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.