Las Vegas for Vegans

by A. S. Patric

  Her forgetting is almost complete now. But forgetting isn’t the same as never happened. Because everything that has happened, keeps on happening somewhere in the grey whorls of her brain. Or is it happening somewhere else, and her brain is like the stuff within the box of a radio? A thing of mirrors, barely understood circuitry and unexamined microchips and unimagined star technology. Seeming like she is just stuff in the box because the frequency is all she can ever hear. The one radio announcer. Speaking into the room from eyes open to eyes closed. Getting hoarse now. Getting down to whispers against the microphone, and then just breath. Breathing. Letting in the voice of the world with death.

  A phone is ringing outside in the nurse’s station. Tugging on the tendons between her muscles, and then settling her bones down into their sockets. Three times the tug and settle. There’s a perfection of tone in those three sounds. The delicate balance of emergency and a simple soft request for connection. The sound of two voices about to meet and merge on barely breathed puffs of air. She wishes she could hear them talk, about whatever they have to talk about, and in letting it go, finally finishes with wishes.

  Forgetting everything, but all of it still there, somewhere in the stuff-filled box. Almost done even with that.

  There’s an image of Egyptian professional mourners that she can see like it was cast out from the flickering projector of her fluttering eyelids against the hospital walls. Those women from the tomb of Pharaoh Ramose becoming her mourners, shedding their paid-for tears, dancing around her paid-for dying bed. For Leni now. Singing their songs ceaselessly, hours on end and singing all the way back to Egyptian sands sliding down their walls and sending them into a desert of oblivion. Singing eternal songs of life in which we have all existed together within the lies of our voices of separation.

  Balthazar should be thanked for these women. He should be kissed on the forehead, or as she used to like to do, on the back of his neck, so that she could take in the smell of his body at the same time. And he should be hugged and have his name whispered warmly into his ears. So good to have thought to bring these beautiful women and array them around her as though they had come just for her. The professional mourners on the walls. The walls like pages. Their eyes as attentive as readers.

  Outside it is raining, and droplets of water are running and catching and running again on the hospital window. That water collecting the light of anonymous street lights outside, but which she’s been watching her whole life. Those droplets gathering and running again. Which she’s painted so many times. She’s never understood why, really. The explanation was too basic, and it wasn’t about what it meant, but what it did within her, those running droplets of rain on cold thick glass.

  Her old body is still swaddled in the white sheets that stink of her death. The pillow below her head imbued with the breath of those who have died before her. She tugs away from the fibres of her body, getting loose of the neurons that let out a few dying sparks.

  Years it’s taken, moving through the round of days— Mondays to Sundays, to end up here on this afternoon that has nothing to do with any of those names, Mondays to Sundays—leaving her on the shore of a new moment never to be named anything. Or it has a secret middle name that no-one has ever heard, something that makes this sentence make sense. Life Death.

  Because outside the names for them the Days had to be thought of as things in themselves. There were so many of these Days to be taken into account if they weren’t part of a set that could be blurred into packages of years, to be filed under the general title of a life. Each one of those Days a thing in itself, and for itself. A place where Leni had lived and breathed. Had been able to look up into the sky at the sun or the stars. Soon each one of those about to liquefy and run away into the endless abyss of the world’s past.

  Yet here she is, at its lip, ready to go over but wanting one more thing. If she could only remember what it was. It wasn’t an object. It wasn’t a thing that could be left behind. Maybe an image. Something she’d seen a long time ago. Perhaps a vision.

  Everything was forgotten as she got closer to this. Who everyone was. Even her one son. Who’d whisper while holding her hand. The paintings he brought around, asking, ‘Don’t you remember painting these?’ could have been anyone’s, and just seem like so much wasted paint and dried-up time stuck to canvas. She doesn’t remember making them but he brought them anyway, as though they were more dear to her than his face.

