There are six billion individual stories in this world and I saw but a sliver this Sunday morning walking off a sole beer insobriety downtown Las Vegas.
I saw Santa Claus, lean in the springtime months, smoking a cigarette on the corner sidewalk.
So many drunk girls swaying to a country band on Fremont, short skirts and indiscretion, clustered in cloisters throughout the congregation.
There was a walking Asian pharmacy and a bottle of water, glasses, trekking back to his hotel room where his wife had some malady he had ventured out to cure.
I saw a man that walked like a meat market lumbering through a crowd that gave him a wide berth: he had a neck like two ham hocks half-eaten, a gait like a porterhouse – wholesome and bloody, each footstep a whole roost of chickens clucking cacophony.
There were couples: walking, drinking, she’s dancing while he plays disinterested, having a portait done – caricature capturing, instead of digital celluloid, this memory. It makes me wonder what I’d rather – more or less reminder of my loss, which led me on this expedition, soul-searching aimlessly in a crowd, trying to forget how happy she was talking to the other red shirt.
Inside Fitzgerald’s Casino, where I evacuate the dying embers of this minute drunkness, dances the sole face I recognize: Jessica, who once worked the street team of the attraction I work at. Her face was always an abstract, but given the outfit she’s prescribed it’s hardly an issue: we make eye contact briefly as the roulette wheel I’m half-heartedly watching hits red for the five-hundredth time that night and Mr. Blue Chips breaks even for the fifth time I’ve been standing there. No progress, neither for Blue or for Jessica or for me.
I’m an observer, one of hundreds, lonely heart harbinger-warnings for every swag-stepped semi-sauve casanova trolling these corridors in singles, doubles, triplicate groups gravating toward mini-skirted indiscretions dancing. It would be so easy to lock into their attributes, assholes speak soundly somewhere inside each of us, and I’m afeared of how fluent they have been lately.
The tipsy feeling has passed, and a walk and a drive find me at home where someone has parked in my assigned spot, a designation I’m not fond of but it’s mine at any rate. A small childish act out of me, peeing on the driver’s side door handle after parking around the corner, and I’m in my apartment writing, unsure if I’m any wiser than I was this morning.