LEAVING LAS VEGAS
I was late and my driver left without me. I get into the back of a Yellow and Black cab. “Where to?” the chick behind the wheel asks, pulling off into Vegas traffic.
“Anywhere but here. And preferably a place that doesn’t have weddings. I don’t have a lot of luck in the wedding department.”
A half hour later I sit at the retro-styled bar at The Jester’s Court – a drag bar close to the airport – and nurse my drink. My hand shakes a little less with each cocktail. A Gaga impersonator lip-synchs on stage and maybe I’ve completely lost my mind because I think she’s pretty good.
“Sweet Jesus, your night has been caterwampus,” the husky Jayne Mansfield impersonator says from behind the bar, sliding a cocktail in my direction. “Tell me that part again, honey. The part with all the men.”
I grimace and take a slug of my drink. “I just walked out on Dylan, the guy I’m in love with, and I’m standing there in the middle of the lobby and my hair is gone, poof, vanished,” I say, running a hand through my layered short hair.
“Poof, vanished.” She pats her wig nervously. “Were you growing your hair a long time?”
“Since I was thirteen years old.” I reach for the basket of chips, shove one in my mouth and chew it half-heartedly. “This has no taste.”
“They never do, honey. You’ve got to go to the good bars for taste. Not the ones close to the airport.”
“Fuck me.”
“I wish I could sugar, but it’s just not my thing. Please don’t be mad. But I do have a sympathetic ear. Tell me more. It’s good to get it off your chest.”
I take another sip of liquid courage. “I’m standing there watching this wedding about ready to go down and suddenly I realize I’m in the middle of the wedding of the boy I thought I was going to marry someday.”
Her hand flies dramatically to her mouth. “The same boy you ran over eleven years earlier?”
I nod.
“Oh honey, that’s so messed up,” She reaches over and pats my forearm. “Tell me more about the hot, angry brother.”
“Easton? He’s angry all right.” I throw back the rest of my drink and a shot of anger courses through me. I pull a fifty from my wallet, throw it on the bar, and stand up. “I never said he was hot. We good?”
“Yes. Change?” she asks.
“Keep it.” I look at my watch and pull the handle of my carry on bag up with a snap.
“Good luck to you, honey,” she says and clears my drink off the bar.
“Thanks.”
“Sugar!” she calls after me.
“What?”
“You forgot to tell me the rest of the story about the hot, angry brother.”
“I never said Easton was hot. Besides, I’m sick and fucking tired of people ordering me around. Sick and tired of people thinking they know what’s right for me. Sending me away, cutting my hair, acting like they own me.”
“They don’t own you,” she says pointing a finger at me.
“They. Don’t. Own. Me.” I jab a finger back, punctuating each word. “I’m the only person who owns me.”
“That’s right, sugar.”
“And in regards to Easton Wolfe? As far as I’m concerned, Easton Wolfe can go fuck himself. Hard.”
She applauds. “Preach.”
I walk out the door because I’ve got a red-eye to catch and tonight can’t get any suckier.