Las Vegas

He wears his uniform; Docker shorts that are the same as his other leisure pants, but cut off above the knee.
He wears them too high, accentuating his already too large ass.
He wears a proper belt in them.
The shirt is always a golf shirt, neatly tucked in.
His hair is short and clean and since he is on vacation he wears white socks and white sneakers.

She is fat and dresses for comfort.
Once out of the air-conditioned hotel, she immediately starts to sweat in the desert heat.
She thinks no one notices but I can imagine the tiny beads of sweat bubbling up from her armpits where her pink, sausage-arms begin and between her legs, where her husband only fucks her on Saturday nights, after three shots of Jack Daniels.
He will be thinking of Jennifer Aniston.

They don’t walk.
It is more like a wobble,a stumble.
Their steps are unsure.
They look like sedated cows, not knowing that they are being led to the slaughterhouse.

In Las Vegas everything proceeds perfectly to plan.
All the staff in all the hotels and casinos and shops and restaurants follow their script with understated courtesy.
They speak only when spoken to as the herd must not be unnecessarily distracted from its purpose.

Once their performance is completed, the staff withdraws into the background where they stand eying the tourists like benevolent spiders.

The elevator that takes me to my room on the 32nd floor is fast and silent.
It doesn’t stop too abruptly to give you that queasy feeling in your stomach.
It stops perfectly and the doors open quietly and smoothly.
My bath is comfortable.
It has a sliding end so my neck is not at an odd angle.

Outside, on the strip, the cows stumble by, confused at what to gaze at.
There is so much to see.There is a fake Eiffel tower (no need to go to France).
A man takes a picture of a fake Gondola.
No one smiles.
No one is happy.
But this is where they are supposed to go on vacation.
They don’t mind not being happy, because it is comforting to be led around by billboards and the ever-present friendly staff.
They don’t mind losing their money in the casinos, because that is what you are supposed to do.
They drink exactly as much as they do at home but here it is a wonderful vice, not a shameful secret.

At night, the same cows shuffle along the strip, the hot dessert air, like a giant blow drier, stinging their eyes.
Their senses are numbed to almost nothing by the assault of the lights and the incessant ringing of the slot machines.

In the morning this macabre parade will start again like clockwork.

I write a postcard to Morrissey: “How I dearly wish I was not here.”

I wait for that crazy Arab man. You know the one.
The one we are all anxiously awaiting. The one with the ticking suitcase.
If he must come then I hope he comes here.
And when he opens his suitcase the desert will be quiet again under the immense, beautiful, blue sky.