What Happens in Vegas...

Issac gagged on the cloud of cigarette smoke as an Elvis impersonator sauntered into the elevator. He returned the portly man’s nod and then tried to avoid eye contact. A moment later he was hypnotized by the fake sideburns peeling off of the man’s sweaty temples. One of the mutton chops broke free and spiraled to the stark white floor of the elevator.

“Hey, buddy,” the supposed King of Rock and Roll said in a cheap Tennessee drawl. A short-fingered hand felt the bare side of his red face. “Could ya get that for me?”

“No problem,” Issac replied in concealed disgust. He bent awkwardly at the waist to grab the sideburn, then straightened mechanically and offered the pathetic thing out between his bony thumb and index finger. Elvis snatched it and smoothed it down again at an impossible angle.

“Thank you. Thank you very much,” Elvis said. Issac rolled his eyes behind the man’s back. “I can’t bend down anymore on account of my lower back pains.” His loose stance degenerated into the twist for emphasis, sequined cape swishing.

Issac didn’t reply, but pulled at the collar of his polo shirt and watched the primitive digital display above the door tick off the floors: 17 – 16 – 15… He could see the smoke wafting from the stub in Elvis’ left hand.

“So, you work as an Elvis impersonator,” he finally remarked.

“I’m an historian,” Elvis corrected him. “I re-enact the history of rock and roll every forty-five minutes next door at the San Remo Hotel.”

“That sounds really interesting,” Isaac said vaguely, still watching the display as if he could accelerate the elevator by sheer willpower. “Have you done it for a long time?”

“Ever since I retired,” Elvis said. He took a long breath of his cigarette, which he held casually in his open left hand. “I used to be a high school teacher.”

“Really,” Isaac said, genuinely surprised. He was sorry for the children he’d probably ruined. “What did you teach?”

“I taught calculus,” Elvis said, blowing a jet of smoke at his reflection in the buffed brass door. “So, what brings you to our oasis in the desert?”

“I came with some friends of mine for Spring Break,” Isaac admitted reluctantly. “But they told me that we were going to Vail.”

“Who needs snow when you can have that view?” Elvis said, turning around and gesturing out the glass wall of the elevator. Isaac squinted at the green walls of the MGM Grand across the street and then down onto Tropicana Avenue, where traffic trying to merge onto I-15 was backed up for blocks. Rapidly, the rental cars and white taxis became bigger as the elevator screeched to the ground level.
The door slid open and Isaac seized the opportunity to dodge out into a passing crowd of mostly middle-aged men in Hawaiian shirts.

“Wait,” Elvis called after him. “I didn’t get your name!”

Isaac drifted aimlessly with the crowd until he saw his roommate, Mike, about to fall head first into a slot machine. He wove through the crowd until he reached the surface and half-dove out of the churning mass.

“Where have you been, Mike?” Isaac asked. Mike continued to stare at the nickel slot as if stalking his prey.

“Shhh,” Mike cautioned his uptight roommate. He stroked his red sideburns and scratched at the five o’clock shadow creeping across his freckled face. “I’m really close to breaking-even. I can feel it.” He squinted down at a roll of coins and pulled out a dollar’s worth of Jefferson portraits. Greedily, he popped them into the slot and pulled the handle. When it stopped spinning, Mike’s smile turned into a frown of frustration. Another dollar had disappeared, never to be seen again. Isaac had a feeling that he’d be paying for gas for the drive home.

“I really thought I could feel that one,” Mike said to himself consolingly. “Well, I guess the longer I play the better chance I have of winning.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Isaac quipped. At least it wasn’t his money.

“If you won’t, I will,” Mike said, reaching again for the roll of nickels.

“God, it’s really hot in here, even with the A/C,” Isaac said, pulling at the collar of his light blue polo shirt. Mike didn’t answer; he was too busy mindlessly plugging his hard-earned money into the black hole. “I didn’t pack for this weather. You said we were going skiing.” The guilt trip wasn’t working.

“Get some ice water,” Mike suggested. “There’s a bar right over there.” He pointed out a dark alcove nestled in the corner about twenty feet away.

