The Five Drunks You Meet in VegasA Story by Shannon See Title
Talking loudly, he tells his phone and most of his fellow passengers, "I got the good sessions, but the hotel isn't up to par....(snort)...Ya I'll get a few rounds in".
He laments the legroom, the air quality and the lack of drink service before takeoff, then ends his call. The Convention Attendee, a business man from some unnamed company, sporting a crumpled suit coat. Probably accustomed to taking business class and either the economic downturn, or some other individual circumstances, have lead to him being closer to the back of the plane. He thumbs his call button, catches the flight attendant' eye, holds up his empty glass, requesting "Another".
You notice flight attendant deftly switching him to doubles. She winks at you as she removes his last drink from his sleeping hand. Convention Attendee quietly snores the rest of the trip, waking after the plane lands to stagger into the airport. *** “Don ya jus’ hateit wan peple wearashir’ an’ prolydonevenno the ban’”, Last Decade’s Frat Boy slurs as he slumps himself next to you on a casino bench, breathing cheap beer in your face. You quickly decipher, 'Don’t you just hate it when people wear a t-shirt and probably don’t even know the band?', as he tilts his head in the direction of a young woman with her considerable assets on display in what might be the remnants of a vintage Skid Row t-shirt. You ponder why he might have chosen you to engage in this conversation with, as you survey your plain, dumpy, middle aged self and his aging frat boy persona, complete with backwards cap, trendy sunglasses, and beer can in hand. Seems like a harmless conversation, so you tell him you and your husband went to see Def Leppard the night before. His eyes widen, he lifts his hand expectantly and exclaims “Dude!”. You decide 'why not?' and give him the requested high five. He asks about other 'old rock band concerts', making you chuckle: he has no idea he has just called you old. Many of your replies are followed by a round of “Dude!” and a high five. By the time your husband arrives, Frat Boy is sprawled out on the bench beside you. Husband has a question in his eyes, combined with familiar amusement. You tell your temporary companion you are moving on. Frat boy leaps to his feet, surprisingly quickly, as he is pretty tipsy, raises his had towards husband: “Dude, cool wife!”. They, too, share a high five before Frat Boy head back to the flashing of the slot machines. *** The Fremont Street Wanderer, a Vegas local or at least a current resident. He is wearing a pair of jeans, coated with a layer of brown Vegas dust, and shoes that were probably once white. You flinch when you notice he has no shirt on; he also has red, tangled curls and freckled skin. The white skin of shoulders is in danger of a serious burn in the blistering heat. As he lurches towards you, his eyes light up “Sis’er” he mumbles, then louder: “Sister”. You pause briefly to greet him. He tells you that you must be siblings of sorts, aren’t all red heads related somehow? You laugh, “We must have a common ancestor”. When Wanderer reaches for you arm, you decide its time to continue down the street. He follows you, words running together with 'sis’er' eventually becoming the only discernible. A few stores later, security personnel intercept and begin to move him on his way. He tries one last time “Sister, please look!” You look. He his pulling the waist band down on his jeans. Sigh, why did you look? But as you turn away, you see what he is trying to show you. A birth mark that looks remarkably like the one on the elbow he tried to touch earlier, just beneath his waist band on his hip. “Yes, pretty well the same” you acknowledge.
He smiles brightly at you and stumbles away down the street. *** The Girl’s Weekend Away Crew, must be 6 of them. Giggling, carrying pastel colored slushy drinks. They ask if some of them can sit at your table to watch a free show just outside the bar. Of course, you agree. One asks “Where are you from?” You tell them, to be met with blank stares, so you add “Canada”. “My friend James lives in Ontario!” “Are you from Ontario?” “She’s from Ontario?” “That’s like an hour from where I live!” “The Ontario in Canada, not California”. “Oh, that’s far from where I live”. “I love Canadians”. The Girls tell you about all the fun drinks they have consumed, that they are childhood friends, in Vegas to celebrate; everyone turns 30 this year. You wish them all happy birthdays, earning you a whoop and an offer (demand) to clink glasses.
You never do tell them you live 2000 km from Ontario. *** Talkative Bus Passenger, chatting animatedly with a mother and daughter from the South. Finding out the best things they have seen and done in Vegas, asking a bit about where they are from. After several moments, your husband leans close to tease “You are the Vegas drunk now, honey”. You shrug him off and continue your conversation about sweet potato pie with the woman and daughter, before his comment fully sinks into your fuzzy brain. Grinning, you apologize to the pair. They laugh, soft sounds coloured by their accents. “You're fine.” You proceed to regale them with tales of the drunks you have met in Vegas. © 2016 ShannonAuthor's Note
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Added on July 6, 2016Last Updated on September 11, 2016 Author
ShannonCanadaAboutI like to explore the world through the human experience, at once both varied and singular. Reading, writing and meeting people makes one's world larger. I enjoy connecting with people, learning.. more..Writing
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