2006

Vegas

            Like a cat stalking prey, an unseen camera crept silently along the bathroom floor, careful not to make a sound as it cautiously approached the giant porcelain shell.  Steam rose noiselessly from within the gilded bathroom’s custom tub, as did the wispy white that arose from a bejeweled cigarette holder – which Alan held nonchalantly over the left side of the bathtub.  From the camera’s point of view, Alan’s body was hidden, but his presence was obvious from the occasional splash of water.  The cigarette disappeared momentarily, but then quietly returned to its original position; a long, deep exhale was heard as smoke intertwined with the steam, lingering in the air.

            A cell phone rang.

            The cigarette was placed into a prismatic ashtray before the water gurgled, and Alan’s left hand reached for the phone on the basin’s right side.  His phone was next to a drink.  The hand disappeared from view as the cell flipped open. 

“Hello?”

            “…This is a collect call from inmate – Patrick Tyler – in the Las Vegas county Correctional Department…to accept charges, press one…”

            Alan did as he was told. 

“…Please hold for inmate…”

The voice in the speaker was frantic – “Alan?  Alan, is that y-you?” Patrick’s words were so stressed, their cadence resonated throughout the bathroom’s walls and floor.  It’s recipient’s however, was not –

“Hey, buddy!  How ya’ holdin’ up in there?”  

 “Alan, w-w-what happened?  After we talked, you were supposed to go right to Bob’s!  You promised – right to Bob’s office!  You were sup-p-posed to bring him the suitcases.  That was three days ago, Alan!  Bob just came to see me now, and he said he hasn’t heard from you!” –

“Alan,” – the voice was desperate – “What happened!?”

            Another mushroom of smoke was exhaled while Alan replaced the burning cigarette into the ashtray.  Water burbled as a body shifted within the tub.  “Well, I’ve got some bad news for you, buddy,” Alan told him, almost proudly. “I kinda’ wrecked your car.”  He reached for his drink – a triple scotch on the rocks – with the hand that had just held his smoke. 

“We had an accident.  Right after we left the parking lot.”

“What!?” Patrick was flabbergasted.  He shrunk against a dirty concrete wall as a tattooed Latino walked past, wearing an orange jumpsuit.  The gang-banger gave him a look – I’ll do you right now, maricón – causing the gay prisoner to shrink even further.  Instinctively, he covered his mouthpiece for privacy –

            “Alan, what happened?” 

            The tub sloshed with the bloop of displaced water, when Alan replaced his drink onto the ornamental table – inadvertently squeaking his rubber ducky.  Hot bubbles slopped onto the floor as he pulled himself to the basin’s edge, leaning over with his phone.  His right arm was in a cast, his face was red and burned, and his visible eye was nearly swollen shut.  But he definitely had a sense of humor about everything.

            “You want to know what happened, Pat?  Do you reeeeeally want to know what happened?  All right, then – I’ll tell you –

“And it goes a little something like this…”

            *  *  *  *  *

            “ALAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNN!” Stephanie screamed in the passenger seat, loud enough to momentarily blind him.  But that blindness only lasted for a second, just long enough to destroy his timing – causing the Cadillac to careen into oncoming traffic, swerving over and over and over again. 

The big engine roared when its driver instinctively overcorrected, wrenching the steering wheel left.  Approaching hoods, grilles, and bumpers suddenly filled Alan’s windshield; they blasted their horns in a terrified chorus, as oncoming vehicles veered both left and right in a frantic effort to get out of the way.   

The Eldorado lurched sideways, throwing itself into the correct two lanes of speeding vehicles.  But as Alan had startled the traffic pattern, the only path to safety was to turn hard, right, now.  Gasping for air, he floored the accelerator and aimed for the far right curb, slamming Patrick’s car into the concrete guard wall –

But they were far from safe.

The windows went bright orange as the Caddy’s exterior paint was ground to cinders.  Stephanie’s face – frozen in a silent scream – now looked like a howling cat in profile; it had become a petrified black silhouette against a background of hot, torrential, almost-fluid like…fire. 

Alan overcompensated again, jerking left in terror.  The NorthStar took the lead and attempted to join the traffic flow, but as panicked drivers were now trying to save themselves, Alan saw nothing but a dangerous, moving asteroid field, and his car was a Millennium Falcon. 

