by A. K. Smith
I doubt it.
Vegas never sleeps: no siestas, no naps. It’s an ongoing movie without an end. It is completely normal to leave my shift at five in the morning, walk down the street next to a drunk man and a woman, sweaty from dancing and gambling, their voices at high octaves, and then see next to them a jogger keeping his stride, sprinting down the sidewalk getting in his morning run before he starts his day. Completely different versions of a Vegas movie all playing at the same time. The difficulty is that sometimes it is hard to sort out what movie is playing when.
The taste of grit and the smell of smoke consumes my senses. Taking a break in the dry desert heat is not much better. Walking outside is like sticking my head in an oven. Opposite of the thick humid air of Baltimore summers, this fire heat is intense. Even this early in the summer, Las Vegas continues to break heat records.
Hudson texts me to come outside. I put my hand on my beating heart as I read the text. I’ve reconsidered the butterfly effect and I’ve concluded that it’s the newness. The art of kissing someone new is exciting: it’s curiosity and it’s daring. I care about Hudson, but I love Jack. And even though I can’t ever see him, I can’t ever touch him again, I will always love him. I know that now.
I walk outside overwhelmed by the bright sun. It takes me a minute to adjust, and then I see him. Hudson is holding an egg in his hand, a mischievous smirk across his face.
“Hudson, it’s blazing hot out here, what are you doing?”
“An experiment for your viewing pleasure…”
Hudson holds the egg by two fingers, as if it were a card deck in a magic show.
“It’s an egg. I see it,” I say. “What are you going to do? Make it disappear?”
“No. Welcome to Las Vegas, Hannah. I’m initiating you into the sweltering furnace. The summer is yet to come, it only gets hotter from here. Just watch and pay attention. Are you hungry?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I’m flipping hot.”
“I’m going to fry you an egg, Vegas style.”
Hudson hands me his phone and pulls out a spatula from his back pocket. “Your job is to keep the video on the egg.”
Hudson clears his throat and points his finger as if he is the director of a film, and I hit Record. “I’m Hudson Wagner and I’m standing on the sidewalk in sunny Las Vegas, Nevada. For your viewing pleasure, we are going to see if it is indeed hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. Sin City is breaking records today, hitting 112 degrees. So, the question becomes, is it hot enough to fry an egg?” Hudson cracks the egg with one hand and we both watch the gooey liquid hit the concrete sidewalk. “Yes, folks, the concrete is probably registering hotter than 112; more like 117. The concrete absorbs the heat from all these monstrous steel buildings you see all around us. But, as you can see, the egg white is cooking instantly, with the yolk running a distant second.”
Sizzling, the egg is frying on the sidewalk.
“Next, I’m going to flip the egg with a cooking spatula, because Hannah here wants her eggs over easy.” I laugh and the phone shakes. Hudson places the shiny spatula on the concrete and gets under the egg and flips it. It is cooked, almost burnt at the edges.
“There you have it, folks: that’s how hot it is here in sunny Las Vegas. You can fry an egg in under ninety seconds.”
I turn the video off and a strange sound comes out. One of Sunday’s laughs, my head goes back, and the laugh builds deep inside my chest bubbling out. An old friend reminding me of the old me with Jack.
“Hudson, you crack me up.”
We both double over.
Hudson has a way about him.
It is more than his trivial knowledge of famous people’s first jobs. His glass is always half full, and if he senses you are down and weary, with solid determination it is his mission to make you smile. He is one of a kind.
My second shift starts and I’m actually joyful on the inside, genuinely smiling because of Hudson. I am no longer pitying myself for not being a typical teenager in the summer before my senior year. It is enough, for this moment.
The double shift night drags on until my favorite customer comes in.
“Hi, Ward, the usual?”
“Good evening, dear Bridget. Tonight, I am going to have a drink for my friend, Bud.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Is Bud here?”
“I’m sure he is, but not that you and I can see him. I feel him, though. I think he is watching over us. Bud died last week.” Ward pauses and swallows, and his voice becomes softer. “He drank Dewar’s and water, so give me one of those.”
“Coors and a water?” I ask.
