Leaving Las Vegas Page 4

  (Sabrina was a sixteen year old girl from Atlanta who had run away from home and, when they met, was making her way working as a maid in one of the small motels on the southernmost end of the Strip. The girl was, indeed, in many ways a sixteen year old, but in other respects she was atypically sensitive and kind. She gave a portion of her pay each week to a blind Mexican man who lived in an abandoned trailer, not far from the motel. This left her with food money and not much more. Rather than lose her or give her a raise, the motel owner let her suck him off after the rooms were cleaned in exchange for a night in an empty room, when there was one, as long as she cleaned it extra good in the morning and used her own detergent to wash the sheets. When the motel was full she would walk around the Strip all night, sometimes walking way down to Fremont, playing an occasional nickel slot or quarter keno. Sera met her sitting on the curb doing a crossword puzzle outside of a slot machine parlor one night. They talked until morning under the watchful eye of a giant, neon-clad clown. Sera found in Sabrina the first true friend of her life, and, deeming her sleeping arrangements less than desirable, offered the use of her apartment.

  Three times they were lovers, each time without premeditation and most certainly without regret. Their mutual ability to do this was one of the strongest and most unique bonds that they had. They were both, by nature, very independent, and so had no trouble staying out of each other’s way. They coexisted well for a while, but Sabrina was still very young and hadn’t yet made any long term observations about herself, much less decisions. She grew restless and wanted to run away again but had nothing to run away from, a personal insult that she found impossible to come to terms with. Willingly she embraced heroin, losing her job early on, and taking up tricking in increasingly dangerous situations. She eventually disappeared, and Sera knew that she was probably dead in a Dumpster, or perhaps rotting in the desert after being chauffeured fifty miles out of town in the trunk of a Cadillac.

  Sera was at a loss, dazed by the swiftness of decline; it was a syndrome that was very alien to her. It was outside the realm of what she was.)

  Bells sound, unimaginably unnatural electric noises alert the patrons of the casino of the Tropicana that an event of temporarily great notoriety has taken place, is being publicized. The big winner is slightly annoyed at the distraction. She has other machines to tend to. The noise dies down. Sera watches Las Vegas’s newest hundredaire pick up one of her hard won silver dollars—plenty more where that came from—and drop it back into the machine from which it came.

  Laid off—laid off—growing ever more infatuated with her boycott of time and the devices that define it, Sera is allowing herself to slip in and out of an alcohol-assisted meditation and has no idea how long she has been sitting at the bar. The supply of goldfish crackers, apparently inexhaustible, serves as no indicator. The casino has made damn sure that there is no line of sight to the outside, so she won’t know when it gets light. Eventually the cocktail waitresses will start requesting a disproportionate number of bloody marys and screwdrivers. Vodka being a popular breakfast drink, this will reveal that morning has broken for the broke. The thought raises a point: it would probably be more convenient if it stayed dark for the next few days so she wouldn’t have to plan on having her sunglasses with her; that is, it would be dark, and she wouldn’t need her sunglasses. Bored, bored, bored.

  (The Singers lived in the unit next to her first apartment in Las Vegas. She had been staying in a filthy little motor court on the grimy part of Las Vegas Boulevard South, between where it intersects with Fremont and where it is known as the Strip. She had finally, through careful, constructive deception and a large cash deposit, secured a real apartment off of Spring Mountain Road, not an easy trick for her, being new in town with no job. She had spent her last few dollars at K-mart on a clock-radio, a card table, and chairs, and was taking these into the new apartment when Mary Singer came dancing over to her carrying a glass full of flowers and another of white wine.

  “Hello, Neighbor! I’m Mary,” sang the woman. “Welcome, welcome! Put that stuff inside and we’ll get toasted on rhino whino at my place. It’s so good to have a new girlfriend! What’s your name?”

  “Sera.” She couldn’t help but be taken in by the enthusiasm, and she smiled warmly, extended her hand, and shook the flowers.

  “Is that s-a-r-a or the other way?” asked Mary.

