Deception

I decided that while I was here it was important to run the strip in its entirety as I had the Embarcadero in San Francisco a couple of weeks earlier, not really knowing how far that might be. It didn’t matter, only that something inside saw this as another opportunity to do something I had never done, and something I might never do again, another challenge.
I walked the winding, narrow, terra cotta colored path from the lobby to the sidewalk through the thickly torsoed, stunted palms, brushing my hand over one of the coarse trunks in an attempt to determine its authenticity. My hotel was nearly at the north end and I knew from past descents into the airport that the southern most and the last of the casinos bordered the edge of the runways.
I got up to speed quickly, no longer concerned with my athletic abilities, and moved past the nearest resort, the one that I’d stopped into last night out of sheer boredom and left an hour later with an extra hundred and forty, a rare victory in a town that exists purely for defeat, knowing that I would return the ill gotten cash to its rightful owners before my short visit was through.
The structure is vast; with three rectangular, white towers and a glistening, red quartz pavillion behind that is substantial enough to demonstrate the effects of aerial perspective as clearly as the surrounding mountains.
The blocks run the full length of each sprawling behemoth and the street curves just enough to make my final destination impossible to see.
A massive open pit behind a tarp covered fence was next, just to my right, where the smell of raw sewage permeated the air, and although the sidewalk is well maintained, hand mopped daily, the narrow grassy area just off to the side is littered with broken bottles, discarded plastic yard glasses spewing festively striped drinking straws, business cards and flyers featuring prostitutes who are probably pictured as far more attractive then they actually are, and the dispelled fantasies of instant fortune and the hopes of an end to lives of mediocrity.
The majority of the trash cans that line the streets spill over with Martini glasses and smell of rancid cocktails and stale vomit, quite distant from the odors of freshly baked bread and frying bacon that accompanied me on my journey towards Fisherman’s Wharf.
Near the heart of the strip, where the largest crowds will travel in drunken hoards during the evening hours, the cross streets are fenced and the only way to keep moving is via escalators and overhead bridges. This was certainly a new experience but I never hesitated, scaling the moving steel treads and quickly maneuvering through the tunnels and landings that led back to ground level.
I passed them all, Caesar’s Palace, Circus Circus, Wynn, Treasure Island, all of the bronze statuary that isn’t, the figures that aspire to simulate Carrarra marble but are nothing more than Styrofoam and stucco, the Eiffel Tower, Chrysler Building, Statue of Liberty and the Sphinx, all on the same avenue, the fountains that dance and the lure of gold leaf and grandeur that drag travelers into its jaws, only to spit them back onto the pristine walkways when they are no longer useful.
I passed more than one, lying on the sidewalk just after dawn, trying to shake off the shame and the loss and the embarrassment, only here these things are far less important than the next drink, and the next bet, and the next seduction, this is what they are here for.
One was dressed a beige suit while his friend was unreserved about belittling him, shouting at him until he got to his feet, which appeared doubtful; another was a woman, fetus-like on the sidewalk while a man sat very close by on an inverted, white five gallon pail holding his head in his hands. They probably had a room somewhere but never stood a chance of finding or reaching it.
I got to the end and crossed, heading back on the other side. The trip so far had been quite a bit longer than I expected as I once again crossed paths with other runners, and once again waved without response, without eye contact. I seriously doubt that I can possibly be that offensive in appearance or as menacing as I seem to be.
The Heavenly Bliss Wedding Chapel fell somewhere near the middle of my return trip; a small circular building where one could not only marry, but purchase discount Grand Canyon helicopter tour tickets, pick up souvenirs and T shirts, and gain internet access for only twenty five cents per minute.
Back past the Riviera and pedestrians wielding open beers and half filled plastic cocktail glasses, while couples sat at outdoor concrete tables with Bloody Mary’s in hand.
As I finally neared my hotel, moving along the sign on the fence advertising the three million dollar condos that would soon be available, I spotted another rectangle displaying the toll free number for reporting excessive dust from the seemingly untamable construction, the only law that appears to exist here or is in any way enforced.
I didn’t stop until I reached the glass doors to the lobby, slowing enough to allow them to slide open, welcoming me back to the sanctuary of one of the few structures that doesn’t contain a casino… or a restaurant (food is an afterthought on the strip, but alcohol is complimentary as long as you’re playing) and the quiet solitude of my eighteenth floor room.
I’d finished what I had set out to do and began preparing myself for the day ahead, the convention center and the clients, the inevitable errands that would be required of me, the union labor, and my selfish wishes that once all involved were satisfied, I could walk out the door for the last time and would never have to return to this place of unbridled deceit, where the untruths and the greed of corporate empires hide behind their fiberglass idols and theatrical facades.