September 15, 2005

All right - Yo! Let's all be rocket scientists! Of course they're a dying breed too...

It is around 5:00PM and we are looking for something. Neither of us can recall just what exactly it is, but we find ourselves near an interesting bar and decide to have a look inside. Perhaps we’ll find what it is we are theoretically looking for. The bar is basically empty save a large bartender and a dishevelled looking middle-aged blonde. I know immediately that she will begin speaking with me, they always do.

[Writer's note: the following conversation is recreated as accurately as possible based on notes I made on a cocktail napkin in situ, and what I was later able to recall.]

“Hi,” she says, smiling widely and showing jaundiced teeth, “have you got a cigarette?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t smoke.” I reply. My tone must be unfriendly this evening as she stops smiling and looks away.

We get free beer for playing the machines. My friend finds an unopened pack of cigarettes in the coin return of his machine. He offers one to the blonde and they are now good friends.

"So what do you do?" She asks.

"Well..." replies my friend, disinclined to come up with an explanation in layman's terms of exactly 'what it is he does' for the blonde from 'Okey'. He settles on "I'm a chemist."

This proves unsatisfactory, and she counters with "What do you do though?"

"Well..." he starts.

"He's a rocket scientist." I say, hoping to put the matter to bed.

"Really?" She replies, eyes going temporarily bright. "I wish I had applied to be a rocket scientist."

"Me too." I sympathise. "What do you do now, instead?"

"Well right now, nothing, but I, I used to work at Starbucks. I was the shipping manager. And I made those, um, those complicated drinks."

"Caramel macchiatos?" I offer.

"Yes! Exactly, that's what I did."

"Is that so?" Says my friend. "I hear they have great benefits at Starbucks."

"Yeah," she says, looking down and shaking her head as if to clear a fog, "I was responsible for tall coffees and teas."

"Is that so?" I say. "I'm an Architect working on a nuclear waste treatment facility." I think to add that I'm responsible for tall buildings and fences, but resist.

"Wow, you guys sure are smart."

"It's really not that hard," says my friend, "you could do it if you just applied yourself."

"Really?" She asks. "You think so?"

"Of course." I say. There is a pause. "I've got to make a trek." I say, and make my way to the bathroom.

The glass block partition that hides the door to the bathroom offers a grotesque view of myself that I find fitting, though I look a little green. Strange, I think, since I don't feel sick. The otherwise surprisingly clean bathroom is conspicuously soiled in one corner, which I avoid.

When I get back to my seat, the blonde is leering at a not unattractive prostitute sitting next to her.

"You're in that band aren't you? Marilyn Manson?" She asks.

"No honey," says the girl, "it's Faster Pussycat."

"Oh."

The new girl says goodbye to the bartender whom she is very friendly with, and walks out. I hail the bartender to procure another drink, and the blonde spills her glass of, I am assuming, chardonnay.

"What kind of music do you listen to?" She asks her glass while scrutinizing what's left of her beverage through squinting eyes.

"Classical." Says my friend. "Marilyn Manson." I say.

"I listen to oldies, but I used to play classical music." She says proudly, finding some ground she feels has made her footing more or less equal.

"What instrument?" We ask simultaneously.

"Piano."

The talk moves smoothly, if not coherently, from topic to topic. Evidently this poor woman from Oklahoma is having a hard time in Vegas, and has many problems - all of which she will now relate in a rambling, stilted, and repetitious sort of point-form, in a pleading voice, in the hope that we will... I'm not sure what she hopes for. Pity perhaps, but I don't think so. She is divorced; her ex is good for nothing. She is poor and so is her junkie daughter, who steals from her. And isn't that horrible, but she pawned her dead Grandmother's ring last week, but because she had to. The entire neighbourhood comes to her house to eat her spaghetti and no one even says thanks. And they steal from her too. She makes great spaghetti because she used to work at this little Italian place in Houston. She recommends an Italian place in town that has great eggplant. The landlord treats her bad and they won't even give her a key to the pool anymore. Which is okay for now because the pool is closed, but if they open it again, she will be livid [her word]. Her daughter's step mom gives her a hard time on the phone and threatens to take legal action for custody.

"Nike socks and bathgel!" She exclaims. "You know, that's the way they are on the strip: you're talking. And. To people, okay... and then, and then in comes security!" She rolls her eyes. "And my daughter, you know, she's like... because I'm sleeping in my clothes and that's where the money is... and she wakes me up because she can't steal, and, and she's like Mom can you just buy me some fucking KFC!" She sighs. "And then, and that's why I had to pawn her gameboy that she got from a boy at school. I said, you know, you can't just play it!"

"That's too bad, I really like handheld games." I say. I stick my index finger in the air as if to say: eureka! "More drinks! Can I get your anything?"

"Oh, no thanks. But. Listen. Could you... are you driving?"