  “It’s the other other way, s-e-r-a. Is that m-e-r-r-y?”

  They both laughed and were soon sitting on Mary’s couch getting acquainted over German wine and potato salad. Sera explained, in response to Mary’s query, that she was a cocktail waitress from Los Angeles, and that right now she’s between jobs. Mary talked about her husband, Slim, and how Sera’ll just love him and why doesn’t she plan on dinner with them that night. This became the plan and they talked on, as newly acquainted women will:

  “No, not yet,” said Sera, “just a few boyfriends, but no one special right now.” …

  “Two years, but it seems like forever,” said Mary. “He really is great. We met at the hotel. He had to fire me before he could marry me. Isn’t that a scream?” …

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go someday. I really don’t mind waitressing. It’s okay for now.” …

  “And that’s it? Just towel dry in the morning? And it looks that good?” …

  “Never. I can’t, I’m allergic.” …

  “If I do you may have to put me to bed… Oh, why not.” …

  “Clinique, it’s the best. I don’t mind spending extra for that, I really don’t wear it that often.” …

  “…was the worst! Slim’s not perfect, but at least he pays attention to me. You know what I mean? I mean, I would say nowadays that I come almost every other time—well, one out of three—but anyway, that’s tons better than my first husband. He would…” …

  “Oh, no complaints. I really don’t have the experience that you do.” …

  “If I’m interrupting you two I can go back to work,” interjected Slim. Clad in tie and jacket, he stood grinning in the doorway. He looked hungry.

  “Well, look who’s here. Sera, this is Slim. Slim, Sera,” said Mary, rising unsteadily from the couch, her half glass of wine riding along perilously.

  They met and giggled and dinner went along nicely. Slim eyed Sera in a less than wholesome way on and off all through that evening and subsequent get-togethers, but she didn’t mind so much; not only was she used to it, but the guy was just too bland to be at all threatening. She was happy to meet these people and let herself get caught up in being a neighbor. There were cook-outs, shopping trips, expeditions to the Strip, nights spent barhopping, an uneventful and unique blind double date, set up by Slim with a pal from work. Slim made the predictable hints at physical interludes that he imagined would be shared by and kept between the three of them, and even showed up with champagne and cocaine at Sera’s door one night as his wife bathed, presumably in ignorance. Sera skillfully let these embarrassing moments slide by without ever addressing the issue directly, and risk bruising his ego, but rather with a quick excuse and a flirtatious smile that would send Slim away not sure if he had been thwarted or flattered.

  The Singers probably thought themselves closer to her than she did to them for two reasons: They were less guarded than she about being open, and they really never operated too far below the surface; so what was just friendly to Sera was often intimate to them. She was doing her best at maintaining a light friendship, and though she was indeed being deceptive about much of her life—a deception that caused her some distress—she had only affection for Mary and Slim, as, in varying degrees, she did for everyone.

  Returning home one night after a very bad trick gone worse, bleeding and frightened, needing to be with another woman, she called Mary over. Mary was full of maternal concern as she sat listening in her bathrobe, clutching Sera’s hands. She was quietly comforting to begin with, and gradually slipped into complete silence as the story unfolded. Mary’s cup of tea g
rew cold as she sat for forty minutes, and heard Sera tell her the whole, relevant truth.

  “Well don’t worry, dear. I’m sure that Slim can find you something at the hotel, then you can put this whole nightmare behind you,” said Mary, nervously rising. “You get some sleep and I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “No, no, don’t tell Slim. I’m fine. You don’t understand. This was just a bad night. I shouldn’t have bothered you. I probably exaggerated a little. Things aren’t so bad,” said Sera. She sensed that something was wrong but was in no condition to give it full attention.

  But Mary was almost out the door. “Okay, our secret. You go to bed. Goodnight.” She walked briskly across the lawn, entered her apartment and turned on the light in the bedroom, where Slim was sleeping.