  All forgotten. Where she had come from and where she was going, and what the trip had meant and who’d shared the seats around her, all going out the window like their voices spoken into rushing air. Leaving her with nothing but the impression of the window. Not even the view outside. Just that glass, shivering in the movement of this transit through days. Beads of water catching and releasing, as though a different system of timekeeping belonging more to angels than men.

  To finally get here. A withered body, with crushed breasts, and broken hips, and shrivelled lungs, and a toothless face drained of blood. Eyes gone deep behind the elephant-skin eyelids. Gone forever now.

  Her boy, her only son, outside and alone, walking the hospital halls praying against the will of his atheist heart, silent prayers even he can’t hear, for her to find more hours and days … and what then, weeks and months? But what then? What more does he wish for? That annihilation pause before it is complete, and the hopeless wish that it take with it the parts of his heart that can never let go of his mother.

  But isn’t it strange? This man closer to her now than birth, gradually being erased at his edges, wearing glasses just that bit stronger every year, has learned in his time that there is nothing to any of this, that behind the constantly unfolding explosion of life lighting up this particular ball of dirt adrift in dead space, is actually nothing? Strange because in his face Leni had most clearly seen the eyes of God, sending His vision through her until her soul was cast like an X-ray of the sun across the black sky. Her only true vision, given to her in the absolute exhaustion following more than twenty-one hours of labour. The first time she’d seen his blood-spattered, blood-swollen face, when she closed her eyes, and her baby’s life moved through her and caught a hold of her heart with those desperate little fists.

  She let the name go. She let him go. She let the body go. All of this that is gathered, she lets it all run across the glass. And then she watches the beads gather the light, turn the colour within their microscopic hearts, and feels them turn back into stars.

  GUNS N’ COFFEE

  I work in the middle of the damned city. I start when every other son of a bitch is about to clock on as well. It doesn’t matter where I go, I can’t get a coffee without waiting for fifteen minutes in a line. No-one likes lines, right? I’m not saying I’m different, but lately, these coffee queues seem to be slowly moving us along like a hissing snake, swallowing all our minds in a milky swirl of white poison.

  These days there’s less space in front and behind. The breath of those who haven’t eaten or brushed since the day before, spiced up with a cigarette or two just before coming into the crowded cafe and snuggling up right behind my shoulder, is the kind of stuff that is going to challenge the most equanimous. Me? I only know what ‘equanimous’ means because it was word of the day on my screensaver yesterday.

  If it’s not that, then it’s the angry industrial-strength perfume that burns like a corrosive through my nasal passages and leaves a chemical taste on my tongue. I used to think those women had lost their sense of smell, but now I know it’s an attempt to get some space in these coffee queues.

  None of this is going to explain why I brought a handgun along with me today. I’m just saying, there’s too many people in this damned city, and they’re all starting work around the time I need a coffee.

  It’s a modest gun. I’m not a closet Dirty Harry wanting someone to make my day. I just want someone to make my coffee.

  When I pull it out for the first time the woman in front of me just kind of blinks sleepi
ly and goes back to daydreaming about her strong latte with two sugars.

  ‘Hey,’ I say to her. She’s ignoring me so I give her a flash of black steel near her right ear. ‘Hey,’ I say again. ‘I’m not kidding.’

  I fire the gun through the wide doors of the cafe and out into the street. The shot travels just above the heads of the masses of people pushing along the footpaths. The bullet shatters a pane of thick glass in the fashion store across the road. People get a bit cut up from the crashing glass and a man begins screaming like someone has cut off his toes. The pedestrians keep passing, barely pausing, crushing the glass beneath their shoes as they make their way to work.

  My wrist is limp from the kickback but I transfer the gun to my left hand as though it’s all the better to display the weapon. The double-sugar-latte woman steps aside. The rest of the folks in the line follow her example.

  Bradley the Barista knows how I like my coffee. His arms move with speed and precision, a perfection of machine engineering translated into human form. It’s as though I press his fast-forward button and then the stop button when he finishes my ristretto-strength long black with three grips and three sugars.

  I pay him and tell him he can keep the change of a ten-dollar bill. It’s only polite to show an appreciation for good service.

