Post by Robbie Hope on Sept 7, 2021 10:42:53 GMT -6
The cork popping off the top of the champagne bottle sounded like a gunshot in a narrow alley, the sound of the crack ricocheting off the aluminum walls of the aircraft. The pressure forced the bubbly to sizzle out of the neck of the glass, erupting like a volcano. The liquid ran over the flight attendant’s fingers and careened down her neck and over the mountains underneath her low-cut dress-shirt. As it tightened around her chest, she leaned over my seat, refilling my glass, giving me a distinct view of what lied underneath. I mouthed gratitude, but my eyes never left her blues, even if she wanted them to. So she extended her finger, tracing my lips, inviting me to taste it from her skin.
Things were done a little differently in Las Vegas.
At heart, I’m a small-town country boy.
I grew up in the church - ‘ma would cull and iron my finest, but oversized clothing; the creased legs, the tails tucked in. She would sit me in front of her every Sunday morning, keeping my hair parted and slick, coaching me on my manners. When to say sir, when to say ma’am. When to hold open doors and be aware of my surroundings, because at any given moment, someone was begging for help.
“Can I “help” you with that, ma’am?”
She stuck her finger down my throat.
“Such a gentleman.”
The aroma on her wrist smelled familiar.
“‘Ma raised me right.”
‘Pa was a little rough around the edges. He’d sit in the pew next to ‘ma, but oftentimes, the toddy odor seeping from his pores was met with eyes of castigation, particularly when he’d lean back mid-way through the service and pulled his sunglasses over his eyes. ‘Ma would rather give the impression of a family undivided than accept that the obvious rebuke from the lectern was about them. Not even the genuine, wide-eyed concern from her friends ever penetrated her conscience; she was more than willing to justify the toxicity that hovered over our family like a grim shadow.
She could never admit that she, too, was begging for help.
“Get your Sissy ac’ing right or she gonna get herself a whoopin’, y’hear?”
‘Ma was a master of projection. Knowing deep down that the only one who needed correcting was herself - even I, a preteen, acknowledged just how embarrassing ‘Pa could be - her focus was more on the rebellion from her only daughter. Sissy made it no secret that the facade of this perfect familiar unit disgusted her, and she had no hesitation in ramping it up for the smoldering looks every Sunday. Open sarcasm of the sermons, blatant disregard for common courtesies and politeness - and in a few years, sexualizing herself and developing a reputation of a minx among the parishioners - Sissy was a magnet for attention, negative or otherwise. I’d warn her, and she’d be fearless, even knowing just how brutal and uncompromising ‘Pa could be.
“What brings you to Vegas?”
“A girl.”
“Oh, you’re invol--”
“It’s not like that.
I used to know a girl.
I’m trying to find her.”
“Does she know you’re looking for her?”
“...no.”
I watched the flight attendant try to process what I’d told her, and she pulled her co-worker aside - obviously, they were talking about me when she mouthed the word “stalker”, followed by a giggle. I didn’t care, though - I’ve had to live with a certain level of awkwardness, something inescapable when fostered under a sheltered and abusive upbringing. I needed to be concise, to use my words with precision - and as I grew handsome, that ambiguity left women wanting to decodify what I’d tell them. But she was right… this time, I looked like a fucking stalker.
“Do you need anything else to drink?”
She asked with a hint of derision.
“Maybe just one more.”
“Something stronger.”
She leaned over again - this time, her hands weren’t absorbed with champagne, and she tilted an ounce-bottle of bourbon into my glass, and I could smell the scent more clearly on her wrist.
“That’s… that’s her perfume.”
I wrapped my hand around her skinny wrist and pulled it close.
“Let me go!”
Her eyes widened in horror.
“Where is she?!”
I watched as the crew descended on me like a pack of rabid dogs.
“You know something!”
A flurry of hands clutched at my grip, prying my fingers away from her bone as I squeezed tighter, leaving red intentions on her flesh. Her screams of agony floated in and out until they dissipated completely, and all I could hear was the hum of the engine as the onboard crew pushed me against the seat, strapping me in. She ran off to tend to her wounds, and the last thing I remember seeing was the distinct PHF logo on the crewmember’s blouse.
I woke up with my face sitting in a pool of saliva, my skin frozen to the cold steel of the bench. The sound of a billy club smacking against titanium; the keys jangling as the lock unclicked. Out of the shadows stepped an officer, his silhouette coming to light as my brain welcomed clarity.
“You’re in a lot of trouble, son.”
“I’m not here to cause trouble.”
“We’re past that.”
“I just… need to find her.”
“I know you do.”
The officer had an empathetic face, as if he knew the longing I was feeling in that moment. He sat next to me on the cold steel, but even though he was trying to understand my desperation, he still kept his hand on his holster.
“I’m just trying to understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Why she means to much to you.”
The officer retreated from his defensive posture, giving me a little wiggle room so he could establish some trust. He needed to get me to talk, probably just to incriminate myself further. I know I’d snapped on the flight attendant, but I wasn’t stupid enough to try that with a police officer. Especially when I saw a row of them standing outside of my cell.
“I just need to find her.”
“Why?”
“I just need to know she’s okay.”
“Son… you can’t look for someone who doesn’t want to be found.”
The officer climbed to his feet as I cried into my hands. As he watched me wallow in despair, I felt him place a card into my shirt pocket.
“Maybe that’ll help.”
I pulled the card out the holographic logo dazzled when I moved it.
“Wait! Do you know her??”
“I did.”
The card read The Luxor.
“Let him go.”