion trad
                                                                                                   e


voc
       ati
            on wor
                         k
                               use



uti
      lize app
                     ly em

                           


                                  ploy





Violent is *this Face ever Turned

And I'll Harvest all the Hair

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Robber Barons











Anybody’s a taker in today’s day and age.













A                     B, (SENSE)                 T          O

            L     A C     (K)            THERE                F

              OVE     OC                  B   E   Y               O  N  D

  SS                                            R        (E)                   I   N   E

                        M        I                                        DEV











Where my Man's Features Huddle

A Sketch of your Eye

Saturday, May 26, 2012

How Heaven Smells





"Holiday sporks...holiday sporks...holiday sporks..."

























---- overheard outside my apartment today.



Tuesday, May 22, 2012

New At Sea








The landscape loses ground –
and as sand is swallowed whole
there’s less and less to see
– only liquids lapping against the hulls.

With nothing to grab onto
but the winds of family, I feel faint
and want to make love feel final
but somehow it feels fake this time.

The fact that we’ve done this all before,
bringing up more age with age,
makes me want to swallow the sea
showing the land that was always there to begin with.







BOPEEPIO


Thursday, May 17, 2012

Here Be Dragons, a novel (excerpt #11)







Driving through the main streets of Las Vegas proved to be easier the first time than the second. It may seem that a cartographer could get lost, especially going to a place she has been before, but I’m a human first, cartographer second, and every dog has her day.

I’ll spare you the minutia of my misfortune, but needless to say that every press of my foot on the gas led to a press on the break then back on the gas.

At one point, on the freeway, I stopped cold in the middle of the lane to reference my map, never once having another vehicle pass me by.

 In all honesty, my travels into the Zone was without any incident, making it through the closed exit again without worry of a passing police car or any other car for that matter.

I drove deep into the desert, wondering to myself what kind of fool I was to be taking on such a project, with no one knowing where I would be, in a place where no one would be looking because no one would really know it existed.

The dangers of the mapmaker:  a lonely business for sure.

After a good hour of mindless driving, amid a worthless space, I finally parked some 20 miles off the road along rough desert landscape, and sat there staring at the horizon.

I sat there, staring, and thought how much Jefferson would have enjoyed the view; I sat there, staring, and thought how I would last a day; I sat there, staring, and thought that I was glad that the young man at the supermarket thought enough to make sure I had enough water.

I sat there, staring, and shook my head awake and opened the door and started walking out into the nothingness, bringing a gallon of water, a notebook, a pen and all the hope in my heart.

I did not bother locking the car door. 


[End of Part Two - Before Zone]

I Would Desire your Body More



I would Desire your Body more: if it were (inside) my Body

I would Desire your Body more: if it were more Resembling of a Static Motion

I would Desire your Body more: if it were more Resembling of an African Safari

I would Desire your Body more: if it weren’t a terrifying Representation of our History, dying through that quivercrack

I would Desire your Body more: if I were (inside) only Experiencing ¼ of my own Body (World)

I would Desire your Body more: if I weren’t so Foolishly wanting to give it so much Love

I would Desire your Body more: if I were closing (a mouf) over every open Orifice

I would Desire your Body more: if all the Lights would shut off in your Body, leaving us Alone

I would Desire your Body more: if I were sure:------------->“Oh, I don’t know, Kiddo

I would Desire your Body more: if it weren’t such a Winter Lodge of Sorrow

I would Desire your Body more: if it wasn’t for the Fact of it being my (owned) Body

I would Desire your Body more: if I felt myself, so pleasurably within it embarking on my own Hoedown style

I would Desire your Body more: if it enabled the Sensation of an Exiting without a Hint of Trouble to Think

I would Desire your Body more: if it were to, in a Sense, Vault me Gloriously in a Pile of charming Manure

I would Desire your Body more: if it were, so to speak, a Relief of Language

I would Desire your Body more: if it were, a Mother continuing to Enable my own Unstructured Existence

I would Desire your Body more: if it weren’t so Resinous with such disarming Falsity

I would Desire your Body more: but *this Account, is most likely: False

I would Desire your Body more: if it were a place || between *this City || and Sea:------>“Hew, and Thee I Sigh…”

I would Desire your Body more: if it were to Tickle in me, something akin to the skinning of the Disjecta of Distance

I would Desire your Body more: if it were an inner security of Digestion: one I could rub, against, right up, tucking myself, with Rigor in