  ‘How’s your day been, Brad?’ I ask after my first satisfying sip.

  ‘It’s been pretty busy, Mr Bushnell. This is the first time I’ve had a moment of stillness for two hours.’

  ‘Are you enjoying it, Brad?’ I ask.

  ‘I am indeed, Mr Bushnell,’ he replies, and adds, ‘There’s something about a loaded gun that makes one appreciate a moment like this. Thanks for that, Mr Bushnell.’

  ‘Glad I could do that for you, Brad. I’ll now have the pleasure of strolling to work rather than the unwelcome power slalom through those frustrated crowds outside. I’m going to have a lovely amble to work today, Brad.’

  As soon as I move away from the counter the line resumes its shape, longer and angrier than ever. A rattler of a line extending outside the front doors, the furious tail shaking with the anger of twenty mobiles and smartphones going off simultaneously. It’s a soothing sound when you have discovered the ways of the snake charmer as I have.

  I come in the next morning with a smile in my stride and a spring in my face. I’m eager to display my Kimber 1911 Compact again. I want to get that snake dancing out of my way.

  I don’t have a problem until I arrive at the head of the line and a high-powered exec smiles like his teeth are made out of diamonds and he eats crystal croissants with his coffee. He’s been held in the purgatory of the line for the last fifteen minutes and can’t swallow me moving past everyone with a royal wave of black steel. Maybe he didn’t see my warning yesterday but I can tell he is a natural-born hero.

  ‘You are not going to shoot me for a coffee. That’s ridiculous! It’s only a few dollars and a few moments. You can’t kill a human being with such little motivation.’

  ‘What’s your game, Mr Suit?’ I ask him.

  ‘I don’t want to play. I’m just going to get a coffee and go to work.’

  ‘Well, Mr Suit, I’m not going to go into a lengthy analysis of the situation here. But I will say this—it’s not about a few minutes or a few dollars. It’s about an accretion of time that mummifies my brain and turns my thoughts into sand. More than anything it’s about the brief, black, bitter taste of liberty in those cups. You’re standing in the way of my freedom, Mr Suit. I advise you to step aside and give me a moment with Bradley the Barista.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Mr Suit tells me with his diamond grin.

  ‘Mr Suit,’ I say and step forward. I raise the gun to the height of his heart. ‘Reconsider, please,’ I say and wiggle the Kimber 1911 Compact. I polished it last night and I know it has a lethal gleam to its black metal.

  He looks at it like it’s a water pistol and turns around and asks Bradley for an affogato. It’s more of a dessert than it is a coffee. An affogato! It also happens to be the most time-consuming thing he could have asked Bradley to make him. I take it as a personal affront. Mr Suit says he also wants two scoops of ice cream and not just one. I give him two bullets instead and I’m not sorry.

  Mr Suit dies in a very elegant creaseless crumple of the best Italian fabric and design. A macchiato stain of blood spreads across the immaculate collar of his white shirt and drips onto the black marble of the cafe’s floor. Everyone lines up behind me. Bradley’s hands fly to the handles and dials of his Gaggia Deco D espresso machine.

  The next morning I walk into the cafe and feel sure there will be no more need for gunwaving and I won’t have to kill anyone to get a coffee. I had a difficult night getting to sleep. For hours I tried to rest my mind and body. Even when I managed to drift away I found myself waking in a fevered state, my sheets wet right through and my pillow soaked. In short, too much coffee. There have to be limits even to these dark pleasures, I suppose.

  The line is long and I can barely get through the doors of the cafe. I announce myself but no-one moves.

  The double-sugar-latte woman stands before me again and I tell her, ‘Surely, my mettle has been tested. My resolve can’t still be in question.’

  She turns around and a wash of her perfume breaks over me in a dizzying ocean of petals and pollen, bouquets of sweet-smelling chemicals rushing down my throat. I take a step back but I stumble and grab a cafe chair to steady myself.

  ‘You don’t look good,’ she tells me.

