Death in Vegas

The man Ashbrook by name stopped not quite certain why. A yellow Cadillac passed in front of him and he knew why. Warm weather at a street-corner intersection said You are waiting for your crossing signal. It continued You have some blocks to go You can't even see it yet. It continued You must be patient so consider this a representation of your whole trip.

Ashbrook saw the hand turn into a walker. He looked both ways and crossed the street. He looked at the signs signifying the road he was walking along. The road was named Las Vegas Blvd S and he was going north on it. His mind was operating. He was actually there. He was gathering information. He could piece it all together later from the fragments. All he knew was he had to keep going, to make an appointment of some sort or another.

He had been advised to avoid thinking and that's the advice he was following.

He passed a fast food restaurant called Denny's. How's that for a name? Short for Dennis? Is Dennis a good name or a bad name?

He stopped to stop thinking.

There.

Then he thought about the recent past. He thought about a room at Caesars Palace and knew he had stayed there that night and he had awakened some hours before. He had gotten dressed in new clothes and before that, the night before, his last night, he'd arrived at the hotel's reception desk, the crowded hotel. Before that he'd been out front, seeing three young men in shorts and jackets drinking big cans of beer.

He remembered all this has happened at around ten.

There was an airplane trip from New Haven. Before that there was a job, an office, an office with books in it. Lots of books. Many of which he'd taught, if not read.

There were fifty-five years to think about. Maybe he was able to in aggregate recall a third of them. Minus the third spent sleeping ... about six years' worth of memories he could have gone over. Minus unpleasantness, which was maybe a conservative third, leaves six years of memories.

My entire life; I'm only six.

This did not cheer him, though. The matter he was avoiding thought about pressed on his mind. He had to look up, so he looked up.

Cars were passing by on his right. He didn't know anything about cars, believe it or not. He'd learned to drive one when he had been twenty-five because he had been forced to by, that one, that one he knew. A Chevette. The cars driving by were in good shape. But of course, it's the desert, nothing to corrode them out here in the desert. As long as they have water they're fine, lots of water needed out here. The great Hoover Dam was somewhere thereabouts. He was passing by a big white block of a place, the big word DRUGS in blue on the canopy. BEER LIQUOR WINE in red below. "Maybe I should buy some wine." Just a thought. That all could be taken care of later, if there was a need. He didn't know if she was a white wine drinker or a red wine drinker, after all. He knew she drank, though. Sometime too much, not very often, tho. He'd written back, Everyone I know is like that, including me.

Rly?

Just looking, at the time.

Just looking up. The sky was blue cloudless.

He'd looked at the Google map of Las Vegas. In fact, he had a section of it, printed out, folded in eight, and in his pocket. He didn't have to look at it, "tho."

He knew his excuse, though. "Maps are handy. Doesn't hurt to have one of the area."

He looked down at himself. His slacks were black, still with visible creases, and his black shoes were shiny. His dark socks he couldn't see but he knew they were there. His shirt was white and stainless, thank God. Dark blue sports blazer over it all. Looking like a million bucks.

Wow. I am, in fact, every inch the professor.

Or maybe I will be, in a year or two.

Why bother enumerating the objects to which he was attached?

He certainly didn't feel attached to very many.

He felt attached to maybe twenty things.

Attached to his jacket, shirt, pants, underwear, socks; attached to his wallet and attached to his twenty thousand dollars in cash, the coins in his pocket he was also attached to. But that was it, that was the whole of his (current) existence. Oh, and he was attached to the piece of paper in his pocket. The map with his destination circled.

I'll have to get rid of that soon.

He stopped, closed his eyes and opened them again. Everything was still there. The road—Las Vegas Blvd S—still there, still with its cars that were sometimes old. The dry weather. But that was in his mind. He had to see without his mind. He saw without his mind, and it was all colors and shapes. Secondary and primary sense perceptions. What about the sounds he was hearing, were they anything? This was more difficult to do without mind. Think! And everything was lost in that moment. He was himself again, walking north by northeast.

Thirsty.

Harry O's BBQ.

Of course.

Harry O's BBQ.

This place will be with me, in my mind, forever.

This place has meaning.

The black-haired man far behind the counter stubbed out his cigarette and came forward, and two hundred pounds of him. He looked at Ashbrook and nodded. Ashbrook looked at the refrigerator behind the counter.

"Could I have a Coke?"

The man opened the fridge and took out a Coke and put it on the counter.

