Viva Las Vegas

On Tuesday, I started a new (second) job. Aware of my apprehension, and always eager to avoid a day of school, Younger slid into the passenger seat of the car, raising his eyebrows at me, and suggested, “Me and you. Las Vegas.”

I laughed then sighed. “We have responsibilities, Younger.”

He accepted the comment in silence, but he hadn’t really surrendered.

“It’s not too late,” he informed me, as we waited at the light in front of his school. “Viva Las Vegas. I’m no Elvis, but you know viva Las Vegas and all.”

“I don’t even know which direction Las Vegas is in.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he assured me.

“It matters a little.”

“Fine, then. Jeff City. We’ll play the slots. On my phone.”

And he grinned at me.

Just in case anyone hasn’t realized, he’s trouble, that one.

And one of these days, when I’m writing you from Las Vegas or maybe a closer locale while playing slots on Younger’s phone, you’ll know. . .

I chose trouble.





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