“Great idea,” Isaac said sarcastically. He hoped that no one would steal the new skis he had tied to the roof rack of their car. He could imagine how tempting they must look, glimmering in the hot desert sunlight in front of the casino.

He stepped into the bar, which stretched off into the black abyss and hopped up onto a stool. He surveyed the long, narrow space, with cheesy wood paneled walls and a flat screen TV mounted above the bar, replaying the de la Hoya – Vargas fight. When he looked down from the boxing match, he met the drunken gaze of an old man with bloodshot eyes and immediately took to studying the wood grain of the bar. He tried to look busy, tracing the wave of the grain and the carved profanities in the wood with his index finger. He only succeeded in looking like a drunk.

“What can I get you?” a voice above him asked. Isaac peered up at the bartender through his glasses. He was a man in his mid forties with a fleeing hairline, a grey-brown moustache and cold blue eyes. “You look like you’ve already had too many.”
“I’d like a glass of water…on the rocks,” he ordered, calling up some drinking vocabulary from the deep “useless trivia” recess of his mind.

“I’m gonna have to see some ID, kid,” the bartender said. Isaac’s hand had already grasped his wallet before he realized that it was a joke. He tucked the leather wallet back into the front pocket of his khaki trousers and forced a little chuckle.

“You look like a snow bird,” the bartender said, clinking the short glass of water down on a clean napkin. “Where you from?”

“I go to the university in Greeley,” Isaac said after a greedy chug of water that sent his pronounced Adam’s apple bobbing wildly.

“Nice skiing up near there,” the bartender observed. He reached in front of the drunken old man and snatched up his half-drained glass of whisky. The old man reached for it like an infant for a favorite toy, then slumped down onto the mahogany counter.

“Yeah,” Isaac said. He gulped down the rest of his ice water and pushed the glass forward for a refill. He was suddenly made aware of sticky sweat between his shoulder blades as he lifted his elbows onto the bar. “I didn’t know it would be so warm here,” he added.

“It’s a warm spring for us,” the bartender agreed, pushing a new glass of water back. He unbuttoned the collar of his pale green shirt and pulled the white undershirt up with a practiced tug to ventilate his chest. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Isaac,” the college kid answered.

“Pleasure, Isaac,” the bartender said, extending a hairy hand. Isaac shook it and was startled by the older man’s grip. “I’m Jim.”

Isaac dumped the water down his throat and gasped for air as he handed it back to Jim. A few seconds later it was back, brimming with metallic-tasting tap water. It was like a ping pong match in slow motion.

“My son goes to Santa Barbara,” Jim said, leaning on the bar. “He wants to go into law, but I’m not sure he’ll be able to handle it. I don’t think he’ll be able to stand being around all those stiffs.”

Isaac bristled. He gulped his water, but not nearly as eagerly as before. He could feel it dribble down his throat and slosh around in his stomach.

“So,” Jim said amiably. “What do you study, kid?”

“Law,” Issac answered unenthusiastically.

“Oh,” Jim said, looking away. “Sorry about that. I’m usually more tight-lipped. One wrong word with this crowd,” he went on, gesturing at the old man mumbling into his elbow. “And they could kill you…or worse.” Isaac didn’t want to know what was worse than being murdered and Jim didn’t seem keen on elaborating.

“It’s alright,” Isaac said. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard plenty of lawyer jokes from Mike, an art major.

“Well,” Jim tried to press ahead. He made eye contact with Isaac. His eyes were tired, yet there was a glimmer of intelligence and mischievousness as well. “Set me straight. I assume you’re not all as boring as you’re painted out to be.”

Isaac thought about it, but couldn’t think of much. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to a party or ditched school or spoken to a girl.

“Well,” the young man started. “I stole my roommate’s socks once.”

He looked down at the counter, that pool of reflection that has tormented thousands of more adventurous men, and shook his head dejectedly.

“I think you need a drink,” Jim said, sensing Isaac’s depressed mood.

“No, thanks,” Isaac replied. “I don’t drink. Alcohol doesn’t sit well with me.”

