History in Vegas

A late evening in Las Vegas,

post work seminar and I

needed a drink. A drink

away from the slot machines,

cheering, shouting crowds, and

the general riff-raff.

A drink of fine scotch was in

order, something to round out

the sharp edges of stress, anxiety

and my mild distaste for travel

away from my beloved Chicago.

I sat at the sports book bar where

the scene was thin of gamblers and

the pedestrian traffic. There was the

usual grizzled woman, still dressed as if

she was in her 20’s but was likely in

her mid-seventies, the two bros trying

to figure out how to hit it big and the

other lonely business guys.

I found an isolated bar stool with a view

of the casino floor and the other late night

denizens of America’s sin trip. I ordered

my drink and sat finally feeling closer to

myself.

A beautiful prostitute sat down across the

bar top from me. I knew she was a prostitute

because, well, I’ve been around and I know one

when I see one. She looked at me with a mild

come-hither-to glance, to which I calmly shook

my head in the negative, but I did smile in an

oddly flattered way.

She understood and set her sights on the

a thin, balding, middle aged man, who was

eager to acknowledge her intentions. He moved

his seat closer to hers without much encouragement

and she began to play and flirt her way into his

wallet.  I chuckled and took another sip of my

last Las Vegas night scotch.

As I did, another young, lovely

prostitute slid her way onto a bar stool,

to my right hand side. She had dark hair,

full outlined lips, eyes made up smoky and

cat-like, her top was loose and the shoulder

straps easily slid off in a way to fire the

imagination.

I did not make any eye contact with her

at the time. I figured I would finish

my drink, consider another, and likely head

off to my room as alone as I had arrived.

But I saw this new young woman do something

that struck me as odd.

She took a very deep breath and moved her

arms across her body in a yoga type mediation

movement. I don’t know what the maneuver was

called but she was elegant and graceful in the

movement. She caught me spying on her.

I smiled and commented, “Were you just doing

a little meditation at the bar?”

She smiled at me and laughed while she nodded.

She got up from her seat and moved to the bar

stool next to mine.  I did not expect this but I

did not stop her from joining me.

She gave me a fake name, I gave her my real

one. She asked what I was doing in Vegas,

I told her the truth about work. I asked her

why she was there, but she didn’t answer in

a real way. She asked where I was from

and I told her about Chicago.

She said she was from Dallas originally,

I said I had been there several years ago

for the anniversary of the assassination of

J.F.K.

“Who”, she asked.

“John F. Kennedy. President John F. Kennedy,” I said.

She looked at me, blankly, behind beautiful blue eyes.

I said, “You never heard of J.F.K., our President who

was assassinated in Dallas in 1963?”

She said she had not.

So, as is my nature, I gave her a history lesson.

She listened to me, seemingly absorbing the

information I was imparting to her. That’s the thing

about beautiful prostitutes, it’s hard to tell when

they are listening or just pretending to move toward

the business end of their profession. But I believed she

was listening.

As I droned on and on about the historical significance

and how American was fundamentally changed on that

day I got the sense that perhaps my history lesson was

ill timed, that a sports book bar was not the best place

for a teachable moment. So I stopped my lecture and

asked her if she was doing okay.  She teased me a little

and said she was doing very well and happy to have met me.

Having confirmed her pleasant mood I delivered her more

truth. “I’m going to ruin your night then,” I said.

“You’re more than welcome to ruin my night,” she flirted.

She licked her lips and fluttered her eye lashes at me.  A

seductive smile growing across her lovely mouth.

“Okay. Nice to talk to you, goodnight,” I said and got up

from my bar stool.

She stood up. Realizing that we would not be leaving

together and I was not the profitable event she had

hoped. She walked away in her amazingly tight pants in

a huff. I snickered to myself, still feeling that last

happy sip of scotch on my lips.

I went up to my Vegas hotel room wondering about

all the what ifs and the glad I didn’ts, and if I

should one day come back to Las Vegas and open a

school for prostitutes to teach them a little more

about history.