Vegas

by Kirby Michael Wright

THE BARRY’S DINER experience had made me numb. I’d discovered that nothing locked me more into the present than fear. We were lucky the cowboys hadn’t pulled six-shooters and plugged us. We were double lucky their camper hadn’t caught up. George Holiday and I were mums the word about the back room. I’d never expected a cowboy to fall for another cowboy, let alone a roomful of hug-dancing boots and buckles.

Heading to parts unknown was dangerous. The wild west was alive and well, and I flashed to the closing scene of Easy Rider. Part of me wanted to hightail it back to Boulder. But a new part, one that had tasted strange adventure, was eager to push forward. I planned to be on this crazy ride until the end. I wasn’t worried about flunking out at CU. Most of my classes were in English and the professors let you make up writing assignments, if you had a good reason. I’d just say I either had pneumonia or was forced to fly home to say goodbye to my dying mother. I was a pro at fake coughing, so I decided to go with the pneumonia.

George blasted the heat. He hit the coke again. The drug made him paranoid. He was somewhere between a recreational user and an addict, with addiction beckoning like a voluptuous stripper. The radio crackled with static. George switched it off. He told me to keep an eye on the road behind us to see if the camper was closing in. I’d been watching for hours but there were only flurries.

“They’re long gone,” I told George.

“Stay alert,” he scolded. “I know they’ve got guns.”

*****

We reached a WELCOME TO UTAH billboard of orange mesas and winter peaks. Interstate 70 rolled down into a valley. I saw mountains on the horizon. No traffic. No gas stations. I pulled the ax handle off the back seat, parking it between my knees. I found comfort in a gas gauge pointing to full.

We entered a land of mesas, scrub, and patches of evergreens. The trees were small. Some of the mesas were split in half to make room for the interstate. Fog settled in when we hit a foot of snow. The studded tires churned through powder. The fog hid everything beyond one-hundred-feet of the interstate. Drifts my height were on the passenger side. The Catalina bounced over ruts. George slowed. Snow bounced off the windshield. We’d come a long way to find weather worse than Boulder. I thought about the basement dwellers hunkering down safe and sound in Baker Hall. I doubted they missed us. Fat Dave and Tim Dusto were probably praying for our demise.

The freeway shifted course and we headed up. Rugged dinosaur mountains slanted to the north. The incline made it appear as though our path ended at a mountain with massive boulders and crumbling cliffs. It was a treacherous drive if you were prone to imagining disaster. Not me. I wanted the cliffs to fall and scatter debris so the Catalina could churn over everything. Even if I died, the trip was worth it. I felt free for the first time in my life.

*****

George pulled off the 70 at dawn, into a one-horse town. Richfield had a single gas pump, a rundown motel, and a scattering of cinder block homes in a clearing. We parked beside the Antelope Café. It was a smallish diner with redwood walls and a roof buckling under the weight of snow.

I swung open the wooden front door—we were greeted by the aroma of fresh biscuits, maple syrup, and sausage. There was no counter, only a cluster of tables on a red linoleum floor. Heat groaned through a pair of ceiling ducts. We sat on creaky chairs, at a wobbly table decorated with a red-and-white checkered tablecloth. Two tables were taken. One was occupied by two frontier gals wearing boots and black leather jackets; one lady sported a turquoise-handled knife sheafed on her belt. The other table had four men armed with holstered revolvers. A gray beard flashed challenge eyes at us. I wondered if it had something to do with us having long hair.

All four wore cowboy hats and appeared to have crew cuts.

“Be ready,” George mumbled.

“For what?”

“For anything.”

A brunette waitress in her mid-thirties smiled her way over with a pot and blue cups. STELLA was embroidered in white on the breast of her red uniform. Her hips swung like a teen’s. She had a beehive hairdo that looked frozen, as if she’d overdone it on hair spray. I recognized disappointment in her face, as if she’d been ditched at the altar.

“Coffee?” Stella asked.

“Sure,” George said.

