I typed this sitting on the floor of the Vegas airport, I haven't edited it but I like it
The Las Vegas airport looks as if it were the basis for the first season, some sort of B—grade cable-going pilot episode of a Sopranos spinoff. There are brightly colored neon lights surrounding the top of a faded soft pink wooded ceiling, curvy cursive blue and red neon letters spelling “cocktail lounge” and “Las Vegas Restaurant and Bar.” There are pockets of noisy, gold and white gambling machines with the old pull down levers. There is patterned blue and pink carpeting worn from foot traffic. This is a place of movement; it is the grey area that exists solely to give meaning to the destination. And, it is in the middle of the fucking beautiful Nevada desert’s nothingness and open space.
Flying here from Washington, I saw the Sierra Nevada range at sunset from 39,000 miles above. They were orange and red and beautiful. They are kind of beautiful that punches you in the gut and gives you a reminder of your temporality; they taunt and tease you with their seemingly timeless geographical aesthetic. In fact, they were so beautiful that I forgot about the old man next to me puking as the plane took off. I forgot about how I only have 2.5 hours sleep and I forgot that I have still have 6.5 hours travel time, 2,300 miles away to travel and a shit ton of work to do when I get back.
I had a strange flight here besides the man puking six inches away from me in a garbage bag. I proceeded to pass out against the cold window and waking up with a bag of plane crackers in my lap. (Which, were given to me by the old man who was puking.) I had strange, hilarious flight attendants. These are kind of people authors make as characters in novels. This is precisely why I am writing this down. These are the strange, wonderful days that happen too far in-between because life is lulled by redundancy, predictability, aided and coddled by routine.
When I arrived in Vegas, while the plane was taxiing, the flight attendant sang, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” to the passengers. She had a soulful southern voice and she KILLED it in that good way. The other flight attendant, Clarence, is up for the ‘flight attendant of the year award.’ He is a Vegas live-in resident, a fifty something, almost retiree, with leathery-like skin and frizzed orange dyed hair, carrying more sass than Oprah. I’ve never laughed at a joke a flight attendant made. The plane seemed to reverberate laughter a good portion of the way.
When I was exiting the plane, both excited to be in Nevada for the first time, and happy to be away from puking, I passed a man in a knit pool decorated sweater. There were eight balls, stripes and solids. I complimented him on his sweater. His response, “Thanks, I also like to play pocket pool.” I am pretty sure he had on a toupee.
I then immediately discovered my flight had been delayed 2.5 hours. With some time to kill, I gambled away $10.00 and sipped on a whiskey sour mourning my loss with luck. I noticed the disproportionate number of old folk in sweats as I caught a buzz.
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Back track to last Tuesday, the day before I flew out, my friend were sitting on my hammock discussing the idea of flying. He told me his worst fear is the world running out of fuel and not being able to travel any longer, about how he thought the world would feel as if it were shrinking. It made sense, in the late night daze, kind of way.
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