What Stays in Vegas (3 page)

"Three months, good sir," I said, then regretted it.  Who says "good sir?"  19th century British shopkeepers, that's who.   These are the reasons I'm still single.

Nick lowered me back to the ground and we stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, just kind of looking at each other.

"Well," I said, backing slowly towards the door.  "I'll see ya soon."  I gave him a little wave and left his office without looking back.

I figured he would just leave my sculptures in the box, but as I walked out to my car I could see him in the window already unpacking them along the sill.  Late afternoon sun glinted off the metal arms and legs.  I knew that I was only leaving for three months, but tears came to my eyes just the same.

Nick looked out into the parking lot and smiled when he spotted me.  Then, I'll be damned - he blew me a kiss.

What on Earth has gotten into that boy? 

I got into my car and started the engine.  Whatever had gotten into him, I tell you this:  if my plane crashes tomorrow, I will die a happy woman.

***

We had been in the air about two hours when I dozed off to whichever Jarvis Brothers movie was being shown on my flight.  I have never been on a flight that wasn’t showing a Jarvis Brothers movie.   You know what I’m talking about.  They make these extremely dumb and unrealistic movies that cause you to feel dumber after you’ve watched them.  This one involved two men running around in a horse costume fooling everybody into thinking they we
re a real horse.  I mean even the veterinarian at the racetrack thought that they were a real horse.  Truly awful, awful, stuff.  I would’ve given anything for Nick or Kara to be sitting beside me, armed with a sarcastic commentary, but all I had was a middle aged man straight out of the Tommy Bahama catalog.  He wasn't half bad looking, but he smelled like an alcoholic. 

"Excuse me," I said, leaning across him to take a glass of red wine from the stewardess.  I settled back in my seat, took a long sip, and closed my eyes. 
Tessa Golden’s Expense Account:  10:30 a.m. in-flight alcoholic beverage.  Check. 

"So," said a voice next to me.  "You traveling for business...or pleasure?"

I opened my eyes to find Tommy Bahama studying me with a disturbing amount of interest.  I was actually pretty surprised he had gone a full two hours before speaking to me.

"Business," I said.  "How about yourself?"

"A little of both.  I'm going to Vegas to be a tooth model at a dental convention."

“A tooth model?”  I asked, trying to appear politely interested. “What exactly does that involve?”  

"Well,” he said,  “for a few hours I just have to lay in a chair with my mouth open and let a bunch of dentists admire my teeth.”  He shifted in his seat to face me, allowing me a full frontal view of his grill.  He had a pretty nice set.

“Really?” I said.  “How’d you manage that?”

“A close friend of mine is this hot shot cosmetic dentist out in California,” he said smugly.  “He does all my dental work for free.”

"You fly to California every time you need dental work?" Sounded like bull shit to me.

"No, he comes out to Boston every so often to visit his family, so we do it then."

"Does he have an office out here?  Or does he just do it in his living room?" 

"Yeah, he's got an office out here."  Tooth Model took a swig of his rum and Coke and checked his watch as if I was the one bothering him. 

"Well, what about just regular cleanings?" I asked.  I was starting to enjoy getting on this guy's nerves.   "Does he do those too?"

"No, he doesn't.  He's too busy to do regular cleanings.  I have another guy for that."  Tooth Model closed his eyes and jammed his seat back into the woman behind him.  I looked around the plane trying to spot an air marshal with a taser, just in case things got weird
.

"Sorry I asked,"  I muttered.  We sat in awkward silence for about three minutes.  Tooth Model let out a long sigh and swished his drink around his precious teeth.

"Well, how about you?" he asked, suddenly speaking to me again.  "What kind of business are you in?"

“I work with engineers," I said.  "We build Wal-Marts and gas stations and, uh, strip clubs.”  I took a long sip of my wine as I spoke the last part of that sentence.

“Strip clubs?  Really?”   Tooth Model sat up a little straighter in his seat.  It figured that would catch his interest.

