| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** Anthony Venutolo: I fancy myself a writer by trade and by passion. I've dabbled in the screenplay form, have authored short stories and currently am trying to get a comic book off the ground. I've had the most luck, however, in journalism. I've been paid for my words in various national magazines and work as an editor at a Pulitzer Prize-winning daily newspaper. I have two blogs: One a pop culture, entertainment related site called Notes from Hemingway's Lounge (hemingwayslounge.blogspot.com) and another more creative and inspired blog called Bukowski's Basement really meant for boozy scribes (bukowskisbasement.blogspot.com) |
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| © 2009 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
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| HONEYMOON AT THE ATOMIC |
| by Anthony Venutolo |
| Inside one of the
darkest bars on the planet, away from the smoldering Vegas sun, two kids barreled into my daytime bar, just off of Freemont. Fresh faced and scrubbed, he with his craggy polo and flip-flops; she with an equally wrinkled sun dress, they didn’t jive since it was the kind of joint people came to when they just didn’t care anymore. The Atomic. A would-be beacon in a sea of grimeholes, beckoning its hopeless. And what of them? Lonely Nevada drunks, crappy pickpockets, former goddesses well beyond turning their tricks and sunken men without prospect who abruptly discovered they were 46, scratchy and achy. Even the fucking jukebox gave up. It plays once a year on St. Patty’s Day. Gillmore behind the bar, a failed strip magician plum out of illusions served the kids their booze. The boy paid with a thick wad of crinkled dollar bills, which, by the way still got you pretty far at The Atomic. As the afternoon progressed, their giddiness got worse and it broke everyone’s concentration. A few times I had to put down my magazine and give them the ol’ once-over. Didn’t do much good. Clutching my mug, I asked if they took that clichéd Vegas plunge. The cutie nodded and Eduardo the Ecuadorian who, up until then, never uttered a word to anyone -- in Spanish or English -- raised his Pabst and told Gilmore that he’d get the next round. Their bliss told me that no one in their lives knew where they were or even even cared. Another sip. I went back to my magazine. Five drinks in, they still grappled onto each other in that sickening Eskimo kisses sort of way. At the same time, the act made me love them for it’s innocent audacity and hate them for my own sense of cowardice, never having the balls for such public displays. The boy strutted to the sorry juke and I knew there’d be nothing in there for him. But it didn’t matter, today was his St. Patty’s Day and he was ready for the world. Here. On his honeymoon. At The Atomic. Away from the smoldering Vegas sun and inside one of the darkest bars on the planet. The music started. I put down my magazine and shut my eyes until it was quiet once again. |
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| May 2009 |
| 117 |