Stella poured coffee into our cups. There was a web of blue veins bulging out of the tops of her hands. No ring. “You boys in a mighty rush?” she asked, sticking the pot on the table.

“No,” I replied.

“Try our biscuits and gravy. Guaranteed best in the world.”

“Bring enough for two growin’ hombres,” George joked.

The biscuits and a gravy boat arrived on a ceramic platter. Stella placed the platter beside a steel dispenser crammed with paper napkins. “Get you something else?” she asked.

“More coffee,” George replied, “when we drain this pot.”

Stella gave us a half-smile and took off.

The armed men gossiped about hunting. They exchanged war stories about treacherous hikes through mountains and passes. They smelled like a day’s work. Then the topic shifted from shooting bear to branding cattle. Soon they were gabbing about turning bulls into steer.

“Eat up,” George told me. “I want outta here.”

I grabbed a biscuit. It was hot. I doused it in gravy and bit off an edge. The biscuit was soft and fresh. The gravy tasted like butter and bacon.

George and I polished off four biscuits each. He swilled the last of the coffee and slapped a five on the table. “Wait for me,” he said.

“What for?” I asked.

“Restroom. I need freshening up before Vegas.”

*****

A hundred miles from paydirt, the mesas turned reddish-brown. We fast-laned it past the Moapa River Indian Reservation, playing follow the leader with fellow speeders. “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” on max volume rattled the dashboard. George hit the coke again. He loved Mick Jaeger. His snorting reminded me of the sound horses and donkeys make when glad to see you.

*****

The Catalina eased into Nevada at noon, dropping us to the desert floor. I peeled off my jacket. It was great being warm. George said it was 69 degrees, according to his dash thermometer. We passed acre after desolate acre of sagebrush, cacti, and Joshua trees. The land was flat. The horizon was claimed by mountains that looked like a movie set backdrop. It seemed like another planet, somewhere as far away and as uninhabitable as Mars. The road was a straightaway, except for a few bends that kept George attentive. His bleeding had stopped. I had to look hard to see the cut on his forehead. He’d gussied up with a shave in the men’s room of the Antelope Café. I told him I was ready to drive and asked him to turn over the wheel. “No dice,” he answered. “I’m taking us in.”

*****

We were ten miles from Sin City. A cloud resembling a nuclear mushroom bloomed in the southern sky. I got the feeling there was no city at all, as if Vegas had been advertised into existence to send mirage-chasing tourists into the desert. George seemed to be in a trance, his eyes fixed on the two lanes heading in. He rarely blinked. Was the coke wearing off? He checked out a billboard. George had last seen his uncle at a wedding in a ritzy Jersey enclave on the Atlantic shore.

We came within view of Vegas. It was a sprawl of high rises in a prairie basin, with suburbs flexing out like tentacles. Wispy clouds painted gray by smog clung to the western mountains. The struggle to get here made it Oz. The breeze through my open window smelled of diesel mixed with sagebrush. We passed a crushed raccoon. The stink of death filled the car.

George took the offramp for Lake Mead Boulevard. He tooled toward North Las Vegas. Tom Jones was headlining Caesar’s Palace. Across the street, the Flamengo advertised WORLD LARGEST SLOT JACKPOTS. Tony Bennett and Joey Heatherton doubled up at the Sahara. The Silverbird had Redd Foxx in a Triple XXX Rated Show. George pulled into a Chevron to top off the tank. He sent me in to get a map and I bought a 2-dollar foldout. George paid the attendant cash while I zeroed in on our destination. His uncle’s house was two miles away.

George eased out of the station. Everything adjacent to The Strip was weeds, overheating cars, and smog. A girl was holding an iguana—she rocked it like a baby. I returned my eyes to the map.

“Go left,” I told George.

He cranked the wheel and nearly clipped a Mustang. The driver honked. George flung the bird.

“Hang a right.”

We entered an enclave of single-stories with asphalt-shingled roofs. You could tell who had money by whether the front yards were manicured or packed with dead shrubs and trees. It was a low-income neighborhood, but some pockets tilted middle class.

