THE VEGAS VET
Vegas in the summertime, a few weeks back. It was 103 degrees on the Strip, where my sons and I walked in shorts and flip-flops outside the MGM Grand, through the mist machines set up on the sidewalks every few hundred feet, past the doorways of shops gushing air-conditioned air, stepping over the confetti-litter of thousands of business cards advertising girls who promised to come to your hotel room and fuck you (some of them take credit cards). Men lurched by with 3-foot-tall plastic containers filled with strawberry margaritas, contemplating who knows what: what they were going to do now that they’d been cleaned out at the Bellagio, or if what happened to them in Vegas last night would really stay in Vegas, or who that woman was they’d just told their whole life story to at the bar?
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