What Happens in Vegas

by Halliday, Gemma

  “Shipping out?” Moira asks. “Are you sailors?” She’s still looking at Ella like she’s made of hot fudge. Ella seems oblivious. I raise an eyebrow at my friend. I hope she knows what she’s doing.

  “No, silly,” Ella says, hitting Moira on the arm. “They’re showboys.”

  “Marc’s going to Reno.”

  “Oh, poor him.”

  Damn, there’s that guilt again. “Hey, you ladies want to join us?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Okay.” Ella’s eyes light up. Moira looks a little less enthused, but doesn’t say anything. I tap Marc on the shoulder and point to a group of tables in the back. He nods, following behind as we make our way through the dancing crowd. Julio appears a minute later with three martinis in hand.

  “Sorry, boys. The bar’s a mess,” he says, sliding into the seat next to me.

  Julio is tall, dark, handsome and hotter than my mother’s Sunday chili. He’s wearing a pair of uber tight jeans and a Dolce and Gabbana T-shirt I bought him for Christmas. Topped off by a pair of Gucci shades, he looks like a rocks star. Two women at the next table turn their heads as Julio walks by, their eyes lingering on his backside before he slides into his seat. Am I lucky or what?

  “Everyone,” Ella says, “this is Moira Black. She’s shooting an action movie out in the desert. It’s directed by Evan Wilder.”

  “Really?” Marc perks up. “Wilder? I read a review of his latest film in Variety last week. He’s supposed to be like the next Quentin Tarantino or something.”

  “Or something,” Moira says loftily.

  “Wow, I’d love to meet him,” Marc hints. Moira ignores him, taking a sip of her drink.

  But suddenly a plan brews in my mind. One to get that bitch, Guilt, off my back. If Marc were going on to something as fabulous as acting in one of Wilder’s pics, I wouldn’t feel bad one bit about swooping into the lead chorus position he’s left behind.

  “Moira, you think maybe you could get Marc a part?” I ask. “Something little even?”

  Moira snickers, looking Marc up and down. “Can you act?” she asks.

  “Hell yeah, I can act. I’ve been the lead chorus in Jubilee for the last six months.”

  Ouch, rub it in why don’t you, honey.

  “That’s dancing, not acting.”

  “Look, I can act as well as any guy in Hollywood. Check out these pecs.” And I kid you not, Marc rips open his Armani, with complete disregard for the button that pops off near the bottom of the hem. I can’t help the small sigh of regret that escapes me. It’s an Armani, honey, have a little respect.

  But the regret is short lived as I do, in fact, get a look at Marc’s pecs.

  Oh. Em. Gee. Have I been blind the past two years? I stare and wonder how many days a week he works out as he flexes his toned muscles for Moira. She seems unimpressed, but I am damn near drooling. Who could blame me? The man’s chest puts Russell Crowe to shame.

  “Oh, puhlease, honey. You gotta get him something,” I say. “This boy is pure MSM. Movie star material.”

  Ella giggles. “MSM… I like that. I’m going to use that.”

  Fleetingly I wonder how often in daily speak she’ll be able to use the term ‘Movies Star Material’ among her gymboree set, but instead I say, “I’m copyrighting it, honey.”

  “I don’t know,” Moira hedges.

  “Please, I’ll do anything,” Marc begs.

  “Well, I guess I could give Evan your headshot.”

  “Really?” I think maybe Marc is about to have an aneurysm.

  “I can’t promise anything about a part, but I’ll pass it along.”

  “Oh my God. I’m going to work for Evan Wilder!” Marc shouts, doing a whoop and holler thing. Ella giggles again, and I fear whiskey is about to come out her nose.

  Over Marc’s whooping and the techno bass booming on the dance floor, I catch a sound from the next table.

  “We have an audience,” Julio says, nudging me in the ribs.

  I look to see a group of guys in cowboy hats, all three of them staring at Marc’s chest. Only they don’t seem to harbor the same appreciation I do. In fact, the stares on their stubbly faces are downright hostile.

