Henderson

Henderson, NV.  A small city 20 minutes outside the Las Vegas strip, embarking on an evening with some locals that I know nothing of.  The plan is to have a night out on the strip, starting with some sushi, followed by a night club, followed by an after hours night club.  But first a quick stop to pick up Sam and Jo.  We pull up to the garage way of the cul-de-sac track home, a concoction of the real estate boom that hit Las Vegas and the cities surrounding it in the beginning part of the century.  Each track bears a couple of trees that show little signs of adaptation to their new desert environment, only five feet high or so, with a handful of leaves.  The grass remains uneven and reminiscent of freshly laid out sod.  These homes offer all the elements that would attract your average American from middle America to dislodge in hopes of landing the American dream; owning a brand new home, (complete with granite counters) in a warm desert climate, and the promise of a swift rise in real estate values.  Oh, and lets not forget, the added bonus of being 20 minutes from "America's playground."  

I am introduced to Jo in their garage, whose busy taking some things out from his car.  I learn that he's a day trader who moved from Ohio to Las Vegas a few years ago.  He's dressed how one would expect a day trader to dress, black slacks with a pin striped shirt carefully tucked into his pants.  Minutes later we are joined by his wife Sam, who walks into the garage, wobbly and unsteady, wearing, a tight hot pink miniskirt, a white tank top, no bra, and clear six inch heels, with long braided hair that comes just above her noticeably high and rounded stump.  I am suddenly wondering if everyone here dresses like this, and if this is the result of staying in Vegas long enough, where wearing undergarments and regular heels is just too boring and not adventurous enough for residents of this town.  

It doesn't take long before she reveals during casual conversation, just as a matter of fact kind of thing, that she works at a "high-end gentlemen's club" in Las Vegas.  I fiercely try to not show a reaction, but I am afraid the shock factor was out of my range of control, I begin to feel my eyes bulging out of my lids, like a hyperthyroid patient, I am frozen and have no words.  Thank God, Jo interrupts this awkward exchange and asks me what I do, I am embarrassed and reply reluctantly under my tongue, "I am a Pharmacist." He nods his head up and down, "okay..., okay..., that's great! Could you hook up some vicodins?" and laughs out loud, proud of his clever comment, as if I've never been asked that question before.  

This is where I begin to seriously doubt my sense and judgement and all the decisions that have lead me to this odd circumstance.  What have I done? What kind of predicament have I put myself in? Be normal, don't be obvious, I begin to say to myself, there is nothing wrong, they are just your average couple, living in Las Vegas.  Their attire and choice of profession is really none of your business.  The three of them continue their conversation about something I can't recall since I stopped paying attention unwillingly a few minutes before.  Sam asks if I would be interested in having a tour of the house, I accept, eager to leave the awkwardness behind, and desperate to get as far away from Jo as possible.  I felt undeniably hazardous  and unsafe in his presence, and couldn't wait to depart that scene.  

Sam and I walk into their house, that's been carefully decorated with candles, potted plants, and landscape art.  So typical and ordinary.  She shows me Jo's office, a desk crowded with three large screen computer monitors lined up side by side, like he was a NASA scientist or hard core gamer.  She then shows me their guest bedroom, and reveals that she's hoping to turn this room into a nursery hopefully soon; disclosing that they've been trying to have a baby for several months now, and starting to get frustrated.  "We need to take some time off from trying.  We've been clean for so long, but we both need a break," she says.  Clean.  I understand that to mean free of drugs, but am suddenly reminded of their lifestyle and begin to wonder if clean means free from swinging.  I stop and remind myself that these are regular people who want to have a baby, a healthy baby.  That's why they want to be clean.  

Sam walks us back into the garage, and announces that we should leave since the the rest of her girls are probably at the restaurant waiting.  She adjusts her skirt attempting to lower it down a bit, teetering and unsettled in her platform clear heels.  We pile into the back seat of Jo's unremarkable silver sedan.  He pulls out of the garage of his Henderson dream home, and turns at the stop sign and speeds away from the neighborhood.  He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a small zip lock bag about half the size of my palm, filled with white powdery dust.  One hand holding up the bag, and the other holding the steering wheel.  It's still day light out.  "Dear God, please bless this cocaine and those who have prepared it for us, we need your blessing and forgiveness for any sins that we have and will commit tonight." He puts the bag back in his pocket and continues to drive.  

His wife turns to me with hope-filled glassy eyes framed with sweeping long fake eye-lashes.  She plays with the tips of her braids and says, in her deep Nigerian accent, "We'll probably start trying again next month."  

Sanaz Namin