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He was tired.
He'd been travelling too long without a decent bed. Just after lunch, he crossed the California-Nevada line and as he saw it, was headed towards Las Vegas.
He hitched a ride with an Indian native to the state. He asked the Indian what tribe he was from and the Indian welcomed the opportunity to speak of his land and people. As they drove past the Hoover Dam, the Indian told him that the state was thriving and that all the new gaming halls, kept everyone busy and employed.
Getting day work was all he worried about for the time being.
They drove.
He tried to place it but couldn't and asked,
She explained that her family was part of the early spice trade in St. Croix and her island accent was a mish-mash of every country that flew it's flag on the tiny caribbean isle.
"You can hear everything from French to Spanish to Dutch," she explained.
"It's gorgeous," he said.
She smiled. "Thank you..."
"-- Jack," he said. "I'm Jack..."
He rented a room in the Red Light district of town, not far from Freemont and was pretty excited that Joy actually agreed to grab a bottle after her shift and join him.
Granted, the room looked like Louella Parsons' armpit but he was tired and needed something with springs to sleep on. He poured some of the Canadian Club into a mug left behind on the room's dirty sink and offered it.
Kicking off her heels, she scoffed. "I'll drink from the bottle, thanks."
"My kinda girl..." he said swigging the mug before handing over the bottle.
He turned on the radio. Tinny speakers bled the horn of Charlie Parker. Jack shut his eyes and it seemed for a moment, he needed the music more than the whiskey.
Bird spoke to him and he plucked his notebook from the satchel, scribbling something furiously.
Joy arched her eyebrow and then cocked her head, unsure now, of why she was even there.
"I'll be one second, darlin. Just gotta get this down...."
"Well, If you're gonna write, I'm gonna read," she said pulling a small hardcover from her purse.
That peaked his interest. He walked over to her and inspected the spine which read: 'The Naked and the Dead.'
"What's a cupcake like you doin' readin' a war novel?"
"Norman Mailer is a genius," she said snatching back the book.
He giggled condescendingly. "He's a horse's ass is what he is. He was a fuckin' cook. What combat did he see? Anyone who reads a newspaper could've written that."
"Oh, and I suppose you're a writer," Joy snapped, a little more than half-insulted.
"Damn straight, sweetie..." he winked.
"So what do you write about?" she asked swigging a little more hooch.
"I write about real stuff. Me. My friends," he answered. "... And women."
"So what's this great book going to be called?"
He shrugged. "I'm thinking of calling it something like 'On the Highway."
"Were you on many highways?"
He bent over to tie one of his shoes. The lace was about to snap. "More than I can remember, darlin'."
"I like 'On the Road,' better," she said. "Snappier..."
He wasn't sure what to make of her suggestion and kept repeating to himself and then got lost in an approving knod. Then he wrote it down.
He took one last swig from the bottle and kissed her forehead. "I can't hang with a chick who reads Mailer. No offense."
After he left, Joy just stared at the door for what seemed to be something like a half hour. Did that bastard really leave? She thought of leaving herself but the room, shitty as it may be, was paid for. So she decided to finish the Canadian Club and pondered her mystery man.
Some writer, she kept thinking.
###
By midday, the Indian had dropped him downtown in Las Vegas and he hit the first dice joint he saw - the El Cortez. The Indian told him that the place was built around seven years ago for $245,000 and was "The Bee's knees..."
He spent the better part of the afternoon courting Lady Luck, and after realizing he was up about what was worth a carton of cigarettes, he found the casino's coffee shop to get his first meal of the day.
He spent the better part of the afternoon courting Lady Luck, and after realizing he was up about what was worth a carton of cigarettes, he found the casino's coffee shop to get his first meal of the day.
###
Her name was Joy and she was the hostess at the El Cortez Coffee Shop. He asked her for a quiet table away from the counter and as she seated him, poured him some coffee. Black.
"
"You look like you can use some high-test," she said with the slightest hint of an accent.
"You look like you can use some high-test," she said with the slightest hint of an accent.He tried to place it but couldn't and asked,
"Where are you from? That's an awfully sweet voice you have."
She explained that her family was part of the early spice trade in St. Croix and her island accent was a mish-mash of every country that flew it's flag on the tiny caribbean isle.
"You can hear everything from French to Spanish to Dutch," she explained.
"It's gorgeous," he said.
She smiled. "Thank you..."
"-- Jack," he said. "I'm Jack..."
###
He rented a room in the Red Light district of town, not far from Freemont and was pretty excited that Joy actually agreed to grab a bottle after her shift and join him.
Granted, the room looked like Louella Parsons' armpit but he was tired and needed something with springs to sleep on. He poured some of the Canadian Club into a mug left behind on the room's dirty sink and offered it.
Kicking off her heels, she scoffed. "I'll drink from the bottle, thanks."
"My kinda girl..." he said swigging the mug before handing over the bottle.
He turned on the radio. Tinny speakers bled the horn of Charlie Parker. Jack shut his eyes and it seemed for a moment, he needed the music more than the whiskey.
Bird spoke to him and he plucked his notebook from the satchel, scribbling something furiously.
Joy arched her eyebrow and then cocked her head, unsure now, of why she was even there.
"I'll be one second, darlin. Just gotta get this down...."
"Well, If you're gonna write, I'm gonna read," she said pulling a small hardcover from her purse.
That peaked his interest. He walked over to her and inspected the spine which read: 'The Naked and the Dead.'
"What's a cupcake like you doin' readin' a war novel?"
"Norman Mailer is a genius," she said snatching back the book.
He giggled condescendingly. "He's a horse's ass is what he is. He was a fuckin' cook. What combat did he see? Anyone who reads a newspaper could've written that."
"Oh, and I suppose you're a writer," Joy snapped, a little more than half-insulted.
"Damn straight, sweetie..." he winked.
"So what do you write about?" she asked swigging a little more hooch.
"I write about real stuff. Me. My friends," he answered. "... And women."
"So what's this great book going to be called?"
He shrugged. "I'm thinking of calling it something like 'On the Highway."
"Were you on many highways?"
He bent over to tie one of his shoes. The lace was about to snap. "More than I can remember, darlin'."
"I like 'On the Road,' better," she said. "Snappier..."
He wasn't sure what to make of her suggestion and kept repeating to himself and then got lost in an approving knod. Then he wrote it down.
He took one last swig from the bottle and kissed her forehead. "I can't hang with a chick who reads Mailer. No offense."
###
After he left, Joy just stared at the door for what seemed to be something like a half hour. Did that bastard really leave? She thought of leaving herself but the room, shitty as it may be, was paid for. So she decided to finish the Canadian Club and pondered her mystery man.
Some writer, she kept thinking.
"'On the Road' ... Who would ever read that?"
________________________________________________________
About the artist: If you recognize the style of the amazing painting above it's because it's by Rudy Nappi, the talented illustrator who painted a plethora of Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys book covers. Read more about him HERE.