“Here,” I pointed.

George zipped into the driveway, parking beside a maroon Delta 88. The house had a double-door entrance with metal screens protected by a wrought iron fence. The fence was higher than the doors. The cement driveway had long, deep cracks. The front yard was gravel. Cinder blocks enclosed a patchwork garden of succulents, one of which spilled over the sidewalk. A willow tree struggled for life.

“See ‘im?” George asked.

“See who?”

“Uncle Bobby. Peeking from between the curtains.”

The front doors swung open—Bobby Rizzo jogged out. He was a short, skinny man with a good tan and a big smile. He was the kind of guy you wanted for a relative. He was the big brother of George’s mother and had been married to Eleanor for thirty years. His handshake was strong. He jiggled his keys. “You boys follow me over to the Hilton,” he said.

“Lead the way, uncle,” George replied.

We trailed the Delta 88 to Paradise Road. The shadow of the International Hilton spilled over the palm-lined entrance. The 30-story hotel had a bend in it, like a boomerang. Perhaps the architects designed it this way to offer a variety of views. The bend made the Hilton look as if it were leaning. A red H logo was branded on its sand-colored tower, and the port cochere fascia bore similar branding. We parked and hustled over to the hotel.

“Brunch time,” Uncle Bobby announced. “Real men need to eat.”

We let Uncle Bobby lead. He had short legs, but I had to jog to keep up. George kept pace with his uncle.

*****

The Hilton Coffee Shop had the ambiance of an upscale restaurant. It offered circular booths with black leather seats. It had a bacon, donut, and cigarette smell. Teen waitresses paraded by in short skirts. Slot machines stood guard along a wall opposite the restrooms. The coffee shop was a cozy place to retreat to after a bad spell at the tables. Coffee and cigarettes might revive a gambler’s deflated spirit.

“Biggest hotel in Vegas,” the uncle bragged. “Built over the old racetrack.”

“Any bodies under the track?” I asked.

“No doubt,” said George.

Uncle Bobby pointed to a booth, and we all slid in. There was a circular black chandelier above us that held twelve globes that reminded me of full moons. George itched his nose. We were seated where thoroughbreds ran their lives away for mobsters. A waif-like blonde who reminded me of Edie Sedgwick took our order. George told her we’d just arrived from Boulder. She said she loved to ski and was planning a visit to Aspen.

Bobby’s job was to scour the tables for cheaters. He treated us to eggs benedict and rambled on about his wild times growing up in Newark. “Souvenirs for yous,” he said, handing us sets of Hilton dice. He said the Eye in the Sky was watching, but that he’d cleared the hand-off with security.

“No gamblin’ at the Hilton,” he advised.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Gotta ‘nother casino in mind. One better suited for college boys.”

“Which casino?” George asked.

“You’ll see,” he promised.

*****

George tailgated the Delta 88 into a lot off The Strip. He parked beside the Olds. We were surrounded by a mishmash of arcades, jewelry stores, bars, cheap eateries, and casinos. The Jolly Trolley had a circular marquee mounted to its roof with a cartoon trolley and clowns joking around inside. Signs under the marquee touted JOLLY FOLLIES, DISCO DOLLIES, and LAS VEGAS BIGGEST HAMBURGER 99-CENTS. Uncle Bobby told us some dancers were former porn stars and that the waitresses worked topless. I was eager to see the ladies and to sink my teeth into a burger. The eggs benedict breakfast wasn’t that filling, since I hadn’t eaten anything since biscuits and gravy at the Antelope Cafe.

Uncle Bobby swung open the Jolly Trolley’s front door and we followed him in. There was a glass chiller in the foyer displaying raw meat on rotating platters. There were thick cuts of ribeye, porterhouse, and T-bone. A sunburned man in an Aloha shirt pointed to a slab. A cashier in a chef’s hat grabbed the meat and wrapped it in pink butcher paper. The smell of blood tainted the casino.