  The next morning Sera was awakened by her landlord, who told her to be out as soon as possible. “No later than the end of the month. And keep the place clean—you know what I mean—’cause I’ll be showing it. I’m sorry, but this is just my policy. If you had told me the truth right off we could have avoided this whole thing. You can have your security back and I… well I haven’t heard none of this,” and he put an envelope in her hand and left the premises.)

  She feels like shooting craps but is always put off by the rudeness of the crowd. These people are very intense about their game. They consider themselves to be the elite gambling force of the casino, the professionals. Their superior intellect and knowledge of the mathematics of probability are ever apparent in the pagan screams and howls that sometimes challenge even the slot machines’ near monopoly on aural assaults. They make it well known that their complex work affords little time for toleration of one of the lower orders, say a quiet blackjack player looking for a change of pace. Should he be bold enough to penetrate the gauntlet of bodies, constantly squeezing shut any opening or flaw in its arrangement, he will be justifiably terrorized at the table. Arms will fall immediately into the path of his intended bets, his respiration will be impaired by giant plaided polyester warriors, spewing smoke, surrounding and almost engulfing him. Verbal abuse and humiliation will drive out the invader, a final sarcastic excuse me whipping his flank as he retreats back to his amateur world of childlike diversion, no longer an impediment to the progress of the real players.

  Her ears absently fix on the tick-clicking of the casino’s money wheel, first accelerating rapidly and then taking forever to slowly come to a stop, each click lingering slightly longer in the ear than the previous one until the final surprising eternal ick, which merely precedes another in an endless series of spins. The dealer, banished to this isolated corner of the casino by a simple twist of shift rotation, paces his patter with the wheel. His pronunciation of options and possibilities is equally unenthusiastic for a big five dollar bet as it is during one of the frequent practice spins. The giant disk rolls redundantly, always and never moving, money riding its perimeter. Prisoners of the wheel, the decoupage dollars await the inevitable moment that they will spend frozen at the top, selected by a stiff piece of plastic. Bets on them, if any, will then be paid off.

  On a perpendicular axis to that, the roulette wheel divides the world into red and black, even and odd, or the more specific numbered prejudices of one to thirty-six. Occasionally the freakish green zero or double zero, real losers, are favored by the silver ball. Blurred to the eye, rolling on a wheel, the little sphere rides its race indecisively, eventually dropping to the slower, lower track of imminent commitment. It drops into a slot for a while, then starts again.

  At the blackjack tables dealers stand behind other dealers, awaiting their turns to shuffle up and take the house’s chances against the inept infantry of American gamblers. The game can be difficult, for winning brings to a player careful scrutiny by the powers that be, and winning too much can cause him to be conspicuously ejected from the game and the casino. Bad players make foolish plays by definition; good players make foolish plays for the same reason, but only at appropriate moments. Fours and fives get split, so do threes and sixes. When? Why? The dealers watch quietly, knowingly. When they play in a player’s seat they insure their blackjacks. See, they know this game.

  Low key competence, pungent in the air of the poker room, always keeps Sera out, despite the informative flashes from the attendant. He is apt to make known to a passerby that a seat is available on table two, Texas hold-em. In this room players face players. The house doesn’t care what happens here; it draws commission on all pots. Unlike the craps table, green is welcome here. Fresh players are chewed and digested in short order. The games continue with more cunning opponents. Methodically the money flows across the table from this one to that one, then to the new one, and back again to the first one, who is taking and giving, biding his time as he waits for one who isn’t here yet.

  The baccarat balcony is very quiet, well dressed and dignified. Many are the glances upon it from frequent players of other games who would never dare enter this realm. Beautiful women surrounded in black felt feign to play with each other. If a guy had a lot of money he could probably get fucked here. They never give up. It’s all really neat, sort of European.

  “More Herradura?” asks the bartender. He holds ready the bottle. He likes Sera, having identified her as an experienced but not habitually excessive drinker. He is, in his own domain, much like the better dealers who, spotting a competent gambler, will treat him or her as an insider who can be relied on to not do anything stupid or unpredictable, can be trusted to know what they want. More Herradura is served.