“Yeah," I said.  "We have this big client called The Jiggly Kitty.  What they try to do is instead of putting up new clubs and pissing off a lot of psycho housewives, they just buy up existing local clubs.
 Then they hire us to help with the remodel."

It's true.  My bosses file zoning
applications, go to town hearings, get their tires slashed, and are quite often told by angry women that we will burn in Hell.  The citizens who are in support of The Jiggly Kitty would never show their faces at a public hearing, not when their wives are the ones leading the revolt. 

“So you’re an engineer?” asked Tooth Model.

“Nah,” I said, a slight wave of shame coursing through me.  “Just a secretary.  I have a Bachelor's degree in Art, but I just kind of ended up, um, here instead.”  I looked out the window and imagined myself jumping out of it, down into the clouds.

“What the
hell’d ya do that for?”

“Major in art? I don't know, I just loved it.
 I used to make stuff out of garbage.  I would spend hours at flea markets just brows -"

“No, I mean why’d you end up a secretary?”

“Oh, I guess I just never figured out anything else to do.  I mean, there isn't much of a market out there for trash sculptures.”   

While I was submersed in the carefree, indulgent, world of college, I spent my weekends in the studio or at flea markets hunting for materials.  I never really thought about what I would do when it all came to an end.  But after graduation the real world became much clearer and my mother’s words came back to haunt me: 
What the heck are you going to do with an art degree?
 

Well, I took my first job as an elementary school art teacher but the little brats made me miserable.

Then I took my second job as an administrative assistant at an insurance agency just to make some money until I could figure things out.  Unfortunately, the more time that passed, the more experience I gained as a secretary, making it harder for me to switch gears and look for a job in the art world.  By the time I was hired by Flamhauser-Geist I realized that I had become rather good at administrative assisting.  I was organized and efficient, I typed letters and made paperclip holders out of paperclips.  Maybe it wasn't so bad. 

“That’s too bad," said Tooth Model.  "You seem like a smart girl."

"Thanks," I said, giving him a genuinely appreciative smile.  Maybe he wasn't as sleazy as I thought.  Maybe -

“So, you want to join the mile high club?”

Maybe I was an excellent judge of character.

I put an immediate end to the conversation by plugging in my headphones and turning my attention back to the movie that was getting increasingly worse.  That’s about when I fell asleep.  The thought that Tooth Model was trying to peer down my shirt was definitely a concern as I drifted off, but it was still better than letting that conversation continue for even another second.

- 4 -

I woke with a jolt to the voice of the captain announcing our descent into Las Vegas.  Temperature:  Eighty-seven degrees.  Skies:  Sunny.  I sat up and looked over at Tooth Model who was trying to persuade the stewardess to bring him one more rum and Coke before we landed.  He flashed her his million dollar grin.  She didn’t stand a chance. 

I leaned forward and looked out at the blue sky, my ears popping slightly.  Before I knew it, there was the Las Vegas strip, growing larger and larger every second.  There was the Luxor, the Bellagio, the Mirage, and way down at the end, the Stratosphere!   A light breeze on the back of my neck startled me and I banged my head into the glass.  I turned to find Tooth Model’s face about three inches away from mine.  The pervert had unbuckled his seat belt and was practically kneeling on the floor next to me.

“That view gets me every time,” he said, letting out a creepy whistle. 

“Sir,
please
, we need everybody in their seats with their seat belts
on
,” said the stewardess.  She handed him what was probably his fifth rum and Coke and hurried off to her own seat at the back of the plane.  Tooth Model swallowed the drink in two gulps.

“You don’t get no reward for trying to be a friendly guy,” he muttered, fastening his seat belt.  He was pretty drunk and I wasn’t too sure what he was talking about, but it didn’t matter.  In a few minutes I would be off the plane, and I was starting to get nervous.