I would Desire your Body more: if it weren’t *this Fear of Waste, the Weight of which, Shadows *this

I would Desire your Body more: if when presented with it, I was both sad and happy, at an ever-increasing flip-flop fucking Velocity

I would Desire your Body more: if it weren’t so damn ceaselessly Coarse in its Bland Continuum

I would Desire your Body more: If it were Suitable enough, for a make-shift Map of Longing 

I would Desire your Body more: if it were, as if I was being put up against “a put on”—in many cases—defined as: Myself

I would Desire your Body more: if it were, lunging through to delineate the Face: i.e. getting a toehold on the Ringing endorsement of “The Real.”

I would Desire your Body more: if it were merely a Movement and when Confronted: there wouldn’t be a Word in need

I would Desire your Body more: if I could Gum, over and over again, what was left there is *this

I would Desire your Body more: if it were pushing us towards *this City which is effectively: Paralyzing

I would Desire your Body more: if it were a Sign that didn’t relate to The Sign

I would Desire your Body more: if it were, I mean--------------->going all “fucking Kablooey—[!]”

I would Desire your Body more: if it were, something I could Break in Pieces: a trampish way of Dazzling, eructing an Erection

I would Desire your Body more: if I could Assault it with food while pulling the back of your Skin back

I would Desire your Body more: if produced in me the thought:-------->“I am indeed, engaged, in something Destructive”

I would Desire your Body more: if it were an *Ass in the reverse of: “as is”

I would Desire your Body more: if it didn’t Represent the Thought: “to Touch, to Enact, the Outside: the Gulf of the Interstice”

I would Desire your Body more: if it weren’t Exposed in its Accent towards pushing *this Space slideways

I would Desire your Body more: if it were the very Constraint of a Bodily Ache that I sought to Nationally Soil

I would Desire your Body more: if it were the Distance minus distance of *this: and the Bliss of an uncontrolled Spin

I would Desire your Body more: if what could Remain, would be only *this---àinterlaced with its awful Sight, in the Night

I would Desire your Body more: if it Preserved *this Perseverance, to Oppress, my End

I would Desire your Body more: “Oh, Who the hell cares—[?]” For--->every man must be saved for only himself

I would Desire your Body more: if it were fraught in its Porosity: somber in its own impetuous crossing

I would Desire your Body more: if it were a Space detonating more Space detonating more Space detonating more Space detonating more Space detonating more Space detonating more Space

I would Desire your Body more: if I could finally finish *this Act of Blowing it the Fuck Up






Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Here Be Dragons, a novel (excerpt #10)






I was happy that I had no need to set an alarm, not having set an alarm, for me to wake up at a reasonable hour for the day’s travels.

I got out of bed, the television now showing a typical morning program of semi-news and semi-entertaining set pieces with hosts that keep their charm front and center, and walked directly into the bathroom where I was reminded of my previous night’s misgivings, the broken glass, some bits bloody, laying in a large fan across the tile floor.

Knowing that no hotel room had a broom, I wadded up a large fan of toilet paper and began clearing out what was there so that walking would not be a torture. The clink of the glass in the garbage can echoed with a slight tinge of regret into the air, the way that all horrible sounds made in a bathroom are amplified by the fact that they were made in a bathroom.

Once I was confident that I would walk around in bare feet without worry, I turned the shower on to warm up the water, sitting down on the toilet to pee.

The amount of urine that I was expelling could have been counted in quarts (or at least it felt like it could) and I imagined that I would have to turn off the nozzle, so to speak, before I overloaded the bowl, streams of excess urine flooding the crack between the seat and the bowl, finally hitting the floor below me.

Luckily, this did not occur. I wiped myself and flushed, the loud whoosh lasting longer than I thought it might, more like I had dropped several large stools instead.

It was the sound of fullness flushing. I opted to think of it as a tepid metaphor for my previous evening’s experience, a final epilogue, which put the whole miserable sequence to bed.

Still sitting down, I pulled off my panties and undid my shirt. I unhooked my bra. I left all of these things on the floor around me as I sat there on the toilet, naked, trying to locate the ability to rise and rinse myself of my error.

Finally getting up and stepping into the shower, I was delighted by the blast of warmth that the water provided. The hotels in Vegas must all spend a fortune on air-conditioning bills, the temperature of each being close to a Canadian winter.

