Las Vegas Airport Slot Machines

The airport in Las Vegas is riddled with shiny slot machines blinking with LED lights; beeping and blooping the promise of an electronic windfall of endorphins. Frank Sinatra sings, faintly instilling the nostalgia of what we imagine is the essence of the romance of the Vegas strip. 

Being morning, the machines mostly call out to passers by, sitting unloved in their clusters near the expensive pizza place and the diner with the smell of onion rings wafting into the crowds of semi-socially distanced travellers. The machines call out, along with the Polish lady selling perfume at the portable kiosk of beauty products.

And then I see her— the goddess of the slots — she sits with one foot on the ground, and the other raised above her navel and planted against the machine — her stomach fat compressed into rolls under her bright pink t-shirt. She’s wearing a rhinestone encrusted baseball cap with “Las Vegas” printed across the front of it. She’s been there for a while — no one sits like that in the first 10 minutes, do they?

Her husband stands behind her, vacantly watching his wife pursue the orgasmic jingle of the payoff. 

What is this man thinking about, watching her? Did he bring his wife to the city of sin to respark their love of adventure? Did he hope this flight to Las Vegas might draw them closer? 

No. He must only be along for the ride. She found the plane tickets, and got a deal on the hotel. He'd rather be tinkering in the garage with something he can control. 

But here they are, losing.

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Especially the slot machines, who call out 24/7 like sirens to weakened sailors blinded by the beautiful songs they sing; you losers could be winners, should you cozy up to the warmth of my hopeful promise.