A Mild Evening in Vegas

A MILD EVENING IN VEGAS

BY

NATHAN MARSHBURN

COPYRIGHT 2019

173 NE Hernando Ave., #115

Lake City, FL 32055

It is a mild evening in Las Vegas. Halloween. I wish I was going to a costume party somewhere. But being relatively new to the city, I have not made many friends- at least none who’ve invited me to a party. Also, I’m scheduled to work tonight and I don’t have enough money or time on the job yet to take a shift off.

Right now, I stand in front of the prime spot, the corner parking space that lines up well with the entrance from Sahara Drive. One day shortly after I was hired and learned the rules of the game, I tried to keep statistics. When a car comes on the lot, if that space is open then the car would park there about seven out of ten times. I have been guarding the prime spot for around ten minutes as the sun goes down. Other salesmen are milling about, waiting for me to abandon my slot. But I am good to go for a while, and we’re due to get a customer.

The rules for the salesmen of the lot are if a car pulls into the parking space that you’re standing in front of, then you get first shot at making the sale. “A person doesn’t come on the lot unless they want to buy” is one of the first things my sales manager told me.

Finally, after a dull few minutes, we all spy a car slowly pulling into the dealership from the roadway. The salesmen in their shirts and ties become alert while trying to look relaxed. We all line the sidewalk outside of the showroom, each standing in front of an empty parking space. Sure enough, the car creeps into the first parking space- mine.

Like the other salesmen, I try not to appear too eager. I try not to think about how much I need to make this sale. The drive keeps the engine running as I maintain my smile and avoid staring at him through his windshield. But his headlights are on, right in my eyes. As he continues to sit in the space, the lights quickly becoming annoying.

I look at Michael, the coworker standing in the next space over. He grins at me great big.

The driver shuts off the engine, but the lights stay on in my face. Is the customer doing this on purpose?

I can’t think like that. Even if he is, I have been taught from day one in this job that in order to make the sale, I need to purge my mind of all negative thoughts. He’s got to turn off the lights soon. It will drain his battery. Maybe the car has an automatic turnoff.

The driver’s door opens and he steps out. I’m about to say hello, but I see that he is talking on his cell phone. So I pause. He walks away from me, still talking. Michael stifles a laugh as I look at him again. I move out from the beams of the lights and they immediately turn off on their own.

What to do? My parking spot is blown. This is my customer or my “Up” as the term goes in the industry. I step off the sidewalk and quietly follow the customer out on the asphalt. He keeps his eyes down and speaks into the phone with a soft voice. I cannot hear what he is saying. I don’t want to start off our dialogue by interrupting him. That’s being pushy- at least for my personality style. It hurts my chances.

But this guy is not even looking at the inventory as he walks through the lot. His ear remains glued to his phone as he weaves in and out of the lines of new cars. Now, still with his back to me, he begins walking faster.

Okay, I think to myself. He’s playing a game. He’s probably interested in buying a car, but he also does not want to talk to a salesman. I elect to back off and leave him alone. As I make my way back to the sidewalk, I look at the other salesmen.

“That’s my up when he decides he wants to talk to somebody,” I say.

They acknowledge me.

So now I’m going to go inside the showroom and pretend to occupy myself when in actuality I will be watching him through the large glass exterior of the building.

To my angst, Bart, one of the other salesmen outside, begins walking toward the customer. I think that I am pretty well-liked by everyone here, and it is surprising that Bart might try to snake me. Behind the sales counter, seated about three feet above the floor, the shift manager appears to be studying his computer screen. But I have known him long enough to know that he is aware of every customer who comes on the lot. The manager keeps an eye on how the sales staff interacts with them. I’m not sure that he would be a good person to go to and complain about Bart snaking my deal. The manager just cares about making the sale, and he doesn’t care who does it. The manager might not even consider it to be snaking. “You walked away from the up before you’d even introduced yourself,” I can hear him saying.