I let the water soothe over my skin before even picking up the small complimentary bar of skin-drying soap that the hotel provided. I ripped it’s wrapper off, throwing it as far as I could into the bathroom knowing full well that it would never find it’s rest in the garbage can on it’s own.

I started scrubbing lightly, more of a feather-brush than a scrub really, letting the lather gain its strength with a slow gain, which, once I made it down to my crotch, doubled in amount due to the interaction with the hair, with something that it could collect in.

I reached down, pushing the lather in greater strengths up and around my anus, clearing away any particles of feces that may still reside there. I bent over slightly in order to let the showerhead spray away what was there before taking the soap and scrubbing the superficial sides of my buttocks.

Lifting each leg closer to me, so I could fully attend to the feet, I stood there like a crane until the soap was fully run off, so as not to slip once setting them down again. My knees were rubbed clean, along with the thighs themselves.

My underarms were still relatively smooth, but I decided that it would be best if I shaved them, given that they would be collecting plenty of run-off during the initial span of my stay in the desert (the thought of starting with a clean slate appealed to me).

Unfortunately, I remembered I had not brought a razor, so I would have to make due with what I was given. I wasn’t about to call the concierge to request a razor, nakedly standing there with the phone up to my ear, while some steward would arrive, see me in a towel, hand me the razor and nod suggestively.

I finally went whole hog on the head, cupping a palm of shampoo only to spread it lavishly within each strand. It worked up a froth like something you would find at a coffee shop.

My body as a cappuccino.

Rinsing my head allowed a final once-over of suds to spread down my body as a whole, a kind of final cleanse that wouldn’t be happening any time soon.

Standing there, the water turning slightly colder, I finally felt that I was clean.

I felt far fresher than I would have had I not vomited the night before, I thought.

I was ready to finish up my affairs at the hotel and to head off to the supermarket to collect what I hoped would be the equivalent of at least a months worth of desert camping supplies.

I realized, of course, that it wasn’t as if I would lay there starving if I ran out of supplies, one of which would be a few gallons of gas to keep in the back, which would allow me full ability to return to civilization to regroup and regain whatever needed supplies were necessary.

I suppose I had been treating this journey as if I was truly going into the middle of nowhere, which was probably just my way of making the whole business seem more exciting.

While excitement wasn’t my first goal for the trip, it certainly had its influence on the docket. Admittedly, I had run into a bit of a rut back East, feeling slightly adrift amongst the colleagues and students and memories of Jefferson. Nothing there was really grabbing my interest, so the thought of an unexplored foreign territory within the US seemed like the perfect cure for, what I was straddling myself for, my blatant on-coming depression.

I dried myself off to the extreme. The combination of towel and what was left of my skin after the abhorrent soap I had just used, made me wish I had brought a higher end body lotion, but instead I was left with the less-than-enough bottle that the hotel had provided for me, which had a scent of some sort of weak floral, or, perhaps, dead leaves.

Making do, I spread the lotion all across my skin starting at the points where it needed the most in case I ran out before I was a walking half-glistening thing.

I brushed my teeth, twice, and gargled with the small bottle of Listerine provided to me.

I brushed my teeth again.

I applied a liberal amount of deodorant to my underarms and behind my knees, which I had recently discovered emitted a certain amount of odor in heat, took up the habit of doing so during the hot months.

Finished feeling clean, I went into the main room and searched for what I had decided while packing would be my initial uniform. I found what I had considered my “lucky” panties, and stepping into them realized how idiotic such a notion would be for anyone other than an undergrad heading out to the local watering hole.

Dressed to my approval, I collected all my bags and headed out to the lobby, where I assumed all that would be required of me was to return the room key and sign a piece of paper which listed my bottle of grotesque wine (the room had been paid for in advance).

Taking the elevator down to the lobby, I entered with my bags to be greeted with a family on a similar journey, as far as the then. They held onto their luggage with a grip that seemed more than necessary, holding on to their bags more than their children, who were mindlessly kicking around at the edges of the elevator and saying things like “fuck you” or “fuck you wall”.

One of the little monsters decided to select every floor to select, which forced us to stop at every single floor of our journey, even when it wasn’t needed, the girl just wanted to see all that was available as an option to her, I supposed.

The parents smiled at me in a way that wasn’t apologetic, but more or less pathetic and condescending towards me, as if saying “don’t you wish you had this kind of love in your life?”

While I would normally keep silent, the wife’s lips alone made me say something:

“Would you keep your children fucking in line, please?”