Ward chuckles. “No. Dewar’s is a Scotch whiskey. Bud’s favorite beverage. That feisty Irishman.”
His white hair and cornflower-blue eyes are a compliment to his sweet demeanor. Ward said he was originally from the cornfields of Iowa. I imagine he once had blonde locks with his eyes the color of the Iowa sky.
“I’m sorry, Ward. Was he sick?”
“Nope, a car accident on the 95. They think he might have had a stroke. My son is handling his affairs.”
“I’m so sorry, Ward.” His friend had obviously meant a great deal to him.
“Thank you, my dear. So, tonight I’m going to celebrate Bud.”
“I’m sure he would like that. Let me know when you need another.”
“Will do. I’m playing his favorite machine, ‘Stinkin’ Rich.’ He used to always tell me when we were garbage men together: ‘Don’t worry, brother, things are going to change, and I will be stinkin’ rich. That’s why I always play it.’”
“Well, good luck for Bud.” I smile and mean it.
Ward sits in front of the machine called “Stinkin’ Rich” for hours. I bring him another Scotch as soon as his glass is empty.
I know loss. The shooting comes back in a flashback. It happens like that; one thing triggers a flash of terror. I envision the Hard Liquor Boys and the Dream Team floating in the bloody river in Pennsylvania. The vicious, violent images always lurk in the back of my mind, just waiting for a trigger to show up. I grind my teeth together and work my section harder, repeatedly yelling, “Cocktails, soda, drinks!”
About an hour later, I walk over to Ward to bring him one more Dewar’s, I hear the cheering and whistles and see several people holding up their phones. “What happened?” I ask the man in the back of the crowd of patrons blocking my path to deliver my drink.
“Some guy just hit the jackpot! A big one.”
I make my way through the crowd. There’s Ward sitting at the “Stinkin’ Rich” machine as it flashes revolving red and green lights, the loud music repeating its happy obnoxious tune, the melody of a winner.
“Ward, what did you hit?” I ask.
“I hit it all, Bridget! I’m stinkin’ rich!” His blue eyes shine with moisture, his mouth turned up in a huge smile of disbelief. I walk over to pat him on the arm. He holds my arm for a second to stay and pulls out his wallet and counts out ten hundred-dollar bills and hands them to me. Future gold. “This one’s from me and Bud.”
I can feel a hundred eyes on me and see people with their phones out. Casino security is shutting them down, yelling, “No photographs please, cameras are not allowed on the casino floor.”
Ward did it! He did it in the biggest way, a casino fairytale that patrons pass around faster than a fire. Ward hit the jackpot, the biggest progressive jackpot the Magic Hat (or even MGM, whom George bought the machine from) had ever seen. It’s the Mother Lode: 1.575 million dollars all with a push of a button on a video screen. The flashes and music keep playing as I throw my head back, laughing, and hugging Ward. Another Sunday laugh bubbles out. Finally someone won other than the house.
Yelling and banging came from Slimy George’s office.
The casino hums in chatter and hyped-up energy. All night, there’s chatter that the progressive jackpot was only meant to draw the slot machine players in, like a fake bone for a dog, something to chew on, but not to ever pay off.
“Apparently, George flipped his desk and threw the chair into the wall. He might lose his position of general manager over such a big payoff. Who knows, it could possibly bankrupt the Magic Hat,” Nell says to me as we pass by each other. Patrons keep feeding their dollars in the machines, spurred on by Ward’s magic luck.
My mind is cheering for Ward and doing back flips. Maybe now Magic Hat will not have the money for the dancing cages. Oh, what a night!
Hudson joins the crowd for a quick moment, catching my eye. I still clutch the ten hundred-dollar bills tight in my hand.
“1.5 million, that’s cray cray!” Hudson is electrified. “Your garbage man wins! Did he give you that?”
I nod, still speechless.
“What an awesome tip he gave you. That will help your shoebox money. Are you sure your friend isn’t a Tommy Glenn Carmichael?”
“Who is Tommy Glenn Carmichael?”
“He invented the light wand, which was a way to blind a sensor inside the slots, causing it to pay out. His first job was as a garbage man.”