“That’s too bad,” Jim said, shaking his head so that his wispy hair fluttered back and forth like the fronds of a palm tree. “It does wonders for me.” At this, he turned to the glass shelves behind him and returned with a bottle of tequila and a shot glass. He poured himself a shot with dead inaccuracy, spilling a few drops of the caramel-colored liquid onto the thirsty mahogany.

“That might be my problem,” Isaac observed as he watched Jim swallow the tequila with a quick tip of the head. “I don’t drink, I don’t gamble, I don’t take risks.”

“Doesn’t sound like a life worth living,” Jim said, becoming philosophical as the alcohol wormed its way between his brain cells. “You should try something spontaneous, dangerous, crazy. You’d be surprised how fun it is.” He chuckled strangely at some fond memory.

“You’re probably right,” Isaac agreed. He watched in childlike wonder as Jim poured himself another shot. He felt as if he was drinking, too. The idea of doing something off-the-cuff was intoxicating.

“So,” Jim said, raising the brimming shot glass so that it was caught in a radiant shaft of sunlight from the casino. “Would you like that drink after all?”

“No, thank you,” Isaac said. He stared down into his nearly empty glass. He swirled the ice cubes around on a thin lubricant of water. He’d like to do something a little crazy. No one would expect it, least of all himself.

“I used to be like you,” Jim said. “I never did anything fun. Straight and narrow for years. Then I got divorced and got smart.” He noticed the law student’s empty glass and took it for a refill.

“Maybe someday. I’ve got a lot to worry about right now.” A paper was due at the end of break and his laptop was just gathering dust at home.

“Why not right now?” Jim asked. He brandished his empty shot glass. “Take this glass, for instance. Would a boring law student pay for a drink for a bartender he doesn’t even know?”

Isaac wasn’t sure where the conversation was going, but he decided to flow with the current, wherever the older man directed him. There was something about his easygoing speech and the look in his eyes that made you think he understood everything.

“No,” Isaac said. “I don’t buy drinks for strangers.”

“Well, you can start being spontaneous right now.” The bartender smiled again. “That’ll be $7.25.”

Isaac reached for his wallet, not quite sure what he was paying for. He extracted a ten dollar bill and placed it in Jim’s calloused, open palm. Two dollars and three quarters appeared next to his water. He took the change mindlessly and shoved it back into the leather fold.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Jim asked. Isaac shook his head. He was just beginning to realize what had happened.

Jim squinted out of the dark bar at a backlit figure passing the entrance. “Yo, Ron!” he called. The figure stepped in out of the sun. He was a tall black man, at least a head and a half taller than Jim, wearing the tan, short sleeved uniform of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police. His head was shaved and his brown eyes were quick, darting around the bar as if checking to see if it was safe before entering. If he hadn’t been so skinny, he would’ve been a lot more intimidating.

“What’s up, Jim?” Ron asked with a closed-mouth smile. He looked at the dazed college student, who must’ve looked almost as drunk as the old man crying into his sleeve. “Is this boy makin’ trouble?”

“No, he’s fine. But this fella here has had too much.” He pointed at the old man, who popped his head out to look at them with fearful, red-rimmed eyes. “Could you see that he gets back to his hotel?”

Ron nodded and took the old man by the arm. He led him out into the casino and through the meandering schools of tourists, with the man crying pathetically all the way.

Isaac returned to staring at his glass of water. A gust of oven-hot air ruffled his tightly curled, short black hair. He drank the rest of the water to shield him. Jim watched him, his only customer, and seemed to be evaluating him.

“Tell you what, kid,” he started. “Maybe I can help you.”

“Help me?” Isaac replied, raising a cynical eyebrow. He knew a sales pitch when he heard one.

“Yeah,” Jim smiled and looked down at something under the counter. “I’ve got my lunch break in a few minutes, and if you’re interested, you can come along.”

“Where?”

“Downtown. Just a bit of harmless fun.”

Isaac’s instincts told him to leave as fast as he could. But his curiosity got the better of him. Against everything he stood for and the shrill, screaming voice in the back of his head, he answered, “Sure.”