In an effort to maintain my own positive state of mind, I will pretend like the manager doesn’t know a thing. As I watch through the glass, I see that Bart is not having any more success than me- which is satisfying. The fellow continues to talk on his phone and ignores Bart. He’s probably faking the phone call.

Bart shakes his head and walks back up the building. Now I’ll go outside to needle him on his failure.

“That guy’s not serious about buying a car,” Bart says to me as soon as I step out.

“What are you talking about?” I ask. “A guy doesn’t come on the lot unless he wants to buy. He didn’t park here for no reason.”

“I’ll bet he’s a roach, just killin’ some time,” Michael chimes in.

“Now that’s a possibility,” Bart replies. “Remember that dude last week who just wanted a bottle of water from you?”

“Like I was obligated to give it to him,” I say.

“It was a warm, day, man,” Bart laughs.

“Warm but not hot,” Michael continues. “You haven’t seen what it’s like to work on this lot in the summer months. Everybody’s way of operating gets interesting, then.”

“Yeah, so’s that guy’s way of operating,” I reply, nodding toward the customer still on his phone.

“He’s your up,” Michael says. “Make the call. Is he a buyer or not?”

“Let’s wait and see when he gets off the phone,” I answer, fully aware that Michael wants me to concede so that he can take a shot.

Finally, the customer does take the phone from his ear. He looks down at the screen, taps it and then puts the phone in his pocket.

“Here we go,” I mutter to my colleagues as I step off the sidewalk once again.

The “up” starts reading pricing and features on the stickers we’ve posted on the windows of the vehicles. He must see me coming out of his periphery vision, because he turns his back on me again and starts to walk away.

“Enough of this,” I say almost loud enough for him to hear.

I haven’t gotten a sale all week. I need something to happen, especially when management tells me that they expect us to sell a car a day. That’s unrealistic to my mind, but one of the old salesmen who has been around here for years comes close during some months.

The other guys see my frustration as I retreat to the sidewalk a second time. I don’t want to tell them to have at it, though, because of the embarrassment that will come if they actually make a sale.

Evidently, I’m wearing what I’m thinking and feeling on my face because Michael turns to Bart and asks, “You want to get him?”

“Yeah, let’s get him,” Bart says.

Both guys step off quickly from the sidewalk, and I can’t help but smile at Michael’s gait. He is deliberately strutting with one hand in his pocket.

“Excuse me, sir!” he calls loudly.

Meanwhile, Bart takes off on a flanking maneuver.

I stifle a laugh when I see that the guy is startled. He turns and quickly walks away from Michael, not seeing that he is headed right for Bart.

Just as the “up” spots him, Bart asks, equally as loud, “Are you interested in new or used?”

I watch in amazement as the guy says nothing and literally runs back to his car- where I am standing.

I don’t say anything to him. He makes eye contact with me. I shrug and hold out my hands as if to express, “What do you expect us to do?” I’m trying to show sympathy for him as one final shot to make the sale if it exists. The gesture seems to slow him down a little, but nonetheless he climbs into his vehicle, closes the door, starts the engine and pulls out.

“What was that all about?” I hear a female voice behind me ask.

I turn and see an attractive Latina.

“I’m not sure,” I answer. “We thought he was interested in buying a car but I guess he was here for some other reason.”

“You guys have a professional way of handling it.” She watches as Bart and Michael come back up to the sidewalk. They are just as surprised to see her standing there as I am.

Michael is the first to recover. “May we help you, Miss?”

“Yes, I’m interested in seeing your selection,” she replies.

I kick myself for screwing up the opportunity. Mike asked her the question. She’s his “up” now.

But then the woman says, “I was just asking this gentleman here if he could show me the Civics and Accords. What is your name?” she asks me.

“Brad. Brad Melton,” I answer. “And yours?”

“Samantha.”

She holds out her hand. I take it. It is warm and smooth to the touch.

Bart’s face betrays a flash of disappointment before he smiles and retreats to the sidewalk.