My friend looks at me; we both know what's coming. I leave it up to him.

"Yeah." He decides.

"Oh. Well, you know. I just missed the last bus. Like an hour or two ago. And my place is... could you maybe give me a lift?"

"Sure."

"Oh wow. You're, you're the best."

We pay up and leave. The blonde takes her glass of wine out the door.

"I don't think you can take their glass." I say.

"Oh don't worry, it's mine." She says. Come to think of it, the bartender had been refilling the same glass the whole time. We pile into the turbo bullet. She remarks on the suppleness of the leather in the back seat. I look back to see that her jean skirt is hiked up and she's rubbing her bare legs on the edge of the seat with her eyes closed. Her wine is jumping around dangerously in the glass.

Let's not get pulled over I think.

When we get to her complex she invites us in. "I'll make some of my famous spaghetti." She offers. "You can't leave without tasting it, trust me."

"I'm sorry," I say, "we're going to be late for a show."

"Oh don't worry, it only takes a second. Plus, I think is spilled some... wine in your backseat. You have to give me a chance to make it up to you guys." She pleads suggestively. I think she winked.

"I am hungry," says my friend contemplatively, "but we really are going to be late. Maybe next time."

"Okay," she pouts, "I'll give you my number."

"That's okay," I say, "we know where to look for you." I blow her a kiss out the window as erotically as I am able, and we drive off. She smiles and scampers inside.

Next on the agenda is cheap vegetarian pizza and beer in a little hole in the wall across from the Hard Rock Hotel. As we leave and walk toward the Hard Rock to attend a concert featuring a certain well-known 90's Scottish band, we are told that parking here is illegal. We assure the attendant that we have actually left our German beast at UNLV.

The casino at the Hard Rock is seething with a younger crowd. It strikes me as a sort of country club designed by the corporate music conglomerate for the young hedonists of America. We waste no time in buying expensive, though suitably alcohol saturated, whiskey-cokes, and making our way to "The Joint" where the show is already under way. The opening band has finished up and they are playing interlude music. When Johnny Cash's version of Hurt comes to an end the lights go out, the real show begins. The fiery redheaded singer rushes to the mic, and a girl behind me utters a piercing scream. I say that I'm going to push my way to the front. My friend wishes me luck and offers to get me another drink.

As is normal, the crowd thickens as you approach the front, but I manage to make it all the way to the fence. The band plays an anti-war song that I find much more powerful when seen live. A lesbian fan with cancer is allowed on stage to have her head shaved by the redhead. She is not nearly as adept a head-shaver as she is a singer. She goes on to explain how she loves the word "motherfucker", and that it isn't used in Scotland. She looks my way and, I assume, my orange hooded sweatshirt catches her eye. She says: get that motherfucker on stage! I am confused, but the nearest bouncer helps me over the fence and I vault on to the stage.

The redhead walks over and says, "Give me your fucking sweater!" Her presence is electric and, possessed, I lean towards the mic and say "Fuck you!" She gives me an obviously fake "how dare you" look.

"Alright luv, I'll give you a hundred dollars for it." She says, and proceeds to produce a hundred dollars in twenty dollar bills from a pocket somewhere in her outfit.

"I'm sorry." I say.

"Look man, it's all I've got on me."

I grin at her. "Anything for you luv."

I take off my sweatshirt and hand it to her. She gives me the money, which is damp with sweat, and puts the sweatshirt on for the next song. "Thanks, now get off my stage!" She says. I do. A corridor leads to the back of the theatre where I meet my friend at the bar.

"Where's your shirt?" He asks.

We drive back to the sushi bar, a place to rest and regroup. On the way up the stairs I notice a Japanese guy stagger out of a slammed Subaru STI with a carbon fibre hood. He trips on the way up the stairs behind us trying to catch up. When he approaches he asks me if I'm looking for Japanese pussy.

"Of course," I say, "why else would I be here?"

"Yes, it's here!" He says enthusiastically, pulling himself past me using my shoulder as handhold. He goes to sit down at the large table in the middle of the room.

We sit at the bar. I order hot sake and my friend picks out an eclectic array of appetizers to snack on. An altogether-too-young-to-be-working-at-a-bar girl with a conspicuously long and elegant neck serves us.

"So," I ask, "what's next?"

We are at a strip club frequented by Vegas locals. As soon as we enter we were accosted by one of the girls. She is mostly naked and, though my guide initially offers her a "real drink", she opts for coffee. "I've had plenty to drink already." She says. There is something particularly predatory about the girls here that is making me uneasy.

We drink and converse for a while before I am literally dragged to the back of the club by a girl with a prominent behind. She sits me down and does her level best to rape me through my clothes. Despite her vigorous hard work, I am nearly falling asleep. The sun will be up soon.

I emerge from the back to find my friend in deep philosophical conversation with another girl. I nod off in a seat nearby until he is ready to leave.