  Natives. The Vegas locals that lived out here in the desert long before the family friendly Strip lit up the night. The kind that usually stay on the fringes of town where people still worship the King with fuzzy velvet wall hangings on the inside of their doublewide trailers. Fleetingly, I wonder how they got into the opening. Let alone what they’re doing this far down the strip.

  “Fuck ‘em,” Marc says, “I’m gonna meet Evan Wilder. I’m throwing a party, and I don’t care who hears.”

  Marc does a Mick Jagger head bob and Ella screeches with laughter. I wonder again how many Manhattans she’s had. Maybe I should order her some coffee.

  “Over here?” I say as a delish Cuban bartender walks by our table. He’s wearing jeans almost as tight as Julio’s and a black T-shirt that says “Back Room” across a quarterback chest. I’d say he’s tasty, but Julio’s sitting right next to me and next to Julio, all men fade in comparison.

  “Can we get some coffee please?” I ask.

  “Sure. Cream or sugar?” comes the reply.

  “Oh baby, he likes it dark and sweet,” Marc says pointing to Julio. Moira laughs out loud, joining Ella’s hysterical giggles.

  The cowboys boys turn our direction again, their collective eyes narrowing.

  “You guys, take it down a few notches,” I say, feeling my face grow red despite my bronzer. Something about the redneck trio is vaguely familiar, and I don’t even want to think about where I might have seen them before.

  Something I don’t often admit is that I am a desert native. I would say Las Vegas native, but I was actually born about fifty miles southwest of here in the Mohave. My dad runs a gas station, and my mom cleans houses for some of the more well off families in the area. Of which there were about ten, since the town population only reached a whopping fifteen hundred. Including the rattlesnakes.

  Growing up, my older brother Dale and I worked at the gas station with my dad after school. On the weekends we went skeet shooting and dirt bike racing and all that macho hoopla that rough neck kids do. I hated it. Well, not all of it, there is a certain thrill to flying through the air on a dirt bike. But I hated all the chest thumping. Yes, we’re all men. Yes, we all have testosterone. I mean, puhlease! How many different ways do we have to prove it?

  And I had to prove it most of all. Because when the other boys were checking out how far they could throw a football, I was checking out the other boys. As soon as I graduated high school I left for Las Vegas and haven’t looked back.

  I look over at the doublewide brothers. They’re settling their check now with the Cuban bartending God, each still keeping one eye on our table and Marc’s semi-buttoned shirt.

  Moira has her hand on Ella’s thigh, but I don’t think Ella even notices anymore, she’s giggling too hard. Marc is trying on Ella’s lipstick, and Julio has his arm possessively draped around my shoulders. I watch the bigger of the three hillbillies gruff mouth the word, “disgusting”, with a backward glance at our table.

  Heat fills my cheeks, and despite telling myself I’m so over the cowering in the closet thing, I shrug Julio’s arm away. I wonder if those guys know my father. If they’ll fill up at his gas station and spill the beans about his queer son. If they’ll go hunting with my brother on the weekends and meet my Mom at the Wal-Mart for a chat about her little boy’s fairyland friends.

  “David, I just thought of something,” Marc says, jarring my attention away from Tumbleweed Joe and the gang. “Now that I’m going to be a big movie star…”

  “Hey, I only said I’d introduce you,” Moira interrupts firmly.

  Marc ignores her. “…the lead chorus position will be open again. I so think it’s yours, David.”

  I can’t help it. I smile. A really big one. “I wouldn’t mind being the lead chorus.”


  “Babe, you were made for that part.” Julio puts his arm around me again.

  “I’m sure I’ll still have to audition, you know,” I say, trying the modesty thing. Even though I’m sure the ear-to-ear grin on my face is killing all attempts.

  “The audition is just a formality.” Marc gestures vigorously with his martini, drops of clear liquid sloshing over the side. “You’re the best damn dancer in the chorus.”

  I am, aren’t I?

  I look from Julio’s adoring gaze to Marc’s glowing compliment to Ella and Moira vigorously nodding their heads in agreement. Okay, I just met Moira so I think she’s probably just agreeing with Ella to make her to forget her husband, but I’ll take the praise anyway.

  Suddenly the judgment of the desert dwellers fades from my mind and I could care less. Regardless of my dirt bike riding past, there is nowhere else I belong more than shiny, shimmery Las Vegas.

