I'm supposed to be going to sleep, but Toby just called my cell phone because evidently it was really important that I read his answer to that post a few down. Since I'm here and have Tobes on the brain, I'm going to paste some more of our fake Vegas adventure. Well, I'm sure I'll go to Vegas -eventually-...
It’s nearly 2 a.m. and Toby and I are speeding through the desert not too far out of Vegas. I feel a bit like a gangster, stopping for gas in the middle of the night and blowing a few bucks on the slots just to feel the arm of the machine in my fingers. I believe that the arms of slot machines are enchanted. Every single person that touches them is full of hopes that this will be the lucky time, that they’ll finally win their ticket out of whatever situation they’re on the way to Vegas to avoid. I like that hope, and I like to think that I can feel it running in currents under my fingers. I also like to think of Vegas as a place for desperate people, folks on the lam and full of murderous and profane thoughts. I like to think of Vegas.
**insert a bit I posted weeks ago here.**
“Where’s your sense of adventure, you jerk?”
“What, driving to Vegas in the middle of the night isn’t adventure enough for you? What are you doing over there, anyway?”
What I’m doing is lighting, one by one, a packet of matches that I found on the floor at my feet. “Al’s Oasis,” they say. From some bar in upper Nevada. I’ve opened the window a crack, and I’m tossing the lighted matches out. They flare quickly and then die right by the rear door, killed by the rushing desert air.
( The rest of the story )And now, I'm going to sleep. Maybe someday I'll make up a story about the rest of you, too.
Threats, aren't they?
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