The elevator ascended the glass tower to the 89th floor. The doors opened and delivered Lethe up to a burgundy lounge area with oversized Louie XIX furniture, gold-framed mirrors, and Roman columns. The elevator closed behind him; soft chimes indicated the elevator was already on its way down. Lethe shot a glance into the mirror across from him and stepped forward.
In the short time he was living in Vegas he had become careless about his appearance. He lived day to day, not knowing if he’d slept or showered or touched a bar of soap. He once placed an exaggerated amount of attention on his looks (see Lethe in Spain: Chapter One), but now he didn’t seem to care at all. It hardly occurred to him that his gamy hair had knots in it and reeked of chlorine. He was in fact proud of the dirt on his neck and underneath his fingernails. The boy-of-the-wild haggard look seemed freakishly beautiful to him.
The 89th floor was empty and hauntingly silent, unlike the gaming halls which echoed with cacophonies of incessant chimes. Leaving the sitting area, he lurked down the cloistered hallway, past the mahogany doors with lion-faced brass knockers. The textured walls and low ceilings produced a mildly claustrophobic reaction in him, as if he were squeezing himself through an underground cellar. There were picture frames on the walls with daguerreotypes of Native American chiefs and gangs of frontiersmen during the gold rush of the 1890s. He glanced at the old photographs as he went by.
He wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about Louie; whether he believed that Louie was treated poorly by his older brother Rick or whether he should have suffered more. There was something outrageous about Louie’s behavior, something morally wrong. But what did Lethe know about morals? Lethe’s morals grew so slack in Vegas that it was almost impossible to tell the difference between those who were acting in his favor and those who were out to take advantage of him.
The hallway was never-ending. It curved around the building in the shape of a crossbow and Lethe kept walking without getting anywhere—like a heavy ball-bearing riding along curved rails. Louie’s cherry-red face flashed between the dignified portraits of the Native American chiefs. More daguerreotypes of the frontiersmen, holding their pick axes straight and their eyes full of liquid hope. More ancient chiefs with battle-weary gazes. Gold was a natural resource. The Great Spirit would prevent human greed.
Lethe caught sight of a nook where telephones, a computer and fax machine were stationed for guests. He laid down on the carpet and put his hands underneath his head to make a pillow. He closed his eyes.
And then, the scene broke into Lethe’s memory like a house catching fire.
They get back to the Inn. Louie wants him to come up to his room—Lethe says “no”. But Louie begs, saying he’ll give Lethe whatever he wants, including the rest of the crack—the crack they stole from his brother. The Chinese woman is sleeping face-down on the mattress. The lights are off when they bust into the room like drunken sailors. Lethe feels a tingling repulsion towards Louie. Anticipating what might happen next, he turns to the door.
“Where are you going?” Louie asks.
“Nowhere. I was just going to use the bathroom.”
Lethe comes out of the bathroom, feeling the spirit of Mammon, a storm of potent rage. “Give me the crack,” he yells.
“Yes, yes,” Louie hurries to take out the drugs.
They burn a pipe together. The Chinese woman is sleeping as soundly as a slab of concrete. Lethe looks at Louie. Louie has that shameful grin on his face. He won’t say what it is he wants, but it’s clear. Lethe takes off his shirt and throws it on the bed. He’s laughing giddilly, which is covering up his nervousness. He pretends to be in control. He wants it to look like he’s performing, like he’s playing a part for Louie.
After Lethe’s shorts go down, Louie wants another hit of crack. He puts the pipe to his mouth and lights it. Lethe is naked.
Louie blows smoke all over Lethe’s genitals. Lethe is still smiling. Abruptly he pulls up his shorts and says, “That’s the end of Chapter One, folks. Tune in next week for the rest of The Novel of Life.”
“What do you mean ‘the end of Chapter One’?” Louie asks, annoyed.
“I mean I’m done for tonight. The shows over. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow for more.”
But Louie knew that Lethe was bluffing. He could see through Lethe’s adolescent Novel.
“Fuck you!” Louie yelled. “You’re not walking out of that door without giving me something. I’ve had enough of this. You’ve been stringing me along this whole time. I gave you money, I gave you drinks, I gave you drugs. And all I’ve got in return is a whole lot of nothing.”
The scene dissolved—disappeared instantly. Lethe felt his head on top of his hands. He was still lying on the carpet.
He got up slowly and picked up the phone and dialed a string of numbers . . .
“Hello?”
“Mom it’s me.”
“Lethe?”
“Yes Mom, I’m here. I missed you so much. I want to come home now. I’m ready to come home.”
“Where are you sweetie?”
“I’m in Las Vegas, Mom. Nevada. But I’m ready to come home.”
End of Part One
To visit the next Novel in the series, click here.
(Table of Contents)