I had thought for a second about the placement in that sentence of the word “fucking”. Had I chosen an earlier placement, I thought would be too easily deemed as a total attack on the children themselves, which would have technically been true to my immediate feeling, but would naturally come off as an attack worthy of a counter by the parents. But by placing the word in question in front of the action that I wished would occur, I saved myself from any personal attack from the father, who seemed utterly lacking in opinion within the familial relationship.

The wife, upon hearing my request, reached out to grab her son, bringing him close to her side where he was safe from the evil woman in the elevator with them.

Luckily, this entire sequence happened between the 2 Floor and the L Floor, so the next time the door opened, it was not simply to give a possible option available, but the only option remaining to us, to leave.

I let the horrible family exit first, being that that was what their behavior implied as their right, and also to hang back in a way that would allow me to keep my distance. I didn’t want to have the opportunity to continue our tepid relationship standing in line to pay our respective bills, and so, while watching them move, awkwardly, in the general direction of the desks, I moved my bags in the direction of the casino.

I thought I had enough time to throw a twenty into a penny-slot to try my luck, and hence set the tone for the day.

I dollied my bags behind me, roaming through the slots, their ringing bludgeoning the morning air in a way that would crack more than an egg or two, with the ghosts of the evening past clearly not giving up the ghost of winning their losses back, hours deep and deeper in debt, only looking more drunk and worse for the wear than they might have the evening prior.

I sat down to a machine that I had a particular fondness for, not the machine itself, but the theme of it at least:  “Lucky Larry’s Lobstermania”, which had the slightly unnerving soundtrack of playing a digitalized version of “Rock Lobster” by the B-52s, and allowed you to match various lobster-centric items in order to board a boat that was the bonus round where you would select various lobster traps to see the size of the lobster in size, the larger the lobster, the larger the win.

I had heard from others who frequented casinos more regularly than I that this was one of the most popular penny-slots around, and my own experience with it proved likewise.

The general absurdity of it, made playing it feel almost meta in the absurdity that I was throwing money away at a slightly less than lightening pace, sometimes while waiting for a watered down run and Diet Coke.

Of course, I was not on the market for free booze, and in any case, the cocktail waitresses were in short supply, being that it was still early in the morning, hours before most guests at the hotel would even wake up unless they had somewhere else to be.

So I say there, confirming the fact that I had, in fact, stuffed a $20 bill into the machine, and spent the next ten minutes watching it drift into the hotel’s pot.

It was long enough, in any case, to confirm that I wouldn’t have to deal with annoying family that I was avoiding while waiting in line to check out.

Of course, that in and of itself was a gamble.

The choice to trade in the devil I knew for that which I had yet to know was a slightly stacked deck, at least in a place like New York, New York, which, I should say, doesn’t exactly attract the high roller crowd. I don’t mean to sound classist here, but there is something quite unsoothing about the type of lower-class that comes to Las Vegas for a family vacation and expects everyone on the service side of the street to put up with their obnoxiousness, backed up by their own thought that by spending $20 on penny-slots they somehow deserve curtseys and copious amounts of booze while their children run amuck, or stay in the hotel room watching the television.

I managed only one bonus round with “Lucky Larry’s Lobstermania” which elicited a paltry 2 small lobsters and some littered junk bits.

I quickly lost what that was worth on the following pull.

(And I realize that these digital slot machines do not require a “pull” so to speak, but I admit you can’t help but use the language of tradition even when experiencing the action via technology.)

Once the money was back in the banks of the casino, I sat there, staring at the machine begging me for another bill, all but hypnotized by the digital musicianship. I thought back to my hotel room, which I had left in a somewhat sorry state, and thought how the housekeepers of the hotel must think they are playing a perpetual game of “Lucky Larry’s Lobstermania”, always hoping for a prize that was left behind, as opposed to a pile of broken glass or puddle of vomit or a wadded up pair of panties that one wouldn’t touch without a pair of rubber gloves. I thought that it was entirely possible that someone would have inadvertently left behind an envelope full of twenties, for instance, money that was sequestered in varying locations to keep the previous owners aware of their own limits. Or, a piece of clothing or accessory that was worth some money, forgotten by its owner, and assumed to be a tip since none otherwise was left behind.

I realized that I, myself, had not left a tip.

I tossed the idea that I should return to my room to do so, but figured that I would be able to leave something for the room when I checked out, it being the modern age and all.

