Vegas Vacation, Part III

All in all, our time in Vegas was lots of fun. Perhaps a bit more placid than I might have anticipated, but we were all middle-aged and most of us married, the occasional one respectably so. With that in mind, here’s the true highlight of the trip.

Thursday night we were at The Rio (fine scenery) and it was time to head back to home base. There were six us and a rental Hondo Civic that seats five. So one of our number (who shall rename nameless because it was such a stupid thing to do) volunteered to get into the trunk so there would be enough room to fit all of us in the car. The trunk was popped open, Kevin (oops) folded himself in, and I took four photos for documentation. The door was closed with the appropriate “thunk,” and the rest of us piled inot the car. There was some thought of lingering a while and getting a drink before we left, but we were uncertain of the oxygen content of automotive trunks. Besides, nobody was really looking forward to giving him mouth to mouth ventilations. He doesn’t brush real regularly.

(By the way, this decision was made without the benefit of significant amounts of alcohol. I’m thinking that we had been drinking, transport of the extra person would have involved a spider monkey, a party hat, gelato, and duct tape.)

We came out of the parking lot, pulled into a turning lane, and found ourselves immediately adjacent to two of Clark County’s finest law enforcement officers. It was probably a good thing we weren’t trying to jam us all in the care by sitting on laps, as I’m sure that would have violated some sort of traffic regulation. (Turns out it does…Nevada Revised Statute 484D.495, to be precise). So we were very glad that Kevin had chosen to stow away in trunk. On the other hand, we were a bit afraid of what would happen if at that moment he decided that the combination of exhaust fumes and disorientation were too much and pulled the glow-in-the-dark level to pop out in full view of the gendarmes.

(It turns out that I didn’t need to worry about disorientation. I thought he might get motion sick through a “sensory mismatch”…the semicircular canals in the inner ear that that control balance would tell him that his body was moving in space, but his eyes would see only darkness, and the two conflicting inputs would induce nausea and vomiting. I had no idea how we would get that stuff out of the trunk. Plus, Kevin had been to the buffet with the rest of us, so I knew whatever came up would not be just liquid that make evaporate in the desert heat before it was time to turn the car on the following day. But Kevin did a great job of focusing, continually texting us from the trunk, keeping himself oriented by the glow of the cell phone screen and noting, “I’m okay. I’m okay,” just like Jodie Foster did in the movie Contact before she was dropped into the alien machine and became a reclusive lesbian. Or maybe it was the other way around.)

We’re nearing the hotel, and then we’re past it. Suddenly our anonymous chauffer (let’s call him “Armando”) realizes he missed the turn. So it’s time for a you-eee (no idea how to spell that) to get back to the main entrance. He takes the turn, and suddenly we hear pounding behind the back seat and a small muffled voice shouting, “Hey! You didn’t tell me about that!”

The car stops, and the bellhop asks if we need help with our bags. We motioned him around to the back of the car. Imagine his surprise when we popped the trunk and Kevin jumped out. (I’m not at liberty to use his exact phrase, but let’s say it had, lots of something to do with sacred excrement.) And of course he didn’t get a tip, because the luggage walked inside on its’ own. For my part, I was just happy it was Kevin who came out of the trunk and not an angry naked Chinese mobster with a tire iron. I’ve seen “The Hangover.”

It’s Vegas. Things happen. And maybe they stay there…unless it’s a really good story.