The three of us packed ourselves into the white Chevy and drove to Las Vegas for New Year's Eve. We were excited to spend the night among the throngs of revelers in the City of Sin for we carrier ours like badges upon a Girl Scout sash. We met our other friends at the time share we shared on the strip. It was somewhere among Caesars and MGM and New York, New York. We were in the heart of it all and ready to ride the veins and arteries out into the meat and muscle.
I threw a little eye liner and shadow celebrating the freedom promised in billboards and commercials: "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas". My friends put on their New Year's best, and we departed.
We ended up at Barbary Coast hoping for a piece of San Francisco. The light spun and the clank of the slot machines echoed. My friends grabbed a table and I rushed to the bar wanting something to dull the excessiveness.
"We don't serve your kind here," the bartender barked.
"What" was all I could muster.
"You're kind. We don't serve it," he replied without even looking at me.
An argument or a fight wasn't in me. I turned around and returned to my friends asking them to please leave. They pressed me for what happened.
"Not right now," I said. "Once we're outside."
They kept pressing so I finally told them what happened. They were ready for a fight. I begged them just to leave. Finally, we were out in the snow among the other revelers.
As we walked through the streets "Fucking faggot" kept anonymously reaching my ears whispered by people we passed.
"I'm going back to the room. Can I grab someone's key?" I asked after some back and fort with my friends, all straight, about how I should have stood up for myself.
"We can all go back," one of them replied.
"No. I'm fine. I just want to be away from everyone." My depression settling in.
"No. We'll come with you," another said.
We pressed our way through the crowd and midnight struck.
A few years later one of my friends on the trip asked me why I didn't do anything.
"Honey," I retorted. "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."
As we walked through the streets "Fucking faggot" kept anonymously reaching my ears whispered by people we passed.
"I'm going back to the room. Can I grab someone's key?" I asked after some back and fort with my friends, all straight, about how I should have stood up for myself.
"We can all go back," one of them replied.
"No. I'm fine. I just want to be away from everyone." My depression settling in.
"No. We'll come with you," another said.
We pressed our way through the crowd and midnight struck.
A few years later one of my friends on the trip asked me why I didn't do anything.
"Honey," I retorted. "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."
lol, I really like the ending. very mysterious.
ReplyDeleteThanks formysake. =) I've never been back.
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