The stress, however, was clear in his voice –

“GUINEVERE, HOLD ON!”

Car horns wailed and tires squealed in protest when the damaged Cadillac ricocheted off the wall like an Olympic bobsled.  Frantic drivers did their best to clear a path, but their efforts left a trail of dangerous debris, as unsecured cargo went airborne, flying like lost hubcaps.  Stephanie covered her ears when their windshield was violently attacked by suitcases, sports equipment, and a ladder that left deep cracks on impact.  A hideous metallic crunch echoed throughout the passenger cabin, as the Caddy bulldozed a flying, spinning bicycle, dragging it briefly when caught by the undercarriage, triggering the dashboard’s ABS light.

CLANG!

CLANG!

CLANG! went a dolly, before slamming into the Eldorado’s hood, then scraping over its roof, and rolling into the rear-view mirror.  An SUV swung hard left up ahead which caused its door to fly open, spilling a trail of rolling groceries onto the fast-moving pavement.  The bucking Cadillac was now pummeled a second time, as cans of peas and jars of salsa reduced the windshield to a testament in safety glass.  The dashboard lit up like Christmas tree lights:

Ding! – ENGINE COOLANT TEMP

Ding! – OIL PRESSURE

Ding! – TRACTION CONTROL

Ding! – SERVICE ENGINE SOON

The NorthStar cried in pain as Alan’s hand flailed for the windshield wipers.  The rubber blades grimaced against the broken glass, while angry drivers shouted from all directions, enough to snap Alan into the present.  As the green LED’s grew desperate – ENGINE OVERHEATED, STOP ENGINE NOW – he squinted for some sort of exit.  There was a blurry sign approaching, but his vision was far too emotional to make out specifics.   But he knew where it pointed – GO THIS WAY – and he knew that meant survival, a way to get off the road both quickly and safely. 

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee –

KA-CLUNK!

An ominous shudder marked the pistons seizing, and the tachometer falling from red.  The speedometer immediately followed suit, albeit a little slower, and a chill shot up Alan’s spine on realizing that like merging into traffic, speed was crucial for getting out of this situation –

I’m not going to make it!

But a voice in his head spoke with chilling calm:

Remember…Cadillac engines have a failsafe for emergency.  In the event of coolant failure, rather than blowing gaskets, the NorthStar is designed to enter “Limp Mode,” providing the driver with just enough power to find help from another.

As his speed dropped from 65 to 60, Alan white-knuckled one last barrage of horns and insults, while fast-banking right, onto the off-ramp’s safety.  He had absolutely no idea where the hell he was, but he could tell he was now within the old part of Las Vegas because the 1950s-era ramp was sharp and required a 90 degree turn.  A 15MPH sign approached, and his anxiety quelled just enough to hear Stephanie’s distant sobbing. 

She can wait, he thought, quickly applying the brakes.

CLANG! – But the speed-sign landed squarely on the windshield in front of her.

Their brakes had failed completely.

*  *  *  *  *

The billboard was hideous, absolutely…hideous.

It was two-stories tall, mechanized like a bad casino’s, and shaped like a woman doing sexual jumping jacks, with flashing red lights on her tits & twat.  She resembled those big-breasted silhouettes one often sees on mud flaps, in chrome, on a semi, taking pigs to slaughter…and stinking of shit as they pass you, causing Interstate drivers to shut the AC.  She was an ad for Dysthymia, some sort of topless hell-bar two lights down from the left, and as Alan frantically tried to take the turn like a toboggan, the Cadillac went airborne, its speed causing it to jump the curb and…fly.

*  *  *  *

From a distance, it all looked like a movie stunt: 

A smoking car goes sailing over a cliff, then collides with a tacky billboard, slicing it in half.  The shot goes slow-motion – like a fight scene from The Matrix – and as the sign’s top goes one way, the bottom goes another…all while keeping the car in the middle, like an aerial sandwich.  Both the head, boobs, and arms spin one way, while the crotch, legs, and heels spin another. 

The camera then pulls back to reveal a much larger perspective: as if it all wasn’t bad enough already, the floating car is actually above a big hole in the ground, and in this particular case, it’s an excavation site for a long-forgotten gambling complex.