He wasn’t sure how he’d come to this strange understanding of his incomplete life as he sat in the passenger seat of Jim’s rusted-out, scuffed white Datsun truck. Half an hour ago, he’d been satisfied with his future: finish school, join the family firm, get old, and die rich. Now, he wasn’t sure of anything, only that he was riding into the downtown relics of 1930s Las Vegas.

The neon lights on the towering hotels were turned off and tourists were eagerly flocking into the cool buildings lining Las Vegas Boulevard. Every sun-soaked corner radiated heat waves. He could imagine the town’s brief history from the character of the old casinos – a tale of mobsters and cheating the odds. More than anything, it promoted recklessness and an inborn need for danger.

There was no air conditioning, so the windows were both rolled down, letting a constant flow of hot, dry air swirl around the cab. He squinted up the wide road, strangely free from traffic, and tried to make out the distant monolith of a highway overpass through the shimmering waves of heat that were evaporating off the pavement. A brown paper bag sat on the console between them, with a small bottle tucked inside.

Jim made a U-turn at Carson Avenue, swerving sharply around the median and then cutting across a lane into the parking lot of an insignificant grey building.

“Here we are,” Jim said, his voice harsh and scratchy. As he weaseled into a parking spot near the entrance, Isaac read the green sign perched just below the flat roof – Nevada State Bank.

“Jim,” he asked. His voice betrayed a hint of nervousness that was fluttering inside him. “What are we stopping for?”

“This is it,” he answered. He reached across the young man with a groan and popped open the glove compartment. He grabbed a pair of polarized sunglasses and bit off the tag that encircled the bridge. “Get yourself a pair.”

Isaac did as he was told and pulled out an identical pair of sunglasses. “Jim, what are we doing?”

“I just need a little money, kid. Chill.” He picked up the brown paper bag and pulled the bottle of caramel-colored liquid out. He spun the cap off with one hand, sending it falling onto the seat. He took a long chug, gasped for air, and offered the bottle to Isaac.

“No thanks.”

“Suit yourself. I’m sure as hell gonna need it.” Jim reached into the bag again and pulled out a small handgun. He held it out to Isaac. “Here. It’s all you.”

Isaac blinked stupidly. He had the vague memory of seeing this sort of scene in a movie. “What’s going on?” he asked again. He expected the middle-aged bartender to burst out laughing at his little prank, but Jim’s chiseled visage was serious.

“Come on, kid. I gotta be back at the Tropicana in half an hour. Let’s go.” His grammar was steadily deteriorating and Isaac expected that his brain was following suit. Jim held out the gun again, and Isaac recognized it as a six shot revolver, like the one his father kept in his office. He flipped the chamber open with his thumb to show six shining bullets ready and waiting. He flipped it closed again and held it out in his sweaty palm.

“You’re kidding,” Isaac insisted. He wanted to get back to his hotel room and wondered how he’d ended up here. This was insane.

“No, I’m not,” Jim assured him. “When you’re my age and you’ve been through all the hell I have, you’ll understand.”

Isaac nodded. It was hard to argue with experience. He hung his scratch resistant glasses on the open collar of his polo shirt and put the sunglasses on. He slipped the revolver into his pocket. He felt the scorching steel barrel stick to his wallet and singe his thigh. His darting eyes betrayed his fear.

“Don’t look so worried, kid. What’s the worst that could happen?” Isaac wasn’t sure what could happen. Somehow, he drew courage from Jim’s indifference. “Ya know the ending of Bonnie and Clyde?” the bartender went on.

“I never saw it,” Isaac said innocently. He wasn’t a real movie person. Or any kind of person, for that matter.

“Good,” Jim said, nodding his approval. “Good.” He took another swig of the bottle and looked back at Isaac with wandering eyes. “Don’t drink, kid. It never did nobody no good.” Jim opened his door, slipping the sunglasses over his ears and nearly poking an eye out. “It’s time.”