  She is more than a little surprised at the ennui. It’s not that she doesn’t understand her life and all its implications, so far she does—as well or better than anyone does. But she didn’t expect to be at such a loss simply because she can’t work for a while. Her dependence on her routine, such as it is, has grown so slowly over the years that it has escaped her notice. Now that the coffee is on the wall, it’s shocking for her to think that her life requires some sort of regular punctuation in order to make it manifest. Though maybe it doesn’t, maybe it just does right now.

  Like an experiment that is radically affected by the removal of one variable, her situation demands assessment. She can’t really come up with one; in truth, she’s not convinced it’s that important. Drunk, she feels the odd inclination to take a long walk, right into the next few days; walking, then rolling, continuously. She leaves the bar and passes again through the hotel doors. Outside it’s still dark and cool enough for this kind of walking. The relatively undiminished activity of pre-dawn Las Vegas raises her spirits, reminds her of why she thinks she originally came here. Long and straight, the sidewalk has inherited the desert’s characteristic disregard for conventional distance. Here she can walk for hours, and since the Tropicana lies virtually at the end of the Strip, hours of walking are available to her.

  She walks slowly, thoughtfully, observing as much as she can and allowing the alcohol to temporarily delay the waiting soreness. Walking now where she normally wouldn’t, not looking for a trick where she normally would, she immerses herself in the perception of, without participation in, the business of Las Vegas. The hotels appear as mirages in the distance, and though each one seems to take forever to reach, they fall quickly behind her. Soon, where she has been looks like where she is going, so she apparently stands on the face of a mirror, the two directional options either identical or opposite to each other.

  (“Where? where are you going?” Sera whispered, so as not to wake him.

  “Just away from him. I don’t care, maybe San Diego,” said the girl. Her purse fully stuffed with clothing, she wore baggy denim jeans with no underwear. She was the sort of girl who could make herself well-liked for one evening; that evening was a long time ago, and now only Sera would spend any time with her.

  “Good plan. I hear tricking is a booming industry down there.” Sera regretted this sarcasm, and in fact had no heart for this conversation at all.

  “Fuck you, Sera! You know you should be coming w
ith me.”

  The marble was cold under her bare feet, so tucking her negligee between her thighs, Sera sat down. “I just don’t think I could start all over again,” she said.

  The girl threw her purse over her shoulder. “Yes you could. You know you could, Sera. You of all people could.” Then under her breath as she left: “You could do it a thousand times.”

  Rather than watch her leave, Sera went back to the bedroom and slipped quietly between the sheets, so as not to wake anyone.)

  Stopping off here or there, she uses the rest room or has a drink of water. The montage of casino interiors lends more clearly a vision of their subtle differences. Not obvious things like decor or employee costumes, which are really just similarities, but the more significant indications of management and money. The type of gambler can vary widely from place to place, as well as the type of dealer. She never really thought of the casinos as having the same distinctions as other businesses, but now she sees that some make more money, keep things cleaner, have a happier staff than others. It just follows; there’s nothing special, nothing universal.

  (“Will you talk to this girl!” Her mother stormed out of the kitchen, leaving her alone with her father.

  “I know,” Sera began after a long silence, after waiting respectfully for him to speak, knowing all along that she would speak first, that he wanted to listen to her, “that travel may not be a Darwinian imperative—”

  “Oh, it is,” her father corrected, then shut his mouth decidedly.

  “Well then,” she said, her suspicions now confirmed that her old ally hadn’t failed her, “I guess we can also agree that certainly it must be, at least, broadening.” And they both fell to laughter, though she could see the pain in his eyes.)

  She’s tired, has too much alcohol still in her blood. It’ll leave her at its own glacial pace, regardless of how much she walks. She bears up, decides to execute directly the remaining two miles to her home. Her body wasn’t ready for this. Some aches return; others take hold for the first time. As her head clears and the distance diminishes, she feels better. At home she lies down in her bed, sleeps until she wakes, is awake until she sleeps.