  And I so belong in that lead chorus position.

  Chapter Four:

  Ella, the Full House

  “So, did you have fun last night?” Brad walks into the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

  “It was fine,” I say. Which is a flat out lie. Fine doesn’t even begin to describe the night I had. It was almost light outside before David finally dropped me off at home. My hair smells like smoke, and I can still taste the Manhattans on my lips even as I sit here at the breakfast counter in our stucco two-story. But I won’t tell this to Brad.

  “Good,” he says, fairly biting off his words. “I’m glad you got that out of your system.”

  Which is totally uncalled for. How many nights have I sat at home watching Dateline by myself while he’s out at meetings, business conferences, or wining and dining his latest investors? Plenty. But in Brad’s world playing on the Strip just isn’t something that wives do. Especially not the wives of doctors, never mind that Brad is actually a dermatologist, saving the world from wrinkles one chemical peel at a time. No, doctor’s wives should be safely tucked in bed at two in the morning, not waiting downstairs in a red lace Versace for their ride to the latest club opening.

  Which is where I was when Brad came sleepily swaying into the foyer last night. I must have startled him because he stood there with his mouth hanging open for a full three seconds before he said anything. And when he did it sort of came out in a babbling, yelling slur.

  “Where the hell are you going?” I think he started off with, and then it only got worse, progressing to, “Who the hell are you going out with?” and, “What the hell are you wearing?” He even asked me who the hell had bought me that lacey red dress. He didn’t remember that he had on our honeymoon. Of course, in his defense, that was a lifetime ago.

  Brad rinses his cup out in the sink and puts it in the dishwasher. Then he turns to the refrigerator and fixes his tie in the stainless steel reflection.

  “Where are my keys?” he asks, picking up his leather briefcase from the kitchen table. I don’t know why a dermatologist has a briefcase. A medial bag maybe, but I can’t think what he might have in that briefcase. I think it just makes Brad feel important to carry it back and forth from his office at the Rejuviskin clinic.

  “I’m late, Ella. Where the hell are my keys?” he repeats

  “Don’t swear. The babies,” I say, gesturing to Timmy and Benny. Benny drools on his high chair and Timmy throws his hands up in the air, waiting for me to pick him up. I do. And Brad gives me a look.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You shouldn’t baby him.”

  “He’s a baby,” I counter.

  “Where are my keys?” Brad asks slowly and deliberately, as if I hadn’t heard him the first two times.

  “Your keys are on the rack by the door.”

  “No, they are not.”

  “They are on the key rack.”

  “Don’t you think I looked there?”

  I sigh, walk to the key rack, take my husband’s Mercedes keys off, and hold them out to him.

  Brad says, “You moved them.”

  Gee, thanks for finding my keys, honey. I guess I was wrong after all, they were on the key rack. What would I do without you, Ella?

  But of course, I don’t really expect Brad to say this. That would be someone else’s life. Someone else’s marriage. My life is: Husband searches for keys. Wife finds them. Husband blames her losing them in the first place, then goes off to important job while Wife smiles like the lady in the Clorox commercial and pretends to enjoy changing dirty diapers.

  “I’m late. I have to go,” he says. Brad leans down and gives me a dry peck on the cheek as if he’s kissing his Aunt Thelma.

  I love you, Ella. Have a nice day, sweetheart.

  But of course I don’t expect him to say this either. Maybe once upon a time, but now he doesn’t even look at me before he leaves, taking his Mercedes keys and walking out the front door like he’s relieved to be escaping. He heads across the lawn by the flagstone pathway, over the drive to our detached garage, and gets into his silver Mercedes. Brad pulls out onto Yucca Drive and down the street, past all the other houses and all the other wives looking out their front windows as their husbands drive off in their new sports cars to their very important jobs.

  Just like every other morning.

  I watch through the window as Karen Richardson’s husband, Chad, gets into his Mercedes across the street. Karen comes to the front door and waves as he drives off. Her makeup perfectly applied and hair sprayed in place even though she’s still wearing a bathrobe and matching slippers. She looks like someone auditioning for the role of “model wife sees husband off to work.” The perfect accessory to her doctor on the go.