*  *  *  *  *

A decade’s worth of erosion had softened the crater’s sharp edges into a sharp, gradual slope.  The Caddy hit the incline HARD, then sailed downward, trailing dust like a snow skier’s wake.  The construction project had clearly gotten started in the 90s, with just enough funding to dig a hole, pour a floor, and embed the structure’s basement support pillars into concrete.  But then the funding dried up, and what lay ahead was an unfinished labyrinth of crumbling obstacles, and dangerous vertical rebar beams, just waiting to impale, like a Pygmies’ buried bamboo trap.

Though its NorthStar had died, the Cadillac still had momentum, and it sailed deep into the crater at a speed close to 50.  The rebar came up fast, and there was no way to steer and absolutely no way to brake. 

Both Alan and Stephanie instinctively went into fetal position.

By some act of God, at the very last possible moment, the car clipped a rusty metal pillar, causing it to avoid a total front-end collision.  Like a runaway ramp – the pile of emergency gravel used to stop endangered trucks on mountains – the white Eldorado slammed hood ornament-first into a pile of rocks, sand, and bricks, bringing it to a sudden stop, amidst a cloud of expanding dust, causing its air bags to deploy.

Its radio popped on unexpectedly – “Baby, baby, I’m taken with the notion…”

But then it stopped with a bzzt, just as quickly.

The billboard’s lower half – the legs, crotch, and heels – landed just behind the wreck, upside down, in the dirt.

Silence as the dust settled.

Time passed.

*  *  *  *  *

Silence.

Alan forced the driver’s side door open.

Silence.

He stumbled out of the car, falling a few feet to the dust.

Silence.

His face now red from air bag chemicals, he staggered around the pile of shit, and climbed up to the passenger door.  He saw Stephanie inside.  She was unconscious.  He tried to open the door with both hands, but the unibody had been pinched, and the door wouldn’t open.

Silence.

He looked around frantically, searching for something to leverage.

Silence.

He found it – a piece of broken rebar.

Silence, except for footsteps on gravel.

Slamming the rebar into the totaled Cadillac, he wrenched the door free, pulling it open with a creak.  Steph was still trapped in the seat belt.

Silence.

Locating a piece of broken glass, Alan hurriedly sawed through the nylon belt, allowing the girl to fall into his arms.  He took her away quickly, fearing the car might explode, then laid her like Abraham’s son onto a sun-burnt, sideways Port-O-Potty, and tapped at her red face desperately –  

“Stephanie!?  Stephanie!  C’mon, Stephanie…wake up!”

No response.

Silence.

“Stephanie, Wake Up!” he shouted, his voice echoing within the quarry-sized hole.  No response, so he screamed again.  ‘STEPHANIE, WAKE UP!”

Silence.

Stumbling back from the unresponsive girl, Alan looked around; he wondered why their horrific accident hadn’t attracted anyone’s attention. 

We just wrecked our fucking car.  How did no one hear that?

But still, silence…

He returned to the girl.  He hesitated, but then slapped her face –

“STEPHANIE, WAKE UP!”

Silence.

Slap! –

“STEPHANIE, WAKE UP!”

No response, despite repeated tries.  And no worried passerby, either.

Silence.

Alan heard an eagle screech above, from somewhere behind the blinding sun.

Silence.

Staggering backwards, Alan covered his mouth with his bleeding hand.  He didn’t know what to do, right now.  And his mind was spinning in circles with confusion, as the camera went round and round him, as though emphasizing his desperation by showing viewers how alone he really was.  He was in the very heart of goddamn fuckin’ Las Vegas, yet nobody had seen the accident, so no one was there to respond.

Silence.

Steph’s body now lay on a dirty fuckin’ Port-o-Potty, and if Alan didn’t do something soon, she’d be gone forever…just like her mother.  So, he tried the only thing left in the arsenal –

“Help,” he croaked, at first too soft to hear.

But then he fell to his knees and screamed –

“HELP!,” he cried – “I NEED SOMEBODY’S HELP!”

He inhaled as deeply as he could, then opened his arms to fill his lungs to capacity.  Alan wanted – no, needed – for his voice to travel outside the unfinished casino foundation.  It was the only way he might get Stephanie the medical attention she clearly and desperately needed.

