The Palms

Flashing through the wide open, sand blowing, anticipating the ring of Christmas in the desert. Shimmery and sweet driving to the Palms Casino, Dorothy by my side. Escape the only thing on our minds. “As you like it,” was all she said on our way out the door, running from our slow combustion. Combining sacrilege and treasured beauty as the mother Mary, green and fluid, shimmies on the dashboard. Lying quietly, no words have passed between us for the last 300 miles, not a peep, I stare off into the distance at far off mountain ranges. This is about looking out, never in, on our journey to the Palms. Christmas could never be as complete at home with our family eating pumpkin pie instead of devil’s food cake.

Images blur as I train my eyes to the road, backseat packed with only the bare necessities: underwear for two days, everything else can be bought when we arrive. We should possibly keep going to Mexico to trade in our few chips for pesos on the beach. Melted chocolate bars on the passenger side on our return from debauchery. Slip Knot loud on the radio, leather seats sticking to our thighs because the right skimpy outfits show just enough thigh. Enough thigh to lure in the one night stands, dripping with irony. Thigh enough to have our drinks bought. No need to make hotel reservations if enough skin shows at the Palms.

The first night was spent with business men, fat wives not giving them what they want at home. White bands of skin run their fingers round, conspicuous even in the dark. Paunches that show the life of blackberries and office meetings. Finally a corporate meeting they all can enjoy. Everything doesn’t actually stay in Vegas. It stays at home while you’re in Vegas. Three drinks more than any ordinary night, and they are putty. They hold cool drinks with ice ringing, cigarettes smoked, the smoke can be blamed on the casino, “Not my cigarette, honey.” Perfumes to be washed off. Our existence, a memory to be ferreted between them like blackmail. Not worried tonight about seldom washed bedspreads, we don’t bother to pull them down.

Sunday blooms, brightly uncomfortable, with varicose veins showing by break of day. We gather ourselves in the early morning as we run back to the car. My mascara smeared unforgivingly down my cheek, Dorothy a perfect reflection of my unwashed state. That beach in Mexico sounds like the best alternative. Home for us a willfully forgotten place, a place with few alternatives. Our choices lay ahead; there must be business men in Cabo, conferences to be had wherever we alight. Dorothy refuses, with a look passed between us, to soldier on. The car backs out of its spot. Pulls forward slowly, methodically, Dorothy and I both know our fate. She takes a left back on to the highway toward Taos and its hum. Toward home. The drive home filled with raucous laughter, giddy and chatting. Dorothy and I talking for the sake of talking. Our mutual plans, not being spoken of.