“Do you mind?” a voice spoke into my ear like a hairy kiss.

Turning around, I was greeted with an elderly woman, in her 80s for sure, who was implying that I was taking up her prized spot at “Lucky Larry’s Lobstermania”. She had the look that I was hogging up her prized spot in the casino, and the stern eyes crossing mine meant that I had no business being there, just sitting, and that I should eject myself from the seat and move along.

“Oh, not at all,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster. “Good luck.”

I took that as my cue to finally move myself to the lobby counter in order to check out. I was barely out of the seat before the old women had weaseled her way into it herself, appearing somewhat indignant that she would have to move in order for me to retrieve my luggage.

Finally on my way to finish off what was left of this horror, I discovered that the line to check out (since no one was allowed to check in at that hour) to be surprisingly long. Surprising, at least, until I realized that it was Sunday, and that most of the guests then in line probably had work to get back to in an estimated 22 hours.

Standing patiently, I glanced at my watch, which while still marking a moment that was early, I wondered if I had made a mistake playing “Lucky Larry’s Lobstermania”. But given that the rest of this exploration would be held on my own terms, time wasn’t truly of any issue, I released almost all of my concern, taking a gulp of spittle that had been collecting in my mouth.

Standing there in line, I was taken by a certain communal stench emitting from the leaving guests. Had they not bothered to shower after having a somewhat similar night to mine (body wise)? Is this how they make their presence known to others in daily life?

The men in line seemed to emit the strongest smell, but I noticed, moving slightly closer to the woman in front of me to distance myself from what I assumed was the cause, that she was in fact full of rot herself as to be physically palpable.

I found myself gagging on the stuff multiple times over, sometimes unable to make it appear natural – though it was – and assumed most of those in earshot assumed I had a few too many rum and Diet Cokes the night before.

All of a sudden, I wished that I was not on this trip alone. Less so the portion that I would be working, that would take all the focus I could muster, but simply this stage, the “fun” part. I had taken countless vacations to various locations on my own before, and often found them soothing if not completely setting me back to a degree zero enough that I would return fresh and ready for another 8 months before the next trip.

But there in Vegas, I was so astutely alone that it was difficult to take. Mostly because of the outward nature of all the couples and families running around, drunk and more willing to spill motions of affection all over one another, like so much smear.

I recalled a short-lived trip that I had taken with Jefferson, in an attempt to hide our indiscretion, to Atlantic City, which is as close as the East Coast will get to Las Vegas:  we arrived with horns in our pants and couldn’t care less about gambling, yet that was what we did, fucking five times that weekend without the use of contraception.

A gamble, I would add, that certainly did not pay off (though the orgasms given certainly, somewhat, made up for that in memory).

At that moment of memory, I wanted to punch the entire line that was in front of me. One by one, littering the floor of the lobby with so much waste, while also enabling me to get to the counter sooner.

It wasn’t long before I realized that all my fantasizing had allowed me enough distraction that I was then next in line.

Reaching the next clerk, the last one to the left, I handed over my keycard and waited for him to pull up my bill.

“Alright, you have the charge for the room, which is already paid for, along with the incidentals of a bottle from our room service and a pay-per-view film, the total cost of which is $89.”

“I didn’t pay to view anything, unless you mean the mess that is this hotel!”

I was shocked by the accusation.

“It says here that there was a purchase of a pay-per-view video at 1:04 AM.”

“I was asleep at that time!”

I was beginning to feel a slight tinge of worry that this man in front of me was correct, that I just didn’t remember.

“Can you tell me what I had allegedly paid to view?”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I worried about the answer ten-fold.

“Umm…Well, it’s was from one of our adult channels. Do you wish me to give you the name?”

“No, no. Don’t bother. I’ll pay for it, fine,” I said, handing over my Amex.

“Of course,” the clerk said, looking slightly uncomfortable with the scene I was then causing.

“Sign here, please.”

I signed.

“Alright. Here’s your copy of your receipt. I hope that you had a pleasant stay with us here at New York, New York, and hope that you look forward to your next visit with us!”

I rolled my eyes: 

“Don’t count on it.”

I quickly turned with my luggage and inadvertently walked right into a woman who was multi-tasking waiting in line and putting on some lipstick.

“Goddamn whore,” I muttered under my breath. The brief encounter had taken her by surprise and she stared at me with a surprised look on her face, or perhaps it was just the smeared line of lipstick that I had caused.