  ‘I didn’t sleep very well,’ I explain. ‘Frankly, my experiences in the toilet haven’t been too pleasant either. I’m sweating a lot and my stomach feels uneasy. Queasy, I feel very queasy.’

  ‘Coffee’s not for everyone. Perhaps you should drink tea instead. Take a few moments every morning perhaps—treat yourself to a pot of orange pekoe leaf tea. You’ll find it’s better suited to your nervous system. Our culture has so many problems and diseases that stem from stress and anxiety, and there’s nothing that generates and promotes these things like the addiction to the coffee bean.’

  I’m starting to feel disorientated. People are pushing past me to get into the store and others are coming out with steaming takeaway cups filled with the delicious beverage that will give me the boost I need to get through the next few hours of my life. ‘Shut up, you scandalous hypocrite. You’re here for the same reason I am. You need the coffee bean as well.’

  ‘I drink decaf.’

  ‘Decaf?’ I say. ‘Decaf!’

  ‘Yes, decaf. Decaf indeed.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about decaffeinated coffee. It’s like taking a shower in a raincoat.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she says.

  ‘It’s like eating one of those burgers made out of lentils and cabbage.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ she says, looking at me like I’m someone to be pitied.

  ‘Should I remind you I’m carrying a weapon?’ I reach below my arm and remove my Kimber 1911 Compact from a holster I bought for it yesterday afternoon. ‘You don’t require further demonstrations, do you?’ I pull it out and hold it before her.

  ‘It’s not a good idea. There’s a room full of coffee drinkers here, after all. Every single one of them desperate for that first hit, just like you. There’s no way you can keep a trump card like that in a room full of losing gamblers.’

  ‘What?’ I blink at her. ‘Just move!’ I wave the gun with two sharp movements to the right.

  She steps aside with a sorrowful expression. I see the line has changed. Everyone in it has removed a firearm from a pocket or handbag and they all have these guns pointed at me. Thirty barrels are trained on my head, chest and stomach. I blink but I can’t really take in the image of all these respectable city workers armed with such deadly weapons.

  I look over to Bradley the Barista and ask him, ‘What’s going on here, Brad? Didn’t I invent the game? It’s my ball, isn’t it? I get to say how we play. Bradley—tell these people
!’

  The barista wipes his hands with a tea towel and a regretful look passes across his face. He says, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bushnell. No more coffee for you.’

  ‘What?’ I ask the question meekly but I feel my heart kick in my chest at the thought of never having another morning jolt from Bradley’s beans. ‘What?’ It comes out as a roar this time. ‘You don’t get to decide on something like that. I’ve been coming here for years. I’ve been working in this damned city …’

  My anger had begun to foam like milk in the bottom of a metal jug and I was spitting with my eyes closed when I said ‘damned city’. My weapon might have been raised but it was more a gesticulation than an intent to harm anyone. Coffee drinkers are jumpy though and their fingers get twitchy.

  MEASURED TURBULENCE

  From the black, free-falling nothingness, the voice emerges with an absolute American calm. That television-friendly NASA cadence of confidence. Everything is A-OK. The pilot speaks soothingly about the turbulence. The muttered ‘motherfucker’ at the end of the transmission makes Keith blink, though it doesn’t destroy his confidence. The lights flicker back to life as the plane continues to vibrate. He isn’t feeling any fear. If anything, he’s bored.

  Julia can go on and on, eternally, when the subject is her soul. She believes in the sacred spaces of her inner life, and within the confines of their airplane seats, there’s no escape.

  ‘The best thing about this dream is that it was weird in that great way, where you’re almost thinking while you’re asleep, this is so cool it’s like a film by Buñuel.’

  ‘Who’s Buñuel?’

  ‘You’ve heard of David Lynch?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Same difference. I was travelling for days and days, and after what seems like years, I finally get to the North Pole and I find that when I’m there it’s mostly submerged rock and not even white with snow and ice. It’s slate blue.’ She takes the final sip of Scotch from the bottom of her plastic glass. ‘The North Pole was weird.’