“Seriously, how do you know all this?”
“It’s all part of my education into the rich and famous,” he says, and laughs. “So, where are we celebrating?” Hudson believes in the Las Vegas destiny. The city of second chances. He also believes good luck strikes three times in a row.
Chapter 20
Old School Minute, Vegas Wildlife, and Flip-Flop Flasks
Hudson, playing tour guide again, leans against the wall as I end my shift. He sports a beat-up black UNLV baseball hat and holey black t-shirt and a black backpack he bought at a thrift store. With little money, he is still cool. As we leave the casino together, I wonder what adventure he’s conjured up. He pulls me on a bus, dumps the money in the fare slot and doesn’t speak as we ride along the busy streets of Vegas. As the bus comes to a halt, and other folks board, he grabs my hand and we exit at the Sunset Park bus stop. Sunset Park, one of the largest parks in Las Vegas, according to Hudson, showcases a lake in the middle of the desert.
“It’s closed,” I say.
The hours are clearly posted at the entrance to the park: 6 a.m. – 11 p.m. The very last thing I need is to get arrested for breaking and entering.
“Not really, not technically closed. Follow me.”
I hesitate, my feet stuck in place.
“Trust me, it will be okay,” he says.
No way. Breaking the law is the last thing I need.
Hudson walks toward the tree line of the park. This is my should-I-stay-or-should-I-go moment. Sunday is always cautious and calculated every step, every day, but perhaps Hannah can be a little more daring.
Trees and darkness ignite my memories. My mind flashes back to the awful night I slept in the woods in Pennsylvania. That night of no return. My special place comes into focus in my mind. Maryland, my daily ritual of walking down to my tree lined creek and sitting on the bank. My safe spot.
Perhaps I need to take a step out of the hot concrete jungle of Vegas. Inhale the masculine scent of the woods. Lost in my memories, before I notice, Hudson has contorted his lean muscles through a hole in the enclosure. He is inside in less than a minute, motioning me to slide in between the fence line and a large pine tree.
The earthy smell beckons me. An enormous towering tree makes up part of the perimeter fence. Not one of the massive hardwoods like back East, but a tree, nonetheless. Nature. I trust my gut and squeeze into the opening. Hudson grabs my hand and pulls me through. In a matter of seconds, the tree coverage voids the light pollution of the city. My eyes begin to adjust to a night not illuminated by the neon of Vegas. Hudson, warm and sweaty, wraps his fingers around mine, and continues to pull me along until we come up to an opening in the dense thicket. He points and puts his finger to his lips. Movement, water, a small lake or a pond is in front of us. Hudson plops down on the ground at the edge of the tree line, the shadows still cover our silhouettes.
“No one will bother us here and we won’t disturb anyone.” Hudson’s white teeth glow in the light of the moon. He extracts two small shot glasses and sets them on the ground. He then proceeds to pull off one flip-flop with his right hand and with his left he reaches into his pocket and removes a tiny funnel.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Just watch.”
He inserts the funnel into the heel of the flip-flop and pours liquid from a hidden flask in the heel, filling each shot glass to the top. “Let’s have a toast.” Hudson grins as though he had just performed magic.
“What is it?” I do not pick up the glass.
“Captain Morgan Spiced Rum. Have you had it before?”
His sandals have a flask in the heel and now he wants me to drink it? I lift it up to my nose and automatically grimace. The biting scent climbs inside my nostrils.
I’m not sure why people drink alcohol. It can’t be the taste, or at least what I’ve tasted as I remember the bitter olives from Tyler’s martini. I shake it out of my head. I don’t want to go there.
Do they really want to turn mean and ugly? I’m sure somebody gets cute and happy, but not me. It has never been my thing. Marcia and Ed allowed Jack and Tara to try alcohol as long as they did so at home, but I never liked the flavor of it. One whiff—I gag. My nose smells HE, and the memory of his sour breath hot on my face makes me queasy. The red smoldering tip of a cigarette an inch from my face.