I muttered an apology, deeper under my breath, barely peeking over the cover of my voice venting. I left her, rolling my luggage behind me.

I haggered my way to the garage, completely lacking in memory of where I had parked the rental. I normally remembered the level I was on in situations like these by using my body as a numerical reference:  if I was on level 7, it would be because I have five fingers plus two hands, or seven; if I was on floor 11, it would be ten fingers plus one nose, or eleven.

I had apparently failed to do this for this downward spiral of a trip, and so proceeded to walk the length of each floor, back and forth amongst the lanes, until I finally was able to locate the vehicle, luckily only six floors up (five fingers on one hand, or six).

I was unused to the heat, having been inundated with air conditioning within the hotel. The vehicle had a musty stench of antiseptic and heat that was stomach turning to say the least.

Once I had loaded the vehicle with my luggage, sitting in the seat required of me, turning the ignition, I immediately turned on the air-conditioning at full blast while also rolling down all the windows available to me.

It would need to be aired out as much as possible if I was going to be able to sleep here, each night an enormous addition to the prolonged collective of stench that I was sure would accumulate.

I maneuvered my way through the twisting lanes down the floors to the ground, where I was greeted by an elderly gentleman who was ready to take my money.

I handed him my initial parking slip, ready to be shocked by the price, which was surprisingly only a meager $12.

I had exact change, and slipped an extra dollar by way of thanks.

He smiled at me, showing deep holes where teeth once where, and waved the cash in my general direction as the barrier bar rose and I was able to navigate my way out onto The Strip and then to the nearest supermarket, the location of which I had failed to identify.

And given the nature of the city, supermarkets were not easily come across.

(Supermarkets are generally not terribly necessary for temporary residents who have access to overindulgence prone buffets at every blink of an eye.)

I figured that the more that I would move away from The Strip, more towards where the locals reside, my luck would change, and I would come across something closer to my needs. I still had no idea what it was that I was intending to be my needs, having not ever gone on a camping-like excursion of this sort for this length of time, and so I was hoping to come across a full-service supermarket, one that sold water by the gallon.

The further I drove away from The Strip, the more I found that the landscape to be barren. Not having a notion of how the city proper was splayed out, I found myself driving in circles, or so the city’s streets seemed to be set up, or, perhaps, it was just that everything looked the same in the desert.

After a full 30 minutes or so of driving aimlessly, I stumbled across an Albertsons, which I quickly discovered would be my best bet for what products I was looking for, as well as having enough of a stock to remind me of the things that I would need and had yet to realize.

The parking lot alone seemed extreme:  what appeared to be a square city block, teeming with cars of varying styles and states of repair, I was forced to park my rental a significant distance from the store itself, allowing me a long walk and fresh air that wasn’t so fresh.

I had a certain amount of trouble locking the door to the vehicle:  after a certain amount of internal wrangling with knobs and switches, I felt assured that at least all of the doors besides the driver’s side were secure, stepping out of the car left me with the keys in my hand while no hole to turn a lock. There, of course, was a button on a plastic fob that I tried to use, but that only unlocked the rest of the doors while locking the drivers door. Pressing the button again, all the doors were similarly unlocked.

It appeared that the key fob itself felt certain that it’s true point on this earth was unlocking thing.

The third time I pressed it, the third always allowing for the charm, locked all the doors in a synchronized snap that sounded jarring in the early morning parking lot.

I began to hoof it onward toward the supermarket’s entryway, which was clearly marked so as not to be confused with the exit. I assumed that the separation of the two openings were set up so that the exit would be more heavily set with security to prevent shoplifting, but that assumed that someone who was shoplifting would stick to the rules when it came to which doorway they would exit from.

The presumed ethical range of its previous shoplifters made me feel that those making decisions in Las Vegas were in need of a basic undergraduate course in moral philosophy.

I was given to an extreme feeling of emptiness, one that I felt had been relatively dormant, but seeing all the other vehicles parked in the lot, each one more shining in its rentedness than the other, I felt myself to be a part of a huge conspiracy that requires isolation, and to pay handsomely for it, even  more than I had while staying at the approximation of New York City just moments before.

We all need to eat, after all. And great pains are taken to put up the veneer that eating is, in fact, a social function. But it’s not; it’s a bodily necessity and no amount of family dinners or other such holiday rituals can cover that bruise up.