But Michael stands there for a moment with a big grin- incredulous that this woman would seek my help over his. So I have to lead her away from him. Don’t kill the deal, I’m telling him in my mind.

“We’ve got some Civics right over here.”

I can feel his eyes staring a hole in the back of my head as we walk away.

Now comes the tricky part, the part that I’ve had to learn on the job: How to talk to someone when I have an agenda. It still has to seem friendly and natural. Added to the mix is the fact that this is an attractive woman who for some reason has picked me to be her salesperson.

Don’t think about that, I tell myself. Just roll with it.

“Any preference on the Civic or the Accord?” I ask as we walk along.

“No, not yet. I’ll probably want to test drive both of them.”

“Are you from Las Vegas?” I ask perhaps a bit too quickly.

“How many people have actually answered yes to the question?” she asks me in turn.

“I can’t think of a single one,” I reply quickly with a smile.

“Well, I’m not from very far away,” she says. “I was born in Bakersfield, California.”

We both hear popping noises in the distance that sound like explosions to me. Then a rumbling sound reverberates toward us.

“My god,” Samantha exclaims.

Then I remember what I saw on the news this morning before I came to work. “That’s probably the implosion of the Royal House Casino,” I tell her.

“Really? I’ve never seen one of those, and I’ve been living here for two years,” Samantha says.

“What else could it be?” I reply.

“If we hear a bunch of sirens, then we’ll know it was something different,” Samantha says.

“Or the implosion went wrong,” I add.

She laughs. Good. The ice is broken a bit, and I’m more relaxed with my next move.

“Still want to look at the Civics?” I ask. My tone makes it more a statement than a question.

“Of course. Lead the way.”

I escort her to a line of our new arrivals, and then I revert to my standard procedure. I take a step back and let her look on her own.

After a minute, she puts her hand on the hood of a burgundy car.

“This one,” she says.

“You want to test drive that one? Hold on and I’ll go get the keys.”

Inside the store, the manager has the keys waiting and hands them to me. “That’s a good ‘up’ right there,” he says.

“Yeah, she’s a buyer,” I reply, and quickly exit.

But her eyes are not on the car when I come back to her.

“Look at that,” she tells me.

I follow her eyes to the southern horizon. A gigantic dust cloud is illuminated by the lights of the city as it rises high in the air.

“You were right. That has to be from the demolition,” Samantha says.

“Well, this should be a test drive you remember if for no other reason than that,” I tell her.

I hold up the keys for her to take, and she accepts them. But then she suddenly turns her head to the south again. “Listen! Do you hear that?”

I hear a high pitched sound coming from the distance. “What is that?” I ask. “It sounds like…”

“It sounds like screaming,” Samantha finishes for me.

The sound tapers off, but does not completely go away.

“Maybe it’s some sort of special effects from an outdoor show,” I suggest.

“I don’t know… Maybe there is a crowd enjoying a show over there,” she says.

“We can hop in this Civic and ride over that way to check it out if you want.”

She uses the key fob to unlock the doors and opens the driver’s side. “Or not ride that way,” she says as she climbs in.

I quickly hop into the passenger seat. “I’m kind of curious as to seeing the rubble and what’s over there, but let’s go where you want to go,” I tell her.

“If we head over there, we’ll just get stuck in traffic.” Samantha says.

“That’s true. How about I-15 North, then? You can get it up to speed on the highway.”

“Good idea,” she agrees.

She starts the engine. As we pull out of the lot, I wave to Bart and Michael, who stare at me with blank envy. She takes a right on Sahara Avenue. After a few blocks, she comes to the interchange for I-15. But instead of making the turn for the northbound traffic, she drives onto the ramp for southbound I-15.

I don’t say anything. The idea is for her to like the car and not to interfere with that.

But she looks over at me. “Yes, I know where I’m going,” she says. She merges into traffic and accelerates quickly. In a few seconds, we are barreling down the highway at 80 miles per hour, passing most of the other traffic. “What’s the exit for the Royal House Casino?” she asks.

