Tortured Muse

What is there to say about Las Vegas?  Every time that I come here it’s the same story.  The burst of optimism that surges as I disembark from the plane and that slowly dissipates as I stand in the taxi line. All around me a grotesque microcosm of the world’s denizens. College frat boys adventuring into the city of sin.  Smiling and laughing, talking about the last time they were here and the hotness of the chicks just ahead of them in line.  They dream of alcohol, gambling, strippers and prostitutes.   Testosterone is heavy in the air around them. Then the always sweating, obese and overweight couples (who I always assume are American and from one of those middle states) some shuffling and barely able to pick up their feet and some on motorized scooters. Visions of hitting it big at the slots and eating big at the buffets dancing through their heads.  Anything to forget the lives that they dreamed of when they were young and the what could have beens.  There are the club girls just in from California looking to party.  Their bodies, fit and surgically enhanced, scream that they want to get laid and get paid. And then the suits, there are always suits.  Bleary eyed and dead-souled with an air of condescension, they look at their watches and and check e-mail on their mobile phones. So busy, always busy, have to keep moving, much to get done. But on the inside they dread the three or four day bullshit conference they are about to attend.  They have nightmares about the marketing booths, the give-aways, the panel discussions no one gives a shit about and the incessant kowtowing to each potential client in the hunt for that next deal.

The taxi ride to the casino/resort is always the same.  I exchange pleasantries with the driver, and we discuss the Las Vegas economy and the impending water crisis. It is not so much that I care about these topics, but what the fuck else is there to do.

From his window, he watched the people below mill in and out of the art gallery across the street. A new exhibit had just opened. Some well known figurative painter or something. The paintings looked crude to him from what he saw on the gallery’s website. But what did he know? He wasn’t an art critic.  The day was gray and rainy, and he was surprised by the number of people who did not have umbrellas. But they seemed happy.  Even the old man with glasses and mustache leaning up against the wall looked happy, his swollen arthritic knees making his khakis hang oddly. What a drag it is getting old.   He watch the people laughing, hugging, meeting. A whirlwind of activity. He sensed the joy, but could not relate. With a sigh, he went back to his work. And the people below became nothing but ghosts.

He closed his eyes, focused on his breath, and tried to center himself. The nausea came in waves and seem to saturate every fiber of his being. He tried to detach himself from the physical discomfort and become a dispassionate observer. It took four tries and seven different techniques until he became that floating eyeball. He opened his eyes and observed the chaos that was all around him.   It was grim. The mission had gone sideways and there would be hell to pay for it.

His life support HUD was blinking yellow.  His air filtration system had been compromised. The air in his suit was now a slightly toxic mix.  Nothing that would kill him, but it was causing the nausea.  His team members were nowhere in sight and there was nothing to do but move forward. He gingerly stood up and began to plunge ahead into the darkened airlock.