I’ve tried it. Jack and I snuck four wine coolers out to the creek one night, and they made me sleepy. I know I’ll probably get around to liking it at some point in my life, but right now, I don’t need drinking. I’m wrapped up in enough illegal deeds for the moment.
“You haven’t even sipped it yet,” he says.
I laugh, unsure what to do. “I guess I’m not much of a drinker.”
Hudson pulls a Coke out of his backpack. “It’s a little warm but try taking a swig of this after you down the shot.” Hudson picks up both shot glasses and hands one to me. “To the luckiest cocktail waitress in the Magic Hat Casino.” Hudson looks me straight in the eye and says, “Shoot it down fast.”
He swallows the brown liquid in one gulp, and for whatever reason, I copy his motions. I almost gag immediately as the sweet bitter flavor warms my throat and trickles the whole way down my esophagus. Hudson hands me the Coke.
The park is intimately quiet, the buzzing of the Strip faintly plays in the background. The twilight cast shadows on the desert and branches of the trees, a radiance of light ripples on the lake. Through the darkness, the illusion of the holes of light poke through the trees, spotlighting sections of nature. It makes me think of the Pennsylvania woods the night of the shooting.
Ding. My phone flashes light and dings. I have a message. I don’t want to think about Amir. I want to grab my phone and hide it.
“Turn it off.”
“Why?”
“As my mom always said, ‘Look up and around.’ She’s a big fan of the no phone zone.”
I reach inside to silence my phone.
“Turn the power off. Be without technology for an hour. Free yourself.” Hudson tilts his head to the sky. “My mother always talked about the days when people had to use payphones. I can’t imagine, but it sounds sort of freeing.”
“You’re so old school, Hudson. I never see you on your phone. I like that.”
Hudson has a stick and digs in the dirt. “Yeah? I think I was born too late. I should have been born 30 years ago.”
“Well, then, I would have never met you.”
“That’s true. You think you’re going to hang around for a while?” He scrapes the dirt to draw the letter “H.”
It’s a good question. One I don’t really know how to answer. With Amir coming to Vegas, my future is unclear. I lift my shoulders and sigh. “I’m thinking maybe for a little while longer, unless I have to dance at the Magic Hat. I’m not dancing. I mean, I’m definitely not dancing in a cage.”
Hudson smirks. “George is a wacko. Who needs danci
ng girls in cages?” Hudson continues, “Although, you would draw quite a crowd.”
I hit him on the arm, ignoring his laughter. The current from his arm to my hand silences me. I cross my arms. “How’s the summer session going at UNLV?”
“Not bad. The most decent thing about it is my psychology class. The teacher is pretty cool; makes it interesting.”
“I can’t wait to start school. I just need to save up some more cash and who knows, maybe I can take a few classes in the fall. Psychology sounds interesting,” I say, thinking about all the people from my past I could psychoanalyze.
“Well Miss Big Time Winner, you got a $1,000 scholarship tonight, which is worth toasting.” Hudson is back to pouring the brown liquid into two more shots from his flip-flop. “Yeah, now you just need a few more.” Hudson hands me the shot glass and hold his glass up in a toast.
“The scholarship or the shot?” I ask amazed at how much liquor the flip-flop flask holds.
“Yes.” Hudson smirks. “Here’s to the Hannah Williams Scholarship Fund.”
Why not? The second shot slides down a little bit smoother, still fiery in my chest. I gulp the sweet sugar of the Coke, trying to wash out the fuzziness of my mind.
I hear the rustle of branches behind me, my head turns, and for a moment I am transported back to my special place near the creek. Back home, it would be Amir sitting in the tree line watching me. I was never alarmed. But this can’t be Amir. He wasn’t due to show up for a week.
Hudson places his hand on my arm, and, with his eyes, he silences me and I freeze in place, my heartbeat getting louder.
He mouths, “Don’t move.”
My eyes widen in question. I can’t imagine what will happen if we get arrested for trespassing. IS trespassing a misdemeanor? I certainly don’t want to spend my newly acquired fortune on a fine or, worse yet, bail money. Why did I drink? Nothing good ever happens when you drink. I don’t want to look around me and see the bad that is coming.