A Trip to Vegas

The sun is beating down on my car, and the AC is pumping. I’m drinking coffee out of my travel mug, and Holly is drinking the vodka and OJ we bought at a convenience store, out of the extra travel mug I gave her.  We’re forty-eight miles into our trip to Vegas.

Holly takes a sip out of her travel mug, “do you love him?”

I take a sip out of my travel mug, “of course.”

Holly adjusts the AC, “good, because Mom thinks you’re on the rebound from what’s-his-name.”

I scoff at my mother thinking she knows anything about my life, considering every time I try to tell her anything she puts her own spin on it as if she hasn’t heard a word I said.

“When did you talk to mom?” Holly doesn’t just call my parents out of the blue to catch up. They have a strained relationship at best, so she only calls them when she wants something.

“A couple days ago, I wanted Aunt Helen’s number.”

I hadn’t heard the name Aunt Helen in years, and the last time I saw Aunt Helen was probably thirteen years ago. She flew into town for mom’s 45^th birthday. A birthday that turned into a party so huge it eventually got shut down by the cops.

It was the only party my parents threw where I saw them drink more than their one glass of wine with dinner, and après dinner scotch. Instead they did shot after shot of tequila, blasted all their old Abba albums, and danced around the living room like it was 1976.

And then…my dad picked up Aunt Helen, spun her around the room like he was John Travolta, and started tongue kissing her, right in front of everybody.   The next day, Aunt Helen got on a plane, and never visited us again.

I take another sip out of my coffee mug, “is she still doing the Cirque du Soleil thing?”

“No. Something about irreversibly damaging one of her ass cheeks. She works at the Bunny Ranch now.”

“The Bunny Ranch? She’s a prostitute now?”

Holly pours more vodka into her travel mug, “is that what the Bunny Ranch is? I thought it was some animal rescue.”