We slid into a booth adjacent to the gambling pit. Patrons were cheering for a dice thrower at a craps table. A topless redhead asked for our orders. We all wanted beer. The redhead’s breasts were small but firm. The beer arrived in tall glass mugs. We toasted our trip to Vegas.

“Anything else?” the redhead asked.

I raised a hand. “Are the hamburgers any good?”

“Best burgers west of the Rockies.”

I ordered a burger. So did George. Uncle Bobby claimed he was still stuffed from brunch. The redhead took off, her breasts bouncing like water balloons. I felt bad the waitresses had to work topless. I didn’t mind looking. But it must have been embarrassing.

There were caged go-go dancers on either side of the stage. A black dancer grabbed my attention. She had a face that could launch a thousand ships, with an upturned nose and eyes with long lashes. She performed topless in a white thong, her long ebony legs, made longer by black stiletto heels. Shiny hair spilled over her shoulders and swept over her breasts. She performed to a medley of hits, including songs by the Ohio Players, BT Express, and Kool & The Gang. I sunk my teeth into a giant hamburger and ogled her as she gyrated in her cage. Her hips beckoned me to give in. I figured she was only a year or two older than me. We exchanged glances. Her smile beckoned my kiss. I could tell my attention made her to dance faster and more provocatively.

Uncle Bobby elbowed my shoulder. “Like her?” he asked.

I scrunched my face. “Like who?”

“Black Betty. In that cage, stage left.”

I nodded.

Betty blew me a kiss and stepped out of her cage, her eyes cutting me to the bone. Betty was a black goddess deserving of worship. I imagined proposing and living with her the rest of my life in Vegas.

Uncle Bobby played a few hands of blackjack before heading back to the Hilton. Before leaving, he gave us each a $100 casino chip to spend as we saw fit. George tried his luck at blackjack—he won his first hand, before losing three straight. He shifted to slots. He lost there too. George placed a bet at a table game with all he had left. He crapped out. The Jolly Trolley was the home of lost men ogling chicks while piling coins into slots. They were trying to find oxygen in a town that zapped their breathing. The one-armed bandits delivered steady losses. One or two slots rang a win every so often, but what was won got shoved back in to even the score.

I fingered my orange-and-black chip but had no desire to gamble. My mind was on Betty. I was following George out when I spotted her near the exit with an arm draped over a slot machine. She’d changed into a silvery miniskirt and switched her stiletto heels for moccasins. We were the same height. Betty was chatting with an Italian goombah twice her age. He reminded me of Milton the Monster. George and I combined couldn’t have taken him unless my buddy had achieved Superman strength.

“I have a gift for you,” I told Betty.

“Lay it on me,” she smiled.

I handed her my chip. “I like your dancing.”

“Kid’s a big spender,” the goombah smirked.

Betty examined the chip. She crinkled her nose in a girlish way, as if I’d asked her to the prom. “Like the dancing,” she told me, “like the dancer.”

“Love is more like it,” I quipped. I knew my confession had stunned her by the way she bit her lower lips and flashed kitten eyes.

“Beat it, kid,” the goombah said.

*****

It was dawn. I’d been tossing and turning all night on the living room couch. I couldn’t quit thinking about Betty. Why was she hanging out with Milton the Monster? Was it for money? Or maybe he was the owner.

George was in the Rizzo’s spare bedroom. I camped on the living room couch. Eleanor had prepared her special meatloaf, a dish handed down by her Czech grandmother. It’d been the best meatloaf I ever had, although my mind was more on Betty than food.

My pal stumbled into the living room and stood next to the couch. “Awake, Killer?”

“Wide awake,” I muttered, “all night long.”

“We should visit a whorehouse, but there’s no money.”

“I know.”

“Wanna hit the road?”

“Sure,” I said, “but where to, Wildman?”

“New Boston.”

“Massachusetts?”

“Texas.”

“Why there?”

“That’s where my brother lives.”

BIO: Kirby Michael Wright lives beside the track in Del Mar with his wife Darcy and a cat named Gatsby.