I mentally planned out what I needed to do when I disembarked as this was the first time I had ever traveled alone.  The first thing was to get my luggage, and then pick up the rental car that Flamhauser-Geist had reserved for me.   Then came the worst part, finding my way to the Las Vegas Marriott Suites - my new home for the next three months.  Driving in the city terrifies me.  I have never once driven through Boston.  And now I was in Las Vegas where there would be beautiful people in sports cars and limousines honking at me to get the hell out of the way as I gripped the steering wheel of my un-cool rental sedan.  

I filed off the plane, watching with delight as Tooth Model headed in the direction of the restrooms while I took off the opposite way toward baggage claim.  The airport was busy on a Saturday morning.  Smiling people just starting their vacations criss-crossed paths with glum looking people waiting to head back home.  I gloated to myself as I realized I had three whole months ahead of me before it would be my turn at the departure gate.  I tried not to look too smug as I followed the signs and dodged the crowds.  The sound of slot machines - slot machines at an airport! - rose above the sound of families shouting to each other, which rose above the sound of people shouting into their cell phones.  I felt a bit lonely, having nobody to shout at myself.  But I was soon distracted by the fifteen thousand identical black suitcases coming around the luggage carousel.  I am proud to say, however, that mine was the only one sporting a neon pink Jiggly Kitty luggage tag, just one of the many items you can purchase in The Jiggly Kitty gift shop.  Did I not mention that The Jiggly Kitty has a gift shop?  Not only can you purchase a souvenir luggage tag, but you can also find pens, mugs, t-shirts, and my personal favorite, your very own inflatable Jiggly Kitten.  In an act of pure genius, and blatant sexual harassment, an inflatable Jiggly Kitten had once shown up in Donna Spang’s cubicle.  But I digress. 

I grabbed my bag and made my way to the car rental desk.  A woman whose name tag told me her name was Gem, and that she was from Antigua, awaited me with a smile. 

“Good afternoon ma’am,” she said.  “How may I help you?”

I handed Gem the reservation number that Margaret Sherman had given me before I left work on Friday.  She hadn’t wished me a nice trip or anything, just handed me a piece of paper and told me that if there was a problem she would be out of town.  Gem typed away at her computer.  All I had given her was a nine digit confirmation number, what on earth was she typing?  I’ve typed entire reports and not hit as many keys.  Finally the typing slowed to three second intervals, then five, then she stopped and pushed a form across the counter.

“Okay then, Miss Tessa Golden.” She pointed her pen all around the form as she spoke.  “You have a two door BMW compact convertible in red.”

I choked a little bit.  “BMW convertible?” 

Flamhauser-Geist had never given me so much as a cupcake in appreciation of my four years of service.  There had to be some mistake.  I turned and looked at the line behind me to see if anybody else was hearing this.

“Yes, ma’am, that is what was reserved. I also have a message for you from a Ms. Kendra Stoltz.  It says
Enjoy the Ride. 
If you don’t like red we do have another one available in blue.”

“Um, no, red will be fine,” I said, soaking in what I had just heard.  Flamhauser-Geist had
requested
that I have a red BMW.  What planet had I landed on?  Maybe the plane had crashed.  Was I dead?  Maybe I should go check the news reports.  I mean, sometimes people are dead and don't even realize it until -

“You’re a lucky girl, Miss Golden," said Gem.  "Most companies send their employees off in un-cool sedans.”  She pushed a set of keys across the counter and pointed to the door where my car would be waiting.  I thanked her more times than was necessary and giddily dragged my bags to the exit.    The shock of the desert heat in my face was nothing compared to the shock of seeing a gorgeous, shiny, brand new, red, BMW convertible waiting for me at the curb.  The porter helped me load my bags into the trunk, and then I slid behind the wheel.

I had arrived - and arrived in style.

As it turned out, my rental car came with a GPS, so the directions I had printed out and brought with me were not only unnecessary, but seriously lame.  I threw them on the floor and drove out of the airport, obeying every command of the GPS who I immediately nicknamed Brad.  Brad had a very soothing voice, as if he had been calibrated to instill calm and composure in the midst of the most horrid city traffic.