“It’s not there anymore,” I answer.

She glances at me and I laugh. Smiling, she gazes out her side window. “Look, you can still see the dust cloud,” she says.

I bend down to peer across her out the driver’s side window. Sure enough, it’s still there and still illuminated by all the city lights below.

“Must be a still night,” I say.

“I actually don’t live that far from the Royal House, but I’m not sure if it’s the same exit that I use to go home,” she says. “I’m curious to see if we can find out what that noise was- the screaming.”

“Have at it,” I say, trying to remain consistent with my best approach to making a sale- staying relatively quiet during the test drive and let the customer lead the conversation. The goal is for them to pay attention to the car, to develop an emotional response to it.

“So you’ve not been selling cars that long,” she says as she takes an exit ramp.

I try to sound casual. “What makes you say that?”

“Just the vibe you give off. This all doesn’t come naturally for you. You’re not an extrovert.”

“That’s perceptive,” I say. “I’m trying to teach myself to be an extrovert.”

She makes a left onto Flamingo Road. The Royal House or what is left of it should be a couple of miles ahead.

“Why?” she asks.

“It’s a happier life, being a people person,” I reply.

“You think so? What makes you say that?”

“To be an extrovert, to enjoy being around people, you need to keep your mind on positive thoughts, pump yourself up with positive emotions. There’s no room for negativity if you’re going to be a good salesman.”

“I agree with you there,” she says. “Has it been hard for you to try to do that?”

“It’s getting easier. And I am enjoying the process. I feel like I am learning a trade.”

Now I think I’m safe in pushing the conversation further. “What do you do here in Vegas?” I ask.

“I’m a student,” she answers.

“At UNLV?”

“Uh-huh. Studying business. I’ve got one more semester to go before I graduate.”

“That’s a good degree to have,” I say. “Think you’ll want to stay in this area after you graduate?”

“We’ll see what offers come up. But I bet you’re wondering how a student is going to pay for a new car?”

“Okay?” I muse.

“I also have a job. I’ll be able to pay with cash if I want it.”

I regard her for a moment. My guess is that she is a dancer, but I hesitate to ask what her job is.

Why do I hesitate? I try not to think about why. But really the answer is that if I know she is an exotic dancer, then she will have more of an effect on me. It will give her power- something that may not be good for making the sale.

She smiles at me like she knows what I am thinking. I decide not to mention to her that cash payments over a certain amount have to be reported to the IRS. I don’t know what the threshold amount is, and it’s better to let management and the finance guys deal with that objection. We come to a stop at a traffic light.

“I’m happy for you, that you’re in a position where you can pay cash,” I say. “How’s the car feeling?

“I like it. It’s smooth and quiet and has good pickup,” she replies. “It’s okay with you to take it over toward the Royal House?”

“Yeah, sure. That’s what, only a mile or two up the road.”

We get into a green zone of traffic lights once we’re past the Strip and zip through the intersections. Up ahead, we can see the flashing blue lights of multiple parked police cars.

“So you see yourself doing this for a career?” she asks.

I turn to her and our eyes meet. A little thrill of electricity surges through me. Unless I am just reading her completely wrong, she is interested in me beyond simply buying a car. Women like her never ask me questions like that. I am beyond surprised.

But then my old suspicions return. You don’t understand someone until you know what they want. What does she want? Is it me? Or is it more likely that she wants a good price on this car and she thinks I have some say in that. I actually don’t have a say. My job is to line them up on the right car, a car they can afford. Samantha is paying cash, so it seems to be good. If the up likes the car, then we go inside back at the dealership to talk numbers. That’s when management takes over. At that point, I just sit at the table. I’m under instructions not to speak. The first time that I said something while the manager was trying to negotiate, I got kicked under the table.

But back to the look on her face. I think about what her occupation might be- if she is a student but also has enough cash on hand to pay for a car. If she is an exotic dancer, then that would also be an explanation for her look. She’s in the habit of giving that look to lots of guys and being rewarded for it.

