Star Trek Convention, Las Vegas: August 2010 Part II

photo © 2010 David Shankbone | more info (via: Wylio)

Saturday night.

"Are you going to get Patrick Stewart's autograph tomorrow?" she asked me.

"No," I replied. "I get too embarrassed with the whole autograph-asking thing."

"Well, I am," she stated, with a tone that told me she's been itching to share that with anybody she came in contact with. "I'm going to get his autograph," she continued, "and then I'm going to ask him out on a date. I hear he's single again. And that he likes younger women..."

(This woman was in her early 40s, Caucasian, rail-thin, brown-haired, but still had her looks, and most important of all, she didn't have a crazy glint in her eye. I know crazy: I've worked with crazy, I've talked to crazy, I've loved crazy, so I'm a bit of an expert on crazy, and this woman didn't seem looney-tunes. And yet.)

This conversation between her and I was taking place at the Space Quest Bar, located inside the Hilton Hotel, and near to where Star Trek: The Experience used to be. There was a wall covering the gaping hole where it once stood, and my friends and I were tipsily scrawling our names on it.

We weren't the first.

Earring

photo © 2009 Spotlight Forest | more info (via: Wylio)

Hello, you little Earring, you! How are you? Look at you, so damned cute and tiny! A little diamond stud, with a "butterfly" back (even though you don't have wings), rolling around in my vanity's drawer for almost four years. My, my, my. I must confess, Earring, that you weren't a welcome surprise for these tired eyes of mine. I know, I know, I'm sorry, but it's true. Am I being rude? I don't think I am, but if you'd let me finish, perhaps you'll see my point.

It took me a minute, Earring, but I finally puzzled out who your owner was: her name was Florence, and she was a nurse who liked to drink a lot of white wine, and she didn't care if it was from the finest French château, or just good old-fashioned swill. Indeed, one afternoon, on a day that had many secrets, she and I were laying around nude, passing a bottle back and forth, and, after taking a long, sensual swallow, she said something to the effect that "if it had the kick, then (she) was in it."

An oenologist she most certainly was not!

Amoeba Records, Los Angeles, California, 2004

photo © 2010 Fred Rockwood | more info (via: Wylio)
Spring.

The cashier was wondering when she was going to be able to take her lunch break. Lately, she has been noticing that a red-headed girl that has only been there for a couple of weeks, a shameless trollop who is always talking (or, to be more precise, flirting) to the floor managers of the male persuasion, seems to be the first pick for lunch breaks - even when cashiers with seniority *ahem* were waiting patiently, and Hello?, they have errands to run - and is always invited to the hangouts after work. Whatever. The cashier wasn't focusing on the inequality of her not getting the big invites to the big parties at night (Whatever!), she just needed to go on break NOW. It's late afternoon, and her sister is supposed to show up soon with the money she owed her, and then she needs to dash to the bank and deposit it: Rent was due, and more importantly, her roots were starting to show, and that requires calling that salon for an appointment, which requires more cash, and it never ends, does it? She kept trying to shoot glances at her supervisor (another one ensnared by "The Red-headed Slut"), to let him know that she needed to go on break, but it seemed as if he were purposely trying to ignore her. She was about to start waving her arms, stupid bird-like, to get his attention, and if that didn't work, well, then she --

Damn, a customer was walking up to her counter, and she had to go into cashier-mode.

He was wearing jeans and a black t-shirt; he looked as if he were in his 30s, kind of tall, dark haired, and would probably be good-looking, if he weren't so unsteady on his feet. Yeah, he looked...off.