Travel Reference
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of tasteless goo. But I shoveled it all down and then had an outsized platter of chocolate
goo for dessert. And then I felt very ill. I felt as if I had eaten a beanbag. Clutching my
distended abdomen, I found my way to an exit. There was no moving sidewalk to return
me to the street-there's no place in Las Vegas for losers and quitters-so I had to make a
longweavingwalkdownthefloodlitdrivewaytotheStrip.Thefreshairhelpedalittle,but
only a little. I limped through the crowds along the Strip, looking like a man doing a poor
imitation of Quasimodo, and went into a couple of other casinos, hoping they would re-
excite my greed and make me forget my swollen belly. But they were practically identical
to Caesar's Palace-the same noise, the same stupid people losing all their money, the same
hideous carpets. It all just gave me a headache. After a while, I gave up altogether. I plod-
dedbacktomymotelandfellheavilyontothebedandwatchedTVwiththatkindofglazed
immobility that overcomes you when your stomach is grossly overloaded and there's no
remote control device and you can't quite reach the channel switch with your big toe.
So I watched the local news. Principally this consisted of a rundown of the day's murders
in Las Vegas accompanied by film from the various murder scenes. These always showed
a house with the front door open, some police detectives shuffling around and a group of
neighborhood children standing on the fringes, waving happily at the camera and saying hi
to their moms. In between each report the anchorman and anchorwoman would trade wit-
less quips and then say in a breezy tone something like, “A mother and her three young
children were hacked to death by a crazed axman at Boulder City today. We'll have a
filmed report after these words.” Then there would be many long minutes of commercials,
mostly for products to keep one's bowels sleek, followed by filmed reports on regional
murders, house fires, light airplane crashes, multiple car pileups on the Boulder Highway
andother bits oflocal carnage, always with film ofmangled vehicles, charred houses,bod-
ies under blankets and a group of children standing on the fringes, waving happily at the
cameras and saying hi to their moms. It may only have been my imagination, but I would
almost swear that it was the same children in every report. Perhaps American violence had
bred a new kind of person-the serial witness.
Finally there was a special report about a man awaiting release from prison who ten years
before had raped a young woman and then, for reasons of obscure gratification, had sawed
off her arms at the elbows. No kidding. This was so shocking even to the hardened sens-
ibilities of Nevadans that a mob was expected to be waiting for the man when he was re-
leased at b A.M. the next day, according to the TV reporter, who then gave all the details
necessary to enable viewers to go down and join in. The police, the reporter added with a
discernible trace of pleasure, were refusing to guarantee the man's safety. The report con-
cluded with a shot of the reporter talking to camera in front of the prison gate. Behind her
a group of children were jumping up and down and waving hellos to their moms. This was
