Average Joe

I gasped for air as the small fire burning in my lungs kept sucking away my breath. Damn it, Sandy! Fine time to hyperventilate!  I am not,  by any means, a runner — yet there I was, in the dark, running down the shoulder of a Las Vegas freeway! Cars raced by, some with horns blaring — some, no doubt, with drivers dialing 911, 'cause I was pretty sure it was illegal for pedestrians to be on the freeway.

It seemed as if I was dragging a ball and chain behind me with each jarring step. I looked over my shoulder. Yep, sure enough there he was, "tippy toes" (as I had secretly renamed him earlier that day), struggling to keep up. "Hurry Joe," I hollered over the roar of the traffic, "we gotta get off this freeway before the cops catch us out here!"

To passersby, I wondered if it looked like I was being chased by some crazed maniac. No, I decided, more likely, with our snail-pace and the way we were limping, they called 911 to report that two elderly patients had escaped from a nearby nursing home. God, I just wanted to lay down on the side of the road and quit but of course I couldn't. One thing is for sure — this small-town country girl was petrified of being featured on an episode of "Cops". How in the hell did I ever end up in this crazy predicament? I suspect this moment had been evolving for years.

Several years earlier:

It was just another quiet evening at home. The rest of the family was off doing their own thing so, out of boredom, but mostly out of curiosity, I ventured into my very first chat-room. I was entertained enough that I returned again the next night — and again — and again, until I was hopelessly addicted. There I made new friends from all over the country. We were smart, witty, daring and fun. Although I was embarrassed to admit to anyone that I had become a regular fixture in a cyber community, I was enjoying my secret life. It was sort of like a nightly "Mom escapes to Wonderland" adventure.

Fast forward to arrival in Las Vegas:

There were six of us giddy gals on board. We had gathered for a short flight and long weekend in Las Vegas to celebrate the twenty-first birthday of my best friend's niece. The plans were to indulge in as much drinking, gambling and shows as we could manage in three days and three nights. As the plane circled for a landing, the party was already well underway. From the air, the Vegas strip, with its bright, flashy lights, seemed to welcome us like a sly, crooked grin.

Fast forward to the afternoon of day two:

While the rest of the group was out wandering up and down the strip, I sat at a tiny bar in our hotel-casino sipping a little "hair of the dog". We had all made plans to meet up later that evening after my little rendezvous. I nervously scanned the crowd looking for "Average Joe". That was the chat-room name of the guy I was about to meet. I felt scared and almost sick for agreeing to the meeting, now. I'm not sure why though, because we'd been friends for well over a year. Average Joe from New York was a favorite of all of us chatters. With mere words typed on a screen he could captivate anybody and, like a cowboy with a lariat, lasso them in with his charm. But now, when the one thing I thought would never happen was about to happen, the blending of my real life with my cyber life, I was feeling a bit uneasy. I checked my watch again. It was time.

Is that him across the casino? No — well maybe. Something about that guy doesn't look quite right though. He looks too old. Yeah, that guy is TOO old. Wait . . . he's looking at me and smiling. It's gotta be him. He's . . . he's . . . bouncing off his toes as he walks. Really? He never mentioned he had a tip-toe way of walking. It's him! He's SHORT! Wow — really short. Does he have any hair under that hat?

I climbed off my bar stool and greeted him with a smile and an obligatory hug. He wasn't much taller than my own 5'2" frame. Though I'd seen his picture posted on the Internet (obviously a much younger picture), there was MUCH missing from his on-line photo. Things like his height, his gray hair, the quirky bounce in his step and toothy smile. I was quite dumb-founded by how different this man was from the one I had built in my mind out of words I'd read on my computer screen. This was awkward. Oh get over it, Sandy! This is Joe... Mr. Personality Plus. Stop being so critical!

We had a few drinks to help lubricate the stiff, clumsy conversation that had formed. Where was the man who, in a chat-room setting, could wield his words like a skilled swordsman? He seemed to be struggling for the right words as much as I was.

I'm not sure who's brainy idea it was (it certainly wouldn't have been mine, had I been sober), but somehow we ended up at New York, New York (the casino), standing in line for a ride on a ridiculously fast, high, crazy roller coaster. What was I thinking? OH GOD! Roller coasters scare me to death. If I'm going to die, I'd almost rather walk across hot coals all the way to hell. Which is probably where I'd be headed after this weekend in Sin City anyway. I could never let Joe know I was afraid though, my chat-room alter-ego had no fear.

HEY, I survived!  I think Joe puked. At least he was awfully green-looking and was in the bathroom a while. Wow — maybe super-cool "Average Joe" was more like below  "Average Joe".