“HELP!  I NEED HELP! PLEASE, I NEED SOMEBODY TO HELP ME!  I’M OVER HERE! I’M RIGHT HERE, RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU…IN THE CASINO HOLE … AND IT’S NOT A HOLE, IT’S JUST…IT’S JUST…IT’S JUST A LITTLE DEPRESS”- his voice trailed off –

“…un!”

It’s just a little depression.

But his words echoed in the

Silence.

Buzzards circled as he waited; it was clear that no one was coming.  So, Alan did what he needed to do to help Guinevere’s memory survive.

Slap!  “Stephanie, wake up!” Alan shouted, now standing above her.  Slap!  Slap!  Slap! – “WAKE UP!”

Silence.

“STEPH, I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP!”

Silence.

Gravel was disturbed as Alan stood erect, then attempted to perform CPR – That’s what you do, right?  With palm over palm, he frantically tried to pump life into the young girl’s chest, but, like his cry for help, he got no response.

Shit!

His breath now coming in short, fast gasps, he ripped Stephanie’s lavender blouse open, popping buttons in the process.  Her nipples were now exposed, revealing the tiny beginnings of what would eventually become his Schnookums’ bosom, and his back arched in hesitation – What if someone sees this? This is child porn.

No, Alan, just use CPR to save her life, a voice in his head told him.

Turning away, Alan pumped hard with his palms and forced air into her lungs, inhaling on the young girl’s lips, as though it were a kiss.  But it wasn’t working.

This is not the time to worry about how you might look.

Silence…

Alan’s eyes shot back and forth, in a complete and total act of desperation.  He was hyperventilating now, as though his own life was far less important than the one he was saving, a life that was his responsibility – and his responsibility alone.

And then he screamed –

“PLEASE, SOMEBODY…

HELP ME!”

But, his cry was met with silence.

Unbeknownst to Alan, behind, over his shoulders, the giant billboard legs literally farted fire; their mechanized taint had finally succumbed to its situation, and like a dying NorthStar, the sign’s female pleasure palace was in the throws of death.  The pussy queefed flames while the legs fell open to the limits of their design.  The red crotch light honked one last, final gaseous time, before the billboard’s ad exploded, sending billowing clouds of black into the air, getting people’s attention  –

“Hey everyone, look!  Her taint is on fire!”

As passerby ran towards the depression, Alan’s eyes frantically searched for something – anything – to bring Stephanie back to life.  His eyes quickly settled on a stoner’s forgotten pint of Bud, which he immediately grabbed and twisted open, splashing its sun-bleached contents over the dying girl’s face and chest.  As he waited, the footsteps came up fast behind him.

“Steph!  Wake UP!  C’mon, Steph…Wake UP!”

More Bud, more touching, more exposed breasts…

“Stephanie…WAKE UP!”

The young girl stirred slightly.

“Stephanie?” Alan begged, hopeful.

“What the FUCK are you doing to HER?” the first footsteps demanded, yanking him to his feet by his collar.  From the footsteps’ point of view, Alan had been leaning over an underage girl with her shirt ripped open, pouring beer over her body, trying to kiss her. 

“You fucking PERVERT!”

Alan protested, but a fist to the eye brought his world to BLACK –

*  *  *  *  *

“…BUT not before I fell backwards when he hit me.” Alan told Patrick on the jail phone, “and then I landed with a goddamn piece of rebar in between my ulna and radius.”  He added, “And then the jackass HIT me in the face.  Even after he broke my arm.”

Silence.

Patrick, in lockup, didn’t know what to say.

“You there?” Alan asked, now drying his hair in a towel.

Silence.

“Yes, Alan, I’m here,” Patrick told him, cautiously.

“So, that’s what happened,” Alan explained, drying his ears.  “So, please forgive me if I’ve been a little busy to go to Bob’s.  But I will tomorrow.  I promise you that.”

Patrick cleared his throat.

“You promise?” he asked.

“I promise,” Alan said, coming into the kitchen.  His wallet was on the counter, bulging with yellow tickets, including reckless driving and property damage.  Considering the commotion he’d caused on the street, he’d be sitting in the cell next to Patrick himself had the officers not taken pity on Stephanie’s recent loss, and the fact no other cars had been damaged.  Thank God he hadn’t started drinking yet.

“Very honestly, it looks like I need a lawyer myself.”

Next Chapter: Yummy, Yummy, Yummy