I Hate Las Vegas

I hate Las Vegas.

Las Vegas smells like dusty vel­vet the color of dried blood. It smells like watered-​​down drinks and ash­trays with day-​​old cig­a­rette butts, once wet by spit ner­vously licked over cracked lips as hands, too fuck­ing steady for the task required of them, pushed the mort­gage check to the dealer. It’s a town built on los­ing streaks. It is always night in Las Vegas. Even when the desert sun makes you sweat and the dry, dusty air wicks the sweat off your skin while it still forms, it is still night. It is a town where show­girls get ordained and per­form wed­dings between gigs.

Step­ping through the doors at the gate at McCar­ran. Curs­ing the kink in my upper back from hav­ing been squeezed in between two men my size. Smelling the famil­iar stench of gam­bling; even the smoke-​​free air­port smells like cig­a­rettes. Lis­ten­ing to the slot-​​machines in the gate with their lights, screwed tighter than a nun’s behind because only tourists will use those things. Not one self-​​respecting local will touch them because they are there for the recent arrivals with too many in-​​flight drinks in their blood and too much money burn­ing in their pock­ets and they are there for the departers that fig­ure, “What the hell; might as well…”

It would be a shame to screw up a depar­ture with an ill-​​timed win. Screw­ing them tight is the humane thing to do, really.

Look­ing through the win­dows west and north, tak­ing in the sea of light, the casi­nos fuck­ing the air with their tow­ers and weird shapes. I smile. Even though all I want is to turn around and fly back to the shirt I left behind because, well, I wore it and it smells like me, it is good to be back.

Las Vegas gets into your blood. I know this town. Yes, I hate it. But I love it too.