“I can see myself doing this for a career if I get good enough at it,” I tell her. “When people like you show up, it makes the job very enjoyable.”

She turns her attention back to the police lights ahead, and I don’t know the effect my comments have on her.

Suddenly there is a loud thud. The windshield shatters and the car lurches to the right. Through the broken glass, I see that we are headed straight for a light pole. I reach for the steering wheel to try to change course, but everything happens too fast. We slam hard into the pole and an airbag explodes into my face. I am disoriented, and lose my sense of time. The world doesn’t go entirely black, but it becomes foggy.

For a moment I want to stay in that fog. But through the haze I hear distant sounds. Disturbing sounds. This is not a safe place. I am not in a safe condition. A closer, crunching sound forces me to my senses, more or less. Whatever it was that hit our windshield was thrown against the pole. But now it is moving, and rolls off the crumpled hood of the car. It is a person. Bits of glass crunch as he or she moves and steps on the pavement.

To my left I see Samantha, apparently unconscious. Hopefully she is not dead. We didn’t hit hard enough for that to be the case, I don’t think. I see her chest moving up and down heavily.

I try to gather myself. I understand that we have wrecked. But something else is going on outside the car. I hear police sirens and gunshots. Various people are screaming or shouting panicked phrases. And then there is the person we hit rolling off the hood and windshield of the car. I see them standing next to the driver’s side door.

I cannot see the face- just the torso all dressed in black. They’ve got to be hurt badly. But no. The person opens the door, sticks an arm inside, and grabs Samantha by her hair. This jolts her eyes open. Her eyes grow wide as the person pulls her by her hair out of the car. She screams.

“Jesus! Hold on!” I shout as I open my own door and stumble out. A new surge of adrenaline spikes in my chest as I struggle to gain my balance and run around the car. I know that I’m going into combat.

I see that it is a man who has her and I lunge at him as hard as I can, knocking us both to the ground. He releases Samantha. She tries to roll underneath the car for protection.

Blood drips onto my hand, and I realize that I must have been injured in the accident. But there is no time for an assessment of the damage. The dude gets up and comes at me- hissing! His eyes are red and he has long, sharp incisor teeth.

“A damn vampire!” I shout as I lunge toward him again.

My shoulder strikes him in the stomach and I knock him backwards. But I feel him grip my arm close to the shoulder, and find myself suddenly hurtling high through the air. I realize that he has tossed me with superhuman strength. I sail over a wall lining the street, landing with a painful thud on a mixture of gravel and desert brush. This time, I do lose consciousness.

The sound of more sirens brings me to. My head and body ache from the impacts, but amazingly I don’t think any bones are broken. I get to my feet. On this side of the wall, all is darkness. It is an empty lot. I’m probably safe here- at least for the moment. Adrenaline surges through me again, though, at the memory and thought of what is on the other side of this wall. It is short enough for me to put my hands on top and pull myself up. Cautiously, I do so.

What I see is apocalyptic. There is the rubble of the Royal House, illuminated by bright, gigantic while portable lamps no doubt brought in for the demolition.

But there are also bodies. Not just bodies, but pieces of bodies and pools of blood everywhere. Did the building imploding cause all of this mayhem? Was it really a vampire that I saw?

That thought hits me almost as hard as the car accident. A vampire? I scan the area to see who or what might still be alive. I hear the police sirens come closer, but the scene in front of me is eerily desolate. The smashed Honda Civic is to the left. I remember Samantha.

Hoisting myself up onto the wall, I feel the soreness in my back and stomach. I’ll just have to trust that nothing is majorly wrong with me. I hop down on the other side and look underneath the car. To my surprise and relief, Samantha is still there.

I look around to see if anyone else is close, but I see nothing. I crouch down again, and this time Samantha turns her wide eyes toward me. After a second, recognition comes into them. She silently mouths the words, “Are they gone?”

“I think so,” I whisper back.