Upon entering the supermarket, I grabbed an empty shopping cart (which had its own mind, as shopping carts always do, and had no interest in being trudged along by my hand) and was greeted with traditional American over-abundance, beginning with a veritable garden of organic produce.

The rows and stands were set up as if to mimic the traditional urban farmer’s market, though only the organic sections were inclusive of information about origin.

I figured that I would have little use for produce, needing to focus on food that had no chance of spoiling in the sun, though I did pick up five bunches of green grapes, thinking that, at best, I’d be apt to eat them quickly for their inherent juiciness and, at worst, would be left with a bunch of raisins.

I grabbed two bunches of bananas, thinking that potassium might be in limited supply; a bag of oranges for the vitamin C; a bag of apples – green – that I thought I would manage through on the “an apple a day” regimen.

I would clearly be nowhere near a doctor anyway, so I didn’t really need a bag of apples to keep one away.

Not wanting to load up on produce, not being a terrible fan of the stuff to begin with, I moved along to the dairy section of which I had no use. Everything there would spoil almost before I made it to my destination, so the money spent seemed better off being thrown into a slot machine to begin with.

By bypassing the dairy wares, I was made aware of how much I longed for some milk, something I had not had in years, having normally sided with the almond milk contingent for my, admittedly rare, milk needs. I grabbed a single serving of whole – might as well go all the way – and estimated it would be gone well before the time I reached the checkout counter.

And I did, in fact, realize the absurdity of clutching the single serving of milk, gulping it into my body as if my body hadn’t stopped growing and wasn’t well on its way to the decay part.

Wandering further into the supermarket, taking large gulps from the milk in my hand, pushing my cart in as sure of a direction as I could manage, I wondered where I would find my best bed for appropriate sustenance. I wanted, at the time, to just be able to drink milk the entire length of my journey, the milk in my hand tasting so good.

As I moved past copious boxes of dried foods, pasta surprisingly being a major portion of the available selection, I came across the canned goods section, which allowed me a veritable cornucopia of choice, albeit one lacking in flavor.

Personal preference, I have found, has little business being involved in canned goods. In my mind, I associate such items with poverty and world apocalypse.

In either case, one isn’t apt to be choosey.

I figured I should keep that mindset in my own selection, naturally based in personal preference simply because I was staring at a wall of cans that allowed me to do so, but I certainly was not making selections based on nuance of flavor.

What I selected:

15 cans of vegetarian chili; 15 cans of meat ravioli in tomato sauce; 10 cans of refried beans (not vegetarian); 10 cans of chicken; 5 cans of something called Beefaroni; 10 cans of green beans; 5 cans of cream of potato soup; 5 cans of clam chowder; 2 cans of corned beef; 2 cans of Spam; 5 cans of peaches (in water, not syrup); 3 cans of pears (in syrup, not water).

Looking at the pile of cans that I had collected, I was grateful that I had made the decision to have a “last meal” at Bouchon, since I would not be eating that well for some time.

Luckily, staring at the mess, I was reminded that I had no way of opening any of the cans. Nor did I have any utensils with which to eat the contents.

I moved along to aisles that held no use for me, searching for one that would hold such basic utilities that I knew had to be somewhere. The closer I got to trashbags and cleaning supplies, was I then greeted with what I was looking for (the hierarchy of a supermarket’s aisles is somewhat standard, no matter where you are it seems).

Finding a can opener was no problem. Finding non-plastic silverware was a significantly more difficult task, assuming that the supermarket buyers assumed that few people would go to a supermarket to get their place settings.

I was left to choose the extremely non-green option of plastic spoons and forks. It was upon holding the 99-cent box of spoons, knives and forks that I also came to the realization that I would need some heavy-duty trash bags to collect all of my refuse.

While a bag of 20 heavy-duty black bags with red tie-strings seemed excessive, it was the only option given to me standing in front of the trash bags, conveniently located in the next aisle over.

Having collected what I figured would be the necessary contents of my make-shift pantry, as well as having finished off the milk, I made my way towards the check-out counter, knowing full well that I would be unable to stand in the express lane, thereby adding a possible 20 minutes to the experience.

I stood, staring at magazine covers full of celebrities I had never heard of. I stood, not moving for long stretches of time, as I overheard women haggling over coupons and advertised prices. I stood, staring at the woman in front of me, analyzing the contents of her shopping cart.

