(No new Worth a Thousand this week, I’m afraid. Last week’s business trip took my free time out back, put a bullet in its head, and dumped its body in the desert. But in return, it gave me fuel for another wave of the pulpy, overwrought prose you’ve learned to love.)
Las Vegas after dark holds few surprises for me. I’m not a local. I’m not even a regular. But I’ve been there often enough to get a feel for its primal rhythms, its drunken grinning stagger, its fratboy howl. The details change with the ever-evolving skyline, but the heart of the place is the same as was the first time I visited. I suspect it’s the same as it was twenty years ago, thirty, more.
But as the sun lurches white and burning back into the sky, the Vegas night shift gives way to the morning shift. The strip is empty where, at midnight, a pack of dead-eyed people in hot pink t-shirts reading “Hot girls to your room in minutes” were handing out pornographic business cards (“Candi, $99, 555-121-2233”). In their place are slightly younger, slightly more lively people in hot pink t-shirts reading “Grand Canyon Tours” and handing out discount tickets to tourist attractions.
The crowds of sweaty, smiling drunks are gone. Sweaty, serious joggers have their place. They run in pairs, rather than full packs. They speak in hushed tones to each other, if at all. They are not here for a good time. They’re racing the sun: jogging in 85 degrees is one thing; jogging in 100 is another.
As the morning heats up, perhaps the joggers will be replaced by middle-aged and elderly tourists, who might give way in turn to young and foolish as the sun sets and the cycle begins anew. I don’t see it happen, but I can imagine it, on my way to the airport and back to the real world.
