Maybe an overpriced hooker would be a good choice, someone to accept his last blast of semen, his final genetic statement. Too well paid to douche in his hotel room, the girl would leave with soggy underpants and shower at home. Hours later, the last of his DNA—possibly surviving him—would be wiped off the back seat of a cab with a paper towel.

His room is actually more of a motel room than a hotel room, probably because it is part of a motel, not a hotel. He had planned to stay in one of the many colorful towers that decorate the Strip, but was unable to come to terms with the corporate mentality regarding a reasonable extended stay rate. There were other problems too. Slightly suspicious of his motives and doubtful about his condition, the big hotels he tried were reluctant to suspend maid service on a daily basis, and Ben didn’t want a good bedridden binge interrupted by Mrs. Clean; he also didn’t want anyone fucking with his liquor. He was ultimately able to negotiate acceptable terms with the manager/owner of the Whole Year Inn—read the Hole You’re In—one of the smaller motels that stand on what could easily be imagined as vacant lots, up and down the Strip. For one hundred and fifty dollars Ben gets a room for a week, self-service at the maid’s cornucopian cart, and unlimited use of the ice machine and pool—No Life Guard on Duty. If there’s a problem he can always move to a hotel, though he is charged in advance for each week here. In any case, he’ll try to time it so that he gets a good view for his last days on the Strip, and week in or week out, Bank of America will write their whole loss off.

Moving may take a few trips. Whenever he returns to his room he brings with him a bottle or two of something or other, and after less than a week here he already has quite a little stockpile of booze, a trick that he could never or would never manage in LA. Always have access to a drink. The little room holds several inventories. There are bottles under the bed, in the drawers of the particleboard dresser, on the toilet tank, one in the toilet tank, in his suitcase, small ones in the pockets of dirty clothes, chilled ones in a styrofoam cooler that he bought, and a few more under the bed—in case of an emergency. As he watches television and sucks vodka he can feel the presence of all his liquor, surrounding and always beckoning, comforting but not reassuring.

After pawning the watch this morning he spent some time at poolside, watching a fat family from the midwest splash around in the dirty water. They are staying at the motel for two days as part of their vacation and seem to be satisfied with the accommodations. Talking with them, Ben felt a great sense of admiration for their general contentment, but he knows that this wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny; their life could no more work for him than his for them, nor would he want it to. He was also impressed with the friendliness that this cholesterol-ridden, white-skinned little family exuded, a virtue that tends to run rampant in the midwest. Now, after his swim, he takes it easy on his bed, in front of the television, putting the final touches on his argument to himself in favor of buying a girl tonight, and selling his car tomorrow.

The trip from Los Angeles, the last time that he has driven, was indeed difficult for him. At this late date it has become nearly impossible to strike the balance of maintenance in his blood alcohol level. The line between too much and too little has long since become far too fine for his blurred vision to discern. So he is loath to get behind the wheel and jeopardize his best laid plans, not to mention the well being of the population of Las Vegas. There are cabs available anywhere, anytime in this city should he feel the urge to go someplace far. Las Vegas has also helped to rejuvenate his penchant for walking. Though he is physically no longer capable of the long, brisk walks that he used to take around Venice, he is perfectly happy to stumble up and down the Strip at night, swerving and tripping, a menace only to himself. Vegas has always had this attraction for him, the world’s most amusing walking grounds, sober or drunk. So really his car has become something of a liability, a loose end. He can imagine it now: he’s lying on the bed, sighing with relief as he realizes that he is gasping for his last breath, only to be interrupted—saved—by the manager/owner of the Whole Year Inn, who has come by to complain about the abandoned car in his parking lot. More realistically, owning a car is not exactly conducive to the anonymity that he is seeking here. The car must go. Tomorrow he will take it to one of the resale lots on Fremont and no doubt strike as good of a bargain for it as he did for the Rolex this morning.

As far as a hooker goes, concerning the skirt, pussy to be bought and paid for, perhaps even actually indulged in, his feeling is: of course. He wants to talk to a girl, a girl, girl, girl, girl. If his dick still works maybe he will even fuck her. His money is holding out just fine and can be easily concealed. He no longer has anything else to lose. At this point in his life—very nearly the period—the only thing that he could possibly crave, the only non-alcoholic thing, is a warm body. Up close evidence that life does go on. This will be his secret bargain, his revenge many times over for the watch and the car. He’ll pilfer this little piece of ecstasy from a girl who thinks that he is paying for mere sex. She’ll come to him, wielding her savvy and thrusting forth her hard earned survival, and he, unbeknownst to her, will suck off an extra hour for his own life. He will feel her heart beat and sit in joyous wonder of her, someone who takes the trouble to work so hard just to live so hard: a neat trick.

Ben is standing on the driver’s side of his car. “Hello,” he says.

“Hello. You shouldn’t stand out on the street like that. You might get hit,” says Sera.

“Are you working?” he asks.

“Working? What do you mean working? I’m walking,” she says.

As if to demonstrate walking she takes a few steps and pauses on the passenger side of the car. They look at each other across the roof. Ben is quite taken with this girl, with her dark beauty, and so remains silent rather than say the wrong thing. Far from the mechanical process of picking up a prostitute, to him this is more like asking for a date. He looks around. If he waits too long she will be suspicious and leave. If he is anything but direct she will think he’s a cop. He reaches into the car and grabs the can of beer that he was drinking before he stopped. After draining it quickly, he tosses it back into the car.

“Isn’t it illegal to drink and drive?” she says.

“That’s funny,” he says. “I wonder if you’ll take two hundred and fifty dollars to fuck me? That is, if you’ll come to my room for an hour I’ll give you two hundred and fifty dollars.”

He bites his lip and waits for her response. His never-steady nerves are not helped by the modified moderation that he attempted this evening in anticipation of driving. Less than a mile away, his roomful of liquor beckons.

“You’re pretty drunk,” she says.

Seeing that she will go with him, he relaxes a little and says, “Not really. My room’s not far—the Whole Year Inn—you can drive if you want, or we can walk, or I’ll give you cab fare, whatever you want. I’m in room number two.”

“Why don’t you give me the money when we get in the car, and I’ll drive with you,” she says, her hand now on the door handle. She falls easily into the groove of another trick, another simple hour of doing what she’s told and getting some more bread for Al. It allays her anxiety, this procedure; it has too quickly become her only sure way to draw approval from him, the cheese at the center of her rat’s maze.

Ben gets behind the wheel and reaches over to unlock the passenger door.

“I’m Ben,” he says as he hands her the money, freshly extracted from his left front po...