I stood, worrying that the man behind me was analyzing the contents of my shopping cart.
I unloaded the contents of my shopping cart when there was available space on the strip to do so. I watched cans move forward with the aid of electricity. I unloaded some more cans. I watched those cans move forward towards the checkout clerk. I unloaded green things, and those stayed put.

I said hello in my polite voice to the clerk who responded in a similar bored fashion. I waited until she scanned each item, or weighed it, or something that would give her a price to pay.

The total was less than I had imagined, less than my dinner at Bouchon, and swiped my Amex card easily, while a young man loaded up my cart with the items I now owned, now in plastic bags advertising the name of the supermarket.

I thanked the clerk, who handed me a long receipt itemizing the purchase with a swift “have a nice day”.

“Likewise,” I said.

The young man who had loaded the bags into my shopping cart asked if I would like assistance steering it to my trunk. Normally, I would find the suggestion that I was unable to do so myself to be offensive, but his tone was one of genuine helpfulness, and I was more than tired of the loose wheel which made directing the thing all but impossible.

“Only if you would like to,” I said.

“I would.”

And so I led him out through the exit (clearly marked) and waved off in the sun-bright direction across the parking lot to the general zone where my vehicle would be located.

We were silent for quite some time. And then, realizing we still had a ways to go, I began babbling at him, while he stayed silent:

“I can’t imagine that this is the kind of job that you would want as a career. How early do you have to get here for your shift? I’m guessing it’s quite early given that the store is open 24-hours. Do you go to school? Is this your only job? I can’t imagine that pushing ladies’ shopping carts across a parking lot pays altogether that well. Do you live in the city? I’ve heard that a number of people work in Las Vegas proper but live elsewhere, given the cost of living. I found the prices here to be more than reasonable. But I live on the East Coast, and everything is an arm and a leg over there. Do you have a girlfriend? Do you have any friends who are cocktail waitresses in the casinos? I wonder what they make. You might be wondering why I bought so many canned goods, that maybe there’s a canned good drive at some church somewhere that you wouldn’t have known about. No. I’m headed out to the desert for a few weeks to explore a deserted zone and need the sustenance…”

“You’ll probably want some water then,” he said.

I stopped us, mere feet away from our destination.

“You’re quite right.”

We made arrangements that he would return to the supermarket and bring back multiple gallons, what he considered would be enough (he was a fan of camping in the desert) and I would pay him $40 for the trouble.

I had no interest in returning to the store, more interested in unloading my pantry and confirming my driving directions.

I handed him $100, cash, and he ran off to bring back a number of gallons of room-temperature water in plastic.

Watching him run, I thought to myself that boy has a beautiful ass.

I began unloading the shopping cart with the heavy bags, plopping them down in the back faux-trunk. The clank and clang sounded industrial, reminding me of Dickens for some reason.

I maneuvered the then empty shopping cart to a coral for other carts, a few rows down from me.

I walked back, already feeling the dry heat, and opened the driver’s side door (knowing how to manage the key-fob, from experience), got in, and turned on the power without igniting the ignition proper.

I cranked the air-conditioning up full blast in order to settle the inside to a comfortable temperature.

I dug through my carry-on bag, which I had thoughtfully had stuck as my passenger, looking for my Las Vegas area maps, which I used to locate the best route to get out of town and in the direction of the Zone.

The constant trouble with maps, you see, is that the require the mind to use the map to map onto an actual landscape, something that the map only hints at, in inches, while the landscape itself cannot be guaranteed to fit the image on the paper.

I was grateful to have already experienced much of the same travel plan before, so the map, against the map in my mind, held a greater context that was based in known reality.

Quicker than I was expecting, the young man had returned with a shopping cart full of plastic gallons of drinking water.

He knocked on the window, shocking me slightly, making me comically rustle the map like a muppet.

I opened the door and got out to help him move the plastic gallons into the back of the car and to thank him.

“I know it seems like a lot, but trust me. You’ll be glad you have it.”

I asked him what the total bill was, which was $79 total, so the hundred dollar bill was more than enough to cover it all along with his tip.

I thanked him again, and he smiled at me in the morning sun, saying:

“No problem. It was a pleasure to help out.”

I got back into the car and turned on the ignition proper, watching the young man run off again, his ass, again, sending shivers of desire up my spine.

I backed up out of my parking spot and into the lane proper. Being so close to the exit, it wasn’t long before I was on the road again, moving confidently in the direction of the Zone.