She is braver than I thought she would be, and moves quickly out from under the car.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“No. For a whole bunch of reasons,” she replies.

“Where are you hurt?” I ask, trying to be more specific.

“I think I hit my head pretty hard, and more than once,” she says. “And I have no idea what is going on here.”

“I don’t either,” I say, “but I’m pretty sure that was some sort of vampire that attacked us.”

“I know. There were lots of them,” Samantha says.

I look around again. “Lots?” I ask. “Where did they all go?”

“I don’t know. They wandered off into the darkness. But we’re not safe out here. Let’s get off the street.”

She’s limping a little as we start to move. I offer her my arm, but she doesn’t take it.

“I can walk,” she says. “I can run if we need to.”

We make our way along the wall lining the street- the wall that the vampire tossed me over. It ends after another block, where a chain link fence connecting to it at a right angle veers away from Flamingo Road toward the south. The wall and the fence appear to completely enclose the vacant lot. On the backside of the lot a couple blocks away, I see a Walgreens pharmacy lit up.

“Do you think you can make it there?” I ask Samantha.

“Yeah, if we don’t run into any bad guys.”

We try to stay quiet as we walk, and fortunately we make it to the Walgreens without incident. Standing outside the sliding glass doors to the store is what appears to be a homeless man. His eyes are wild and he regards us with fear and suspicion.

As we move past him into the store, I can feel him relax. Perhaps he knows what has happened on the other side of the wall, and he realizes we are not the danger? I stop and turn to him?

“Did you see it?” I ask. “Did you see what happened at the implosion?”

“Yes,” he says. “It’s the end of Las Vegas. Maybe the end of the world. Get out of here while you still can.

“Maybe you’ve sold your last car,” Samantha tells me.

Her humor at the situation surprises me.

“I mean, we’d have to find you a different Civic, but I hope the test drive has not changed your mind about the quality of the vehicle,” I reply. We both laugh.

But the homeless man peers out into the darkness.

“My god, look at that,” he says.

Samantha and I jerk our eyes back across the vacant lot. A woman off in the distance appears to be floating toward us, like Jesus walking on water.

The homeless man scampers away. “God be with us,” he whispers hoarsely.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, preparing to follow behind the guy. But Samantha puts her hand on my arm to stop me.

“I know that woman,” she says. Samantha continues to study her. “Yes, that’s her. That’s Michelle.”

I can see that Samantha wants to stay. And for the first time since I’ve met her, I’m feeling the desire to pull away, to get away. That is danger coming toward us, whether Samantha knows it or not. My instincts are telling me to flee.

“I still think we should get out of here,” I say.

Samantha turns to me. “She’s a friend of mine. She might need our help.”

Our. She said “our.” She did not say that she might need “my” help.

That decides me. Samantha has invested in me emotionally. At least that is how I am taking her response. I made up my mind that I was very attracted to her within 30 seconds of meeting her. Now, this crisis has triggered an attachment in her to me. She is the most beautiful woman to ever take an interest in me. Vampires or no, I cannot let this opportunity go by.

“Okay,” I tell her. I actually find the courage and confidence to take her by the hand and interlock our fingers. She seems distracted by this, but I smile reassuringly.

“Michelle” is in front of us quicker than I realize. It is too late for me to react as she grips my throat with an icy cold hand. There can be no question, “Michelle” is another vampire.

I feel Samantha let go of my own hand, but I see that she is not running away. Samantha stands calmly still, her face an expressionless blank, her eyes interlocked with the vampire’s.

One of my last thoughts is that perhaps Samantha has been hypnotized. “Michelle” turns her dark red eyes toward me. I hear “Michelle’s” thoughts without her speaking.

“A beautiful woman can always get you to act against your common sense, Brad,” the creature tells me. “And a beautiful woman has gotten you killed by a vampire.”

I see “Michelle” smile with sharp, glistening incisors. The teeth plunge toward my neck. There is the beginning of pain, and then everything fades to darkness…