Isaac lost all free will. He followed the pied piper around the corner of the building and through the glass double doors. He wasn’t conscious of what was happening until he passed through the second set of double doors, into a grey, marbled room of cold air and artificial potted shrubs.

“I can’t do this,” Isaac whispered.

“You’ll do fine,” Jim belched. They got in line and waited as inconspicuously as possible.

“Hey, Isaac!” a voice behind to him said.

Isaac twitched in surprise, and then froze, as if the source of the voice would go away without seeing him. A hand tapped his shoulder and he spun on his heel to face his roommate, Mike.

“Nice shades,” Mike said, giving him a thumbs-up. Red stubble had sprouted on his chin in the thirty minutes since Isaac had last seen him.

He suppressed his urge to scream and somehow kept his voice from cracking. He glanced at Jim, standing to his left. The bartender cocked his head toward Mike. Isaac took that as meaning, “Talk to him and make it quick.”

“What are you doing here?” Isaac asked. Mike grinned sheepishly. He pointed at his cargo pockets, turned inside out, hanging limply. The rolls of coins they had been stuffed with were long gone.

“I’m out of money, and I can’t find another bank to save my soul.”

Isaac was speechless. He was about ready to pull the gun on Mike to make him leave, but he saw the burly guards on either side watching him. Their faces were drawn into perpetual scowls, like overgrown children whose faces had gotten stuck that way. Isaac knew that a witness who knew his name would condemn him.

“So, what are you doin’ here?” Mike asked. He leaned over to whisper. “And who’s the creepy old guy?”

Isaac stuttered and tried to lie, a skill he had never possessed. Luckily, he was saved by another voice.

“Next,” a female voice called. “Gentlemen, I can help you here.”

Jim nodded to him and started up to the teller, a pretty young woman in a dress suit and a brown bun that was unraveling. Isaac turned away from Mike and followed Jim.

“How may I help you?” the teller asked kindly. An empty cup of Starbucks coffee rested on the counter next to her computer. Isaac was dumbfounded and felt nervously for the gun in his pocket.

“Well,” Jim urged him as he stroked his moustache. “Why don’t you tell her, kid?”
Isaac jerked the gun out of his pocket and leaned in close to the counter, so that only she could see it. “I want the money in your cash register, please,” he said in a choked whisper. His trigger hand twitched nervously.

The teller’s eyes widened, but she kept quiet. She slipped a hand under the counter.
“Don’t press that button,” Jim said menacingly. “My friend here won’t take kindly to a bunch of cops burstin’ in here.” The kindly bartender had vanished, replaced by this homicidal madman with inhuman grey blue eyes. She gulped.

“It’s too late,” she said. She flinched, expecting the shaky young man to shoot her. Isaac lowered the gun.

“Is this what happened in Bonnie and Clyde?” he hissed at Jim over his shoulder.

“Just get the money and we can still get outta here. Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“Okay,” Isaac conceded. There seemed to be no other choice.

“Hand her the paper bag,” Jim instructed calmly, as if he robbed a bank every day.

“What paper bag?”

“The one I brought,” Jim said through gritted teeth. The horrible realization dawned on them.

“The one you left in the truck?!” Isaac said. He rolled his eyes in disbelief. “Do you have a plan B?”

“Run like hell!” Jim whispered. The older man spun and tried to run for the door, but the afternoon’s drinks sent him staggering into the line of customers.
Isaac ran around the line, tossing the gun up behind him and screaming bloody murder. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the security guards charge him with what was probably two hundred pounds of pure muscle.

Jim, meanwhile, had pushed his way through the crowd and stolen Mike’s wallet. Isaac’s roommate started to claw through the crowd after him, yelling about a Baskin Robbins coupon that hadn’t expired yet.

The guard pushed off the ground and flew headlong at Isaac with his arms outstretched and his teeth clenched. Jim slid into the man before he crushed Isaac. The two smacked into the ground and slammed the cringing student into the glass doors marked “Pull”.

A moment later, Jim pulled him up by his collar and pushed him out the doors. The two unlikely thieves stumbled out into the blinding midday sun and tried to see the car in the sea of shining steel and glass. Isaac attempted to shake the dizziness blurring his vision.

