Naked City.
Located just a hop, skip and jump from the sparkling epicenter of hedonism.
It’s the mostly undeveloped stretch between the north end of the strip and downtown Fremont.
This is where you find seedy dive bars that offer 24/7 happy hour prices and heavy-handed bartenders who subsidize shitty tips with dope peddling side hustles.
Guys like our friend Tony here.
“Another one?” He says.
Push forward an empty bottle with a nod of approval.
Outside the window is Las Vegas boulevard, where on any given day as one drives past, they might see a roving caravan of contempt in the form of an entire family unit.
Dad, Mom, child number one, child number two, all in that order, all dragging progressively smaller luggage over the debris speckled sidewalk, marching in a single file fuck my life walk of shame towards the airport because daddy lost their cab fare in the Keno parlor.
“Here you go,” from the barkeep as he sets another twelve ounces of poison next to a smoldering cigarette. “Lemme know if you need anything else, guy.”
Will do.
The dimly lit room is filled with piss clipped clouds of tobacco storm fronts and middle aged men nursing drinks and wounds alike.
The same downtrodden expression rests on each and every one of the faces surrounding chapped lips sucking down Long Island Ice Teas and Mai-Tais.
Victims of hope.
Prisoners of expectations.
The degenerates and the compulsive. The felted and the blackballed.
These belief machines. These salvation hunters.
Disgracefully resigned in defeat.
Slowly adjusting to the loss of a dream which was stolen back by those who sold it to them to begin with.
Shells of former selves with insurmountable problems that they alone are responsible for creating.
Some are in the midst of keeping the party going strong, right up until their one-way nonstop economy class death march back to an Auto parts management job in Toledo’s east market.
You tell them how it’s easy to be irresponsible when you have no responsibilities.
“What?” They ask.
You list the perks of a spouse-free lifestyle to all of the unsuspecting bar guests.
They’ll say, “How am I gonna explain this to my family?”
You tell them that you never have to make up a story if there’s nobody waiting at home to hear it.
You then list the upsides of being single and therefore not requiring having justifications to these guys who are just in time for a quick shot after a cold shower and then an inevitable taxi ride to a redeye departure towards middle America and inherent custody battles.
“She’s gonna leave me,” you’ll hear.
You rave about the freedom of waking up alone.
You tell The Mets fan he has more leverage if he can prove infidelity on her behalf first and that if he switched flights to a day earlier, he’d have plenty of time to seek counsel.
“I’m so screwed,” they moan.
You say if they skip out of work early they can hit the bank and withdraw enough cash for a retainer and assure them that #1 is always going to sting a bit at first.
But the difference between first and next is full custody rather than supervised visits every other Tuesday.
Alimony versus court costs.
Healthily and happily re-married, as opposed to developing chronic alcoholism and suicidal tendencies.
The lucky ones might get a layover in Houston, which is more than enough time to scarf down some local high calorie barbecue and research the best divorce attorney nearest their home.
“She’s going to take the kids,” they’ll cry.
You inform them that any flight east of Atlanta international and north of Nashville-Dulles usually provides adequate time for any of the gloomy deviants to orchestrate their attack plans and coordinate elaborate excuses for the fact they blew little Johnny’s college fund on a heavy favorite who choked when it mattered most.
Or to get all the details straight before lying about getting mugged by minorities, when in actuality they were just butthurt after getting stood up by a girl half their age.
Finding the appropriate response to be getting hammered and blowing poor Grandma’s hip replacement funds under a blanket of artsy mirrored mosaic decor, where reflections of the same scowling image betray their false bravado a thousand times over.
Tucked inside the Jacks or Better Video Poker ego trip section of a High-Limit lounge. Trying to win back the pride that’s been stolen.
Stuck in a full blown dopamine trance and perspiring like a child molester at a kindergarten dance party.
Completely depraved and fucked from the get go.
The less fortunate soon-to-be bachelors are ordering straight shots of bourbon as you imagine the look on their wives faces when they tell them they took out a second mortgage on the family home because The Dolphins were favored by a touchdown at home.
“It was a lock,” they’ll insist. “A sure thing.”
You tell them that the bachelor lifestyle isn’t all that bad.
You say it’s pretty understandable how they punted a major portion of a joint savings account on a 2-1 underdog, because they had a hunch and Boston hasn’t lost to Detroit since they fucked Debbie Stewbaker under the bleachers in tenth grade.
Or how they hawked their watch for peanuts only to buy it back with interest a day later, only to end up pawning the car's stereo to try to win back the car payment.
And that laying the grocery funds on the pass line to win back their rent money makes total sense.
You tell them umbilical attachments to the things that hurt us the most are par for the course these days.
So cheer up, you say.
In reality.
They’ll suffer in silence until the problem becomes anything other than manageable. Convinced that the cause is the cure.
Sure.
They can tell themselves that what happens here stays here until they’re blue in the face.
But best of luck trying to build a defense using that logic after the girlfriend catches an STD upon your return from a recent weekend retreat with the boys. Compliments of the glittery call-girl that they and the rest of the bachelor party chipped in to pay for.
It’s true.
Not all souvenirs are made equal.
Sometimes the price tag attached to something doesn’t accurately reflect its cost.
“Huh. Beats me, dear. Must have come from a toilet seat,” they’ll say. “You know how nasty those bathrooms can get, honey.”
Or they try playing the Uno “reverse-card” method of “How do I know it didn’t come from you? I see the way Father Mackey looks at you on Sundays, you whore!”
Having a lapse in judgment is one thing. Venereal diseases and squandered life savings are quite the other.
Fair.
The drinks may have been free. But so was the herpes.
“Anything else?” says Tony the bartender.
Depends.
Slide forward a picture.
Seen her lately?
+++
"Tobacco storm front." Love it. Superb. Felt like I was self marinating in the bar with you! Vegas is such an alarming but interesting place.
Hey, thanks Jess. I sincerely appreciate the kind words.
I’m Erik
Pleasure🤝