Leaving Las Vegas

Early morning, Las Vegas. 

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I zip my bag. One last look around and I drop the bag to the ground, its handle sliding into place with a gentle snick.

Footfalls echo in the seemingly endless corridor as I head for the elevator. Going down.

Through the lobby, where people who have no business being awake are laughing and smiling and taking pictures they will never see again, I pull my bag. Silently, gently drifting side to side as I walk, the bag follows without question.

There is no line at this unholy hour. The first cabbie stubs out his smoke and asks, "where to?"

"United."

And we're rolling. Out the long driveway and onto Las Vegas Boulevard.

Buildings slide by my window, just hours ago bathed in light and life. Now, they stand dormant, quiet coccoons for those inside, sleeping like the dead.

Out onto the highway and across this corner of the desert, I can see the glint of aluminum and glass that marks the airport, and the movement of aircraft that signals the reality of life beyond this place.

Pulling to the curb, I slide my card in the machine that was, moments ago, reminding me of all of the things I am leaving undone, and my fare is paid. No need to talk to the driver. Just a quiet "thanks," as he hands me the handle of my bag (snick), which follows me, again without question.

Through security, my bag and I head toward the tram, avoiding travellers and their seven dollar cups of coffee.

Gently rocking back and forth, I am whisked, alone, beneath the desert floor, toward my concourse.

The doors of the tram open, and a mechanized voice reminds me that it is time to walk again.

Past magazines, neck pillows, and old ladies with their tiny dogs in tiny bags of their own, the jetway is open and waiting.

My bag and I glide past them and toward the plane.

And home.