Sirens sounded up the road. Isaac located the truck and made a break for it, dragging Jim behind. Jim wrenched the driver’s door open and revved the little engine. Isaac jumped in and snapped the seat belt.

Jim put the Datsun in reverse as the sirens came closer and closer, echoing off the towering hotels. The truck then lurched uncomfortably into drive and Jim stomped the gas, throwing them into the street and straight into an arriving squad car. The two cars slid into the median with the horrible sound of wrenching metal.

“Oops,” Jim said. He began to laugh.

Isaac must’ve blacked out when they crashed, because the next thing he knew, a pair of cold steel handcuffs zipped shut around his wrists. He was jerked around to face an officer who started to read him his Miranda Rights. It was Ron.

“I don’t know how you dragged my man Jim into this,” the cop said when he was done, squinting down at the sorry would-be bank robber. “But I’ll make sure you go down.”

Isaac wanted to look at the tall, rail thin man and explain that he was a victim, but he was interrupted by a scream.

Mike was behind the police line, screaming and swearing at a short, stocky female officer who was trying to hold him back. “Where’s my wallet?!” he screamed. “My bank card’s in it! And some great coupons!! Let me at him!!!”

Mike screamed until his voice cracked, which was the same time that the officer got tired of fighting him and sprayed him in the eyes with pepper spray. He dropped onto his knees and looked up at the cloudless sky with bloodshot eyes blinded with sizzling tears and screamed at the top of his lungs like a little girl.

Ron directed Isaac toward one of the squad cars. The sunlight caught the letters LVMPD painted on the side and reflected them right into Isaac’s eyes. He looked up at a slender palm tree growing out of the sidewalk up the street. Its stiff, pale green fronds whispered slightly in a gathering warm breeze and scratched on the dried leaves that hung shriveled from the top of the trunk. He drank in all the details, knowing that he might not see another palm tree for many years.

Isaac was booked into the downtown detention center and after being thoroughly searched, he was shoved into one of the low security cells. The guard on duty just looked at the pale, foiled robber and smirked. Issac examined his brand new polo shirt. It was ruined - stained with blood and dirt. His back ached fiercely.

“Dammit, Jim,” he cursed, pounding one of the chipped, white bars with the fleshy part of his fist. He bit his lip and shook his throbbing hand to keep from howling.

“Why on earth did I listen to you?!” he yelled at the bartender, who was still being strip-searched on the other end of the building.

He turned away from the guard, whose hand was now hovering over his holstered handgun, and slid down onto the off-white cement floor.

A pair of blue suede shoes wobbled into view in front of him. He reached for the glasses on his collar, only to find that he’d lost them somewhere between the bank and here.

Looking up at his cellmate, he could just make out a pair of white bellbottoms, a white sequined cape, and a white, high collared shirt completely unbuttoned to reveal a sickly, pale white chest carpeted with grey hair and a flabby, round stomach that flopped over his wide belt.

With dread, he continued up to Elvis’ swollen red face. He smiled idiotically and squinted with eyes that swam in tequila. Every breath was laden with hard alcohol.

“Fancy meetin’ you here,” Elvis slurred, his tongue slipping out from behind a massive overbite. “What’re ya in for?”

Isaac stared at his scuffed dress shoes. His life was over. No law school would ever take him. “So much for law school,” he sighed.

“They’ll be letting me out in the morning. Just a little DUI,” Elvis gabbed on. Then, he seemed to pick up Isaac’s comment. “It isn’t so bad. Think of all the money you’ll save on tuition.”

Isaac didn’t bother responding. His could see his future now: barbed wire and orange jumpsuits. He grabbed Elvis’ discarded tray of mashed potatoes from where they lay to his left and started to scarf them down savagely, letting globs of butter spill down his chin and onto his once spotless khaki trousers.

“There’s plenty to look forward to here,” Elvis continued. “You can learn how to make license plates.”

Isaac let the styrofoam tray drop to the floor. He was suddenly extremely thirsty. "I could use a drink," he said.