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Vegas, baby
(excerpt)
I was running late for work when I remembered my prescription. That’s how the whole mess started. I could’ve waited until after work. Something made me turn my car around. Probably the fact that, like every other semi-responsible American, I hate my job. Plus I get anxious. Especially when I’m running low on meds. So there I was at the Walgreen’s drug counter, late for work, waiting for my prescription, when this big black dude came strolling up. I was holding a dark blue nylon suitcase that I’d just picked out for a lousy business trip to Dallas. The big D. It was one of those suitcases that fit in the overhead compartments of airplanes so you don’t have to check your luggage. The kind that’s really too small to wheel around by the stupid extended handle; but everyone tries, stumbling around the airport parking lots, hunched over, the little plastic wheels getting stuck on pebbles.
“Going on a trip?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Vegas?”
Now don’t ask me why, because most people in these situations nod politely and stare off into space, but I turned and took a good long look at him. He was tall, maybe six foot five. His eyes were bloodshot and he was hanging on the counter like it was a bar. He was wearing a green wool cap. Not really a bum, but close. You can usually tell with the shoes. He was wearing penny loafers. I wasn’t too sure what to make of them.
The pharmacist came up and handed me the little paper bag. Zoloft.
“This isn’t the right prescription,” I said, handing it back. I was going to be even later for work.
The pharmacist tore off the sheet of paper and stared at it for a second. He was a skinny guy; maybe forty with a shaved bald head and tiny rectangular glasses that made him look like an architect.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll get the Paxil.” I really didn’t want him to say it out loud.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was my boss. I didn’t even have to look at it. The black guy was still staring at me. I was afraid he was going to make a joke about the Paxil.
“You say Vegas, man?” he asked again.
“Nope, Dallas.” I said.
“Man, I really want to go to Vegas,” he said. “You ever been?” He smiled and I noticed his teeth were yellow. I mean they looked like someone took a king-size Crayola to them.
“I haven’t,” I said. Then he asked the pencil-necked pharmacist.
“Say, man, say.” The pharmacist looked like most white folks do when a six foot five black man with yellow teeth and bloodshot eyes asks them a question. Not terrified, but a little more nervous and bothered than usual.
“Ever been to Vegas?” The pharmacist shook out a no with his narrow, bald head.
“Shiaaaaat,” said Yellow Tooth. “Vegas, baby. Always wanted to go.” I gave him a wide plastic smile. I hadn’t ever seriously considered Vegas as a place I’d want to go. Slot machines. Wide-eyed zombies. Wayne Newton in concert every night. It seemed like Disneyworld to me. A place made to look like every other Chuck E. Cheese pizza parlor, only bigger. Replace the animatronic singing rats with hookers. He looked right at me or maybe through me. I had no response, but I wanted to tell him something. Not that I hadn’t been to Vegas or that I didn’t understand it. Not that I was afraid I was missing out on something most people intuit naturally about gambling, big tits, and heavy drinking. More like I wanted to tell him I hadn’t really been well and I could barely handle Walgreen’s let alone Las Vegas. Meanwhile, everybody was trying their damnedest to ignore him. The pharmacist was looking at the computer. His assistant was ringing something up. The old guy behind me was eyeballing the laxatives.
My phone buzzed again. I pulled it out of my pocket. It was my boss, but there wasn’t enough reception to take the call. This is how it goes.
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