Gaudy buildings line up like crooked teeth behind the man in the gold glasses. His name is Caleb Tanner, 36, and he stands on the damp street in front of a shoddy Go-Go Bar. Light washes over his face in blues, purples, reds; a rippling reflection dances across the large frames. He dabs a bit of sweat from his brow as he stares at the marquee in front of him: “WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS…” lights up one letter at a time. He flicks the cigarette out of his left hand as his boots click slowly towards the entrance. A bouncer lifts a velvet rope and he slides inside the door. A vein in his temple seems to throb along with the shitty music they're playing. His head is likewise throbbing, the trips are starting to get to him. He’s nervous about this place, hot over forgetting what might happen here, later. A feeling of dread balls up in the pit of his stomach. Dancers line up like shiny pieces of taffy inside, the darkness conceals the dust in the corners and the spilled drinks on the floor. Everything is cheap, crushed velvet and baptized in neon lights. He never wears these jeans. They’re not really his thing, with holes at the knees. A graphic tee sits half-tucked at the top of the imposter pants, a black blazer works hard to indicate that the man in the gold glasses is cool, whatever the hell that means. He’s a stranger in that place, but I guess in a way they’ll all be strangers to that place soon. A girl comes out from a door near the back, he guesses that she dances here, and he's right. He watches her skate up to one of the circular stages and climb on, lights bouncing off her dark skin, a deep pool reflecting the moon. He can feel the drab walls of the bar vow silence in her presence. She grooves to the bumping music. He studies her hair, curling up around her head like a halo. Funky Mother Mary. He fingers the box of cigarettes in his breast pocket and fidgets one out. She’s the prettiest one, that girl with the halo hair. “Want a drink before you go, stranger?” The voice surprises him from behind the bar. It’s obvious he’s passing through. Sweat dots Caleb's forehead again, but he’s too anxious to wipe it away. “I’ll have a whiskey,” Caleb replies nervously. He doesn't drink. The voice from behind the bar belongs to an older man. He’s sure the bartender has seen a lot of strangers pass through. Hell, he may have seen Caleb a time or two. Caleb wants to ask but can't bring himself to do it. The man sets the drink down in front of him.
“You here to remember or forget?” The old man’s eyes manage to connect with the younger man's wavering gaze and Caleb feels something. The naive voice in his head aches to call the feeling “memory” but he knows it wasn’t that. Like everything else about this place, the feeling was deeper than just memory. It meant something to him, this girl, this place. “I’m not sure yet. Probably a little of both.” Caleb responded, looking back at Mother Mary, who was laughing as she spun on her podium. It was almost time for him to leave. He’d been looking for something in this Hell-hole of a city all day, and the pit in his stomach told him that it was this, that it was her. He had to go, he had to be back in Reno by the morning and his plane was leaving soon and the next one wouldn't leave until tomorrow. Nancy would kill him if he stayed more than a day, she was sick of this "Las Vegas bullshit" as it was. The plane tickets were outrageous, but that was the only way he could get in now. He downs his drink, shoves the cigarettes back in his pocket and heads for the door. He's turned before he sees her, a statue on her podium. The girl with the halo hair gazes after him as he leaves, but doesn’t move. Her foot pressed into the floor so hard she can feel her nail digging into the leather toe of the boot. The muscles in her calf twitch as she's stalled there, feeling the eyes of the old man at the bar keeping her from breaking through the door. Caleb’s eyes are blurry as he walks out into the wet street and drives to the airport in his rental car. Boarding the plane is tortuous, as it probably always is. At least it is from Reno to Vegas. He’s done this enough times to where he’s actually starting to recognize the hostesses from when he wakes in Reno. The same perky, bright faces explaining why he's missing a day, or sometimes more than a day, out of his life. They're friendly, but indifferent, with colorful earbuds hanging around their necks by rubber cords. He’s in his seat, relieved to be back in his normal clothes. No more holes. “Welcome aboard Las Vegas Airlines!” A friendly voice chirps over the plane speaker. A perky brunette is at the front, earbuds firmly in place and holding a small microphone, smiling with every one of her teeth. "We hope you enjoyed your stay in our wonderful home. Please make yourself comfortable as we prepare to cross the city limits shortly after take-off. Our hostesses are standing by to ease any confusion or distress that may occur during the process that makes our city so very special. As always, remember: ‘What Happens in Vegas!’” Her hand lifts in a brief wave as a ringing sound pierces through the plane. The voice abruptly cuts off as the passengers heads roll gently to the side; peacefully vacant and heading back to their every day lives.