Lethe Bashar’s Novel of Life

The Aussie turned on the high swivel chair, holding her green nails up to the light.  She seemed proud, triumphant, like a haughty cat.

 

She dropped her hands to her sides when Lethe came into the lobby.  Their eyes never met.  She looked down at the checkered floor and he looked at the walls.  The Aussie gave off the impression that she was impenetrable.  She didn’t move.  She just sat on the high swivel chair all day, preening.  Now she waited for the intruder to move out of her space. 

 

Lethe lingered in the lobby.  He turned his attention to the surfing posters.  He knew his mission but faltered before the doorway.  The bars across the windows and the dusty streets beyond filled him with slight fear.  He was only catching his breath anyways; that’s all.  He wanted the Aussie to know that he was not afraid.  He even wanted to say something gallant before he stepped outside.

 

Once he realized she wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to him, he pushed open the door.  The air was different outside.  A low, grayish sky fanned out behind the storefronts and concrete housing blocs, extending into the desert emptiness.  The golden lights of Oz flickered on and off in one corner of the city.  The Vegas Strip resembled a bright, distant Ferris wheel, revolving merrily in the air–isolated by a sea of darkness.  Buried in that darkness was the East and West sides, where Lethe was now roaming.  The festive, mirthful voices died out as he went farther from the Inn.

 

Lethe felt bare walking the streets at night.  A swirl of smoke rose from a factory and sputtered into the grainy horizon.  He paced forward and back into the mazy darkness.  The sidewalks sloped into a basin of tattoo parlors, porn shops, liquor stores and pawn shops.  There was some frenzied activity around the stores, swinging doors, jangling bells, and a line of bums leaned against a wall.  The bums talked in a language only they could understand.  Shady men went in and out of porn shops.  Loners picked up cases of beer and hard stuff from the liquor stores.  Loudmouthed, brassy bimbos hung their arms on older, coarse-faced men.  Lethe heard one of the bimbos shout, “Hey Ronnie let’s take him home with us, he’s cute!” 

 

Lethe felt his legs harden into wooden pegs.  He’d gotten muscle spasms before, but never this bad.  He was afraid that if he remained in one place for too long he would get mugged.  Bleary-eyed winos stalked the outskirts of the city.  They hung out in torn parking lots, near vandalized buildings, outside dilapidated houses.  Faces came out of the velvety darkness, asking for a couple quarters.  Then he turned a blind corner and caught the glare of a seedy nightclub in his eye.  He blinked twice, three times.  Prostitutes rocked back and forth on their heels.  They played with their costume jewelry and stuck out their fishnet thighs.

 

“Crackhead,” he thought he heard them say.

 

Louie was wrong.  Nobody was standing out at the bus stop.  No crack dealers waiting to make a buck.  No swaggering, gold-toothed pimps.  “But the busses have to be running,” Lethe thought.  “It doesn’t make any sense.”

 

“Maybe I’m lost.”

 

The Backpacker’s Inn seemed like a distant memory now.  He wasn’t even sure if he could find his way back.  The streets in this part of Vegas deteriorated into rubble, with stretches of abandoned housing and more torn, vacant lots.  “Maybe I should turn around,” he thought. 

 

“Or maybe this is where you find crack.” 

 

Gnarled palm trees huddled on the narrow, broken streets.  On a corner, lights shone from inside an all-night Laundromat but the place was empty.  “I could go in there to sit down,” Lethe thought. 

 

Past the laundry, there was a concrete building built like a stack of giant Legos.  A sudden hush fell over the empty street causing his heart to race.  “I really should turn around,” he thought.  “There’s nobody here.” 

 

But then the impulse gripped him and he had to succeed.  He had to find crack no matter what.  Louie was waiting for him back at the Inn.  Louie trusted him with his cash.  “I’ve done this before,” Lethe said.  “Nothing to fear . . . nothing to fear.”

 

 A tall, lurking figure stepped out of the shadows.  “Well lookie here,” the voice said.  “It’s Richie Rich.”

 

The man was wearing a second hand suit and he had a salesman-like stride.  As he approached Lethe, he was grinning from ear to ear.  He also wore spectacles.  The two of them ducked their heads together in a manner of secrecy.  They were standing under a row of date palms, whispering.

 

“What’r you looking for?”  His silvery voice, like a bell.

 

“My name’s Lethe.  Lethe Bashar.  I need some crack.”

 

“Well, how’s that for introductions?  My name’s Sonny.” 

 

The date palms rustled above their heads.

 

“I’m goin’ to take care of you tonight, Mister Lethe.  First off you have to step into my office.  Just so nobody sees us.”  Sonny took three steps back.

 

“Where’s your office?” 

 

“Behind that fence over there.”

 

Lethe followed the black man behind the fence. 

 

“Now how much green you got tonight?”

 

“Two grand.”

 

 

 

“Don’t fuck with me, boy.”

 

“If you don’t believe me you can ask my Uncle.  He’s at the hotel where I’m staying.”

 

“Let me get this straight.  You have two grand on your person?”

 

“Not on me.  I only have forty bucks on me.” 

 

“And what if I slit your throat right here?”

 

“Then you’ll never get the two grand.” 

 

“Do you think you’re McGyver or somethin’?”

 

Lethe didn’t answer.

 

“Okay, I’m going to take you to Mammon’s house.  We’ll see what he says.”

 

“Who’s Mammon?” 

 

“My business partner.  He’s like a god in this town.  Come on, let’s go.  The cops are driving around at this hour.”

 

Since Lethe had departed on his journey from the Inn, he’d wandered out to the edge of the desert.  Sonny took him back to the Lower West Side, where Mammon’s house was located.  The black man skipped through the city like a leprechaun around a pot of gold.  He knew every corner, every stop sign, and every storefront—as if they were all laid out in a coordinate system he had memorized long ago.  He turned down alleyways, slipped through gaming halls, ran up stairwells and Lethe followed at his heels. 

 

Finally they came to a dusty street with a few boarded-up houses.  One of houses at the end of the street was buried in rubble.  The others looked like they were on the verge of a major tear-down.  A single street lamp cast a glow on the remaining houses which appeared to be melting into the ground.  The rotten wood of these houses was as white as the undersides of poisonous mushrooms and the boards were near popping out.  Sonny led Lethe to house no. 108.  The porch had a large black pit underneath it. 

 

“We’re here,” Sonny said as he made a giant leap onto the warped front steps. 

 

They went in.  Lethe snagged his finger on a piece of wire from the screen door.  Blood squirted into the apartment. 

 

At least he had made it this far.