The evening of day two:

It was such a sweet thing for Joe to do, to buy a half hour limo excursion for the birthday girl and the rest of us. Of course, we invited him to join us as we rode around in style checking out the lights and night life on the strip. Eventually we ended up at the Rio, an off-strip casino.

The Rio had a great party-themed atmosphere. Somehow that enticed us all to do tequila shots. Three or four shots later, the girls were ready to move the party back to the strip. We hailed a taxi and being super smart like most drunks are, we quickly figured out we didn't all fit in a taxi like we did in the limo. That's when two of the drunks (Joe and I) volunteered to walk back. It didn't seem so far, judging from the strip's lights.

So they took off in their taxi while Joe and I headed off on foot. Another brainy idea was soon born — not like the insane one where we rode a killer roller coaster or where we consumed a half bottle of tequila. No, this was a brand new brainchild. We were going to take a short-cut to the strip. How hard could it be to walk cross-country between the Rio and Harrah's?

It wasn't long before the asphalt ended and the bare ground became uneven and rough. We were tripping over weeds and god knows what else, it was sort of dark out there. It seemed like we'd been walking for miles but not getting any closer. Maybe the Rio was further out than we thought. We had just crossed some railroad tracks when we noticed a group of shady looking characters sauntering down the tracks toward us.

"Joe," I said quietly, clutching my purse tighter, "I'm thinking they don't look like tourists."

"I think you're right, we'd better detour," he said.

We turned and ran across the desert like scared rabbits, only with us it was more like scared oxen. (I've heard they are clumsy) I thought about the words I'd often said to my teenage daughter: for every choice there is a consequence — choose wisely. Oh sure, Sandy, your wisdom is a little belated NOW, don't ya think? I pictured this group of thugs mugging us . . . or even worse . . . KILLING us, leaving our bodies to rot out there in the wilderness just off the Las Vegas strip!

Oh why couldn't Joe have been one of those gorgeous hunks we girls saw last night at the "Thunder From Down Under" strip show? I'd have felt so much safer with one of those muscular bodies beside me right now, than I do with this little man. As I ran I was thinking, in the event my imagined  handsome hunk and I were to be overcome by this murderous gang of hoodlums, at least I'd look good lying dead next to this incredible specimen of a man. I envisioned "CSI" investigator, Gil Grissom, looking at my lifeless body and shaking his head saying, "What a shame, but what a way to go with this magnificent hunk defending her 'til the very end." In reality though, with Joe's dead body curled in a fetal position next to mine, Grissom would have shaken his head and said, "Stupid tourists! Don't they know for every choice there is a consequence? These idiots chose badly!"

About that time I heard a dull thud and "oof" behind me as all 5'4" of Joe slammed into the ground. I spun around half expecting to be attacked myself, but saw only Joe sprawled out in the dirt. I scanned the darkness. There was no sign of the suspicious characters anywhere! Tippy Toes had tripped all by himself. Oh Jeez! Don't you die out here, Joe! How would I ever explain?

I sat down on the ground beside Joe as he tried to collect himself. He had hit his head on something and blood was trickling down his forehead. His bent glasses sat lopsided on his face and he was fumbling with a hole in the knee of his pants. It was all so sobering. "You gonna be okay?" I asked.

He smiled sheepishly, "Yeah, sure."

"I don't think we have to run anymore. There's nobody chasing us."

After Joe pulled himself together, we went on our way again but it soon became apparent as we stood at the edge of the interstate, in order to get to the strip, we'd have to cross a gazillion lanes of traffic. Oh hell no!  I wasn't up to that challenge. I looked behind me at the Rio. God, I didn't want to turn back! Then I looked to my right. Flamingo Avenue — a logical choice now!  We should have taken that route in the first place. No, we should have taken a cab in the first place!

I pointed toward Flamingo. "That way?"

"I'll follow," sighed Joe, obviously as frustrated as myself.

Satisfied with our latest plan we started out, but with the speeding traffic I panicked and soon Joe and I were running another marathon. This time down the edge of the freeway.

"Joe," I yelled as we got closer to our destination, "there's no exit!" Damn! Another dead-end!

We stared at the looming, impossibly steep, cement embankment up to Flamingo. I was close to tears . . . close to puking too. My stomach hurt. My feet hurt. My head hurt . . . probably not as much as Joe's though. I was positive I was missing out on a good party somewhere across that freeway. Even so, I just wanted this night to END! I'm sure Joe did too.

In defeat, we walked limped back  to the Rio to find a cab.

I learned a few things in Vegas that weekend:
People probably aren't  as smart, funny or charming as they appear in chat-rooms.
Too much tequila makes you stupid.
And, there are NO shortcuts in Las Vegas — just ask any taxi driver.

word count: 1998