"Buck fifty."

Ashbrook reached into his pocket and found two dollar bills, which he put on the counter.

"There."

The man took the two dollar bills and mashed open the cash register.

Ashbrook said, "Nice day."

The man said, "It's always like this. Never changes."

"Keeps the cars in good condition."

"What?"

"No snow. No rust."

"You from up north?"

"Yes. New England."

The man nodded. "Never thought of it. I guess the cars last pretty much forever here."

"If they're kept in good shape engine-wise."

"Nothing lasts forever. We should remember that."

"Yes. Well, good day."

"See ya."

Ashbrook left Harry O's BBQ, wondering if he had been talking to Harry O. He drank the Coke quickly and was rid of the can at the next streetcorner, along with the Google map. He knew the number he was aiming for. He knew who would be there, essentially, if by essence one means by name.

Now where was he? What number was he at?

The Tod Motor Hotel.

Can that really be the name?

A place to go die, obviously.

They probably don't know German.

"Death" Motor Hotel, Las Vegas Blvd N.

No number on the building.

But he hadn't passed it; he knew it was more than two blocks away or so.

What will she be wearing? Will she be in a wedding dress? Will I somehow know her on sight?

He was getting clammy.

Not cool.

As cool as.... As cool as the Mojave Desert.

He kept walking, thinking about other things. He was thinking about New Haven, and about the last time he was there ... which had only been yesterday! How quickly things can change. I was on the other side of the country. Another time zone even. It must be later there, four hours later, in fact.

Didn't matter anyway. Because time is a tautology. As is space.

This time only refers to other times. And this space only refers to other spaces.

But, but, but.

The words might run around like hamsters, but he knew where he was going. There was something absolute in it all.

But what?

He knew where he was going.

But wasn't it hot out here. Maybe he should have taken a cab or a bus.

Just then, a bus passed. Isn't that always the way? Of course he knew he thought of a bus because he had unconsciously heard it coming.

He wondered if there were any worthwhile art galleries in town because he saw a sign saying ART DISTRICT.

He thought about the place he was going to because he saw a drive-through chapel.

He thought about the callous on his foot because he looked down.

He didn't have that much further to go, Ashbrook.

The Mayor of Casterbridge. He wondered why he'd thought of that. Then he remembered, and a little malicious laugh came.

Las Vegas! Why don't we meet up in Las Vegas?

That could be arranged.

How far should we go?

Away from Vegas?

No, how should we meet there? I've never been there.

Could he see his destination yet? He thought maybe. It depended on what that was up there, now didn't it? It might be it, or it might not be.

As he walked on, ever towards the destination he had, nothing of the past in his mind, nothing but the urge of now, I'm much older than you,,, I don't care,,, he looked ahead, and he looked at the sky, he thought of his plot that only involved leaving one room and going to another room with a road in between. Isn't that plot? Forster said something like that.... No chance to look it up because it was just him and his clothes and his money walking with a picked-up pace along the road. The place had to be ahead, was it that place there? up there? He was getting there, if that was the place, or maybe it was getting to him. Is something getting to me? This plot is nearing its end.

He believed what he was seeing. He couldn't not believe it. Yes, it looked like the place. He saw the sign. LAS VEGAS LOVER'S CHAPEL. It was the place. How many steps did he have left to make? Not many at all, a limited number like the number of pages in your right hand as you read: a finite number.

He didn't know what lay in store for him.

He had to cross the Blvd. The wait seemed like forever but it couldn't have been forever because he found himself crossing the Blvd in a perfectly ordinary way. Then he had to wait for the lights to change again. He waited, then he was crossing the street again. She was right up there, in the building, near the front of it.

His feet took him up the steps of the chapel. The door was oak-colored but it probably wasn't oak. He pulled open the door and went inside.

A low hum of organ music, flowers in the air. He could see through the vestibule an altar with a big painting of the desert behind it. But where was she? He took a couple more steps inside; still nothing. The place appeared to be empty.

A noise from behind him made him turn. The door was opening. He saw a hand, then an arm, a foot, a dress, and a face. She looked at Ashbrook. Ashbrook smiled. The woman said, "Are you Ashbrook?" and Ashbrook nodded, seeing her for the first time, seeing how different she was, seeing how different she was from anything he'd ever seen before; satisfyingly different from the wife he'd left, murdered, behind him, way down the Blvd, at Caesars Palace.