Las Vegas Beckons Still
(Travel Memoir from 1976)
Essays
04/11/06
Delicately balanced on the edge of madness, Las
Vegas jumps and rolls to the rhythm of clicking dice, she clanks
and groans in one-armed bandit deceit – enticing Jezebel she
whirls in neon dance and we love her, want to be a part of her -
or hate her – there is no middle ground.
Smoldering in the sun, she opens her arms, and embraced we
become burnt offerings to the illusion. Truths and lies are
abandoned; they do not matter here. We care only for the escape,
the cool cleansing of all gray thoughts. We are not 9 to 5
machines here in Alice’s land; the Doormouse doesn’t sneer when
we drink, and love, and laugh too much. We, the transient
children, weave delicate webs where we can stay awhile, and Las
Vegas shimmers with millions of golden threads. The play is all
too real.
Vegas is a microcosm, a mirror of our society; when we look hard
we will inevitably look away. From young girl’s bare thighs and
lost eyes to the hard-edged smirking of the jaded casino dealer,
there is much of this make believe world we cannot bear to know.
The desperate runners wear paths from the MGM Grande to Caesar’s
Palace to The Silverbird, to the Hilton, and to every other last
chance casino on the strip. We all join the race knowing that to
pause would be dangerous. We know that night will make us
winners or losers, and yet somehow we’re all the same. The play
is all too real.
Frank Sinatra sings “I Did It My Way” – we wonder what he did
and watch as the ballroom fills, bursting at the seams with
awestruck travelers from the real world, transplanted now into
one big fantasyland. Buddy Hackett makes them laugh and the
barelegged, bare-bosomed young ladies dance up a storm.
Entertainment! Laughter and tears. We are all applauding the
entertainers who are there on stages for us. Giddy and
hypnotized our hands hurt from clapping so much. Bring on the
champagne! Entertain us some more, we cry as the credit cards
slap on tables and diamond dinner rings blind us, and someone at
the next table is talking too loud. It’s getting later. We’re
looking too closely now. The Cigarette Girl has flabby thighs
and rings under her eyes; we think she should be more beautiful
as she slithers between crowded tables disappearing in a cloud
of smoke. A loser cries two tables to our left, gets up and
walks away in despair. We look away again. The play is all too
real.
The green felt battles are over and all the stars have gone to
bed. The morning has come and jolted us with bright sun shocks.
We order room service, eat quickly, and check out. Our cabby
smells of cheap cigars and drones on in monotone – we get the
goodbye pitch. We’re relieved when he finally drops us at the
airport. Glad and sad to be leaving. Las Vegas has made us
ambivalent about a lot of things.
We passed Susie’s School for Showgirls along our route and are
still silently wondering about that as we board the 747. The New
Yorkers, Torontonians, Vancouverites, and Dawson Creekers are
airborne. We chat and laugh together. The Vegas experience has
eliminated strangers. We chant “turn this jet around and take us
back to Vegas”. But inside we know we are afraid. We want to go
home to green lawns and orderly lives. Or do we? The play was
all too real.
The cabby picks up new arrivals at Gate 2. He’s giving them his
monotone pitch. Welcome to Las Vegas! He looks in his rear view
mirror and smiles at their wide expectant eyes, then leads them
past the Doormouse to the neon warmth of Alice, and her
friends…waiting.