  I close the curtains as Karen goes back into her house. I look down. Shit. I’m wearing the same bathrobe as Karen Richardson.

  I sigh as I shift Timmy to the other hip.

  I swear I wasn’t always this way. I used to be someone. I was a showgirl in Bally’s Jubilee. I was in a topless revue for Christ’s sakes. I wore a thong and feathers and heels so high my ankles ached afterwards. I had men whooping and hollering and throwing money at me. I even had my picture featured on flyers littering the Strip.

  Now my picture is on the Homeowners Association newsletter, the only hollering I get is when I abandon my family for a night on the town, and the only thing that’s been thrown at me lately are Cheerios.

  Benny does just that, launching a Honey Nut “O” across the room, which lands with a crunch beneath my bare feet. Timmy giggles and laughs. I put him back in his highchair and give them each banana to gum. Then pour myself another cup of coffee.

  Juanita sails into the room, talking to herself in rapid Spanish. Which sends the boys into another round of delighted giggles.

  “Buenos Dias, Mrs. Campbell,” Juanita says, opening the refrigerator and making a shopping list. Juanita does all the shopping, cooking, and cleaning. I guess Juanita’s like my wife.

  “Good morning, Juanita.”

  “You look tired. Late night last night?”

  I try not to smirk as I remember the pulsing beat of club music all around me, but instead smile pleasantly in that demure way I have been taught since I was five by my own nanny, Amelia.

  “Yes, late night.”

  “Ah, Sylvia told me.” Sylvia is the twins’ nanny. Juanita’s niece. Sylvia’s father, Ernesto is the gardener. Sometimes I think we’re supporting their whole family. Which is fine. I like Juanita enough. She does all the things I don’t want to and pretends she doesn’t notice that Brad’s been sleeping in the guestroom for the past six months.

  When the twins were born they kept waking up in the night, one right after the other. As soon as I would get one of them back to sleep again, the other one would wake up and need to be fed or changed or just coaxed back to sleep. I didn’t mind that much because when Sylvia arrived in the morning I could usually take a nap. But it was killing Brad. So, I told him to go sleep in the guestroom, and I would take the boys at n
ight.

  He was reluctant at first, and I swear almost looked guilty, but he did it. And pretty soon I didn’t have to tell him to go every night, he just did. And it was more convenient for him to move some clothes in there so he didn’t disturb me in the morning when he got ready. And, after awhile, we were leading completely separate lives in the same house.

  Another flying Cheerio sails across the room, hitting me on the side of the head. Benny and Timmy both giggle again. Then Timmy smashes banana in his hair.

  I love my boys. But I can’t wait for Sylvia to get here.

  Thankfully, the phone rings, and I take my coffee into the other room, leaving Juanita to referee the food fight.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “I’m having brunch with my mother.” It’s Mary, and I can tell by the high, whiney quality of her voice, she’s in crisis mode.

  “Good morning, Mary.”

  “Good morning. I have nothing to wear. Help!”

  I lean back on the cushions of my sofa. Laura Ashley. Brad’s mother bought us the matching sofa set when we moved in. I hate it, but my neighbors all think it’s delightfully quaint. I even saw a truck delivering our same floral printed armchair to Karen Richardson’s house last month. There’s no accounting for taste I guess.

  I close my eyes, visualizing Mary’s closet. “That denim skirt you bought last week and the purple twinset.”

  “Right.” I hear the sounds of hangers being pushed aside as Mary digs. “Sorry I couldn’t make it to the opening last night. Did I miss anything?”

  I conjure up an image of Moira Black slipping me her phone number while we danced. I remember thinking how funny it would be to tell Brad that I was hit on by a promiscuous bi-sexual at a club opening at dawn.

  “Nothing important.”

  “Good. Okay, I have the clothes. Shoes?”

  “Do you still have those black sandals we bought at the mall last month?”

  “I think so. Somewhere.” I hear boxes being shoved aside as Mary scrounges through her closet. “Yep. Right here. Oh, God, Ella, I don’t think I can face her today. I’m just not in a Mom place right now.”