Page 44 of Paging Dr. Hart
I’m in white, like an angel.
Shelly is in red, like the devil.
That had been Shelly’s idea. “It’s perfect,” she had told me as we searched through the racks of clothing at Goodwill. “Tourists come to Vegas to escape their boring lives. When they’re here, it’s like there’s a devil on one shoulder telling them to do all the bad things, drink, gamble, cheat. On the other shoulder, there’s an angel telling them to be good and resist temptation. That’s us, the angel and the devil.”
Once I’m dressed, I crack the car window open a bit. My cheeks are warm, and the cool breeze helps calm them. I bounce in my seat, a mixture of giddiness and trepidation warring within me. I feel guilty for lying to my mom and Mr. Chen. But there’s also a sense of adventure, like the anticipation you get right before a school field trip. When you are with your friends, about to discover something new together.
“Tell me again exactly how this works,” I ask, as the wind picks up empty candy wrappers at my feet and throws them up in the air like confetti. The wrappers swirl, caught in invisible vortexes, before falling back down.
Shelly checks the rearview mirror, then answers, “The tourists pay good money, cash, to take a picture with us. We stand on the Strip and wait for the vacationers. Those people want something to show what an amazing time they had here. They’ll take that picture home and show it off. Let their friends see how great they look with two hot girls hanging off them. It’s a souvenirandan ego boost.”
“You sure we can make money? Like real money?” I ask, thinking about the growing pile of medical bills at home. The creditors have started calling, hounding me.
“Definitely.” Shelly’s confidence reassures me. Thank God we’re doing this together. I wouldn’t have been brave enough to come on my own.
Watching the candy wrappers dance, I ask, “Where’d you get this car, anyway? Is it new?” I’ve never seen her drive before. Brandi has one car, an old minivan, that she never lets Shelly use.
Shelly keeps her eyes on the road. “It’s not mine. Just borrowed it from a friend.”
“Oh, okay.” I adjust the zipper on my boot, locking my foot more firmly in place. “Where are we going to park?”
“I’ll leave our car over in the parking lot by the Starlight. I know how to get past the chain-link fence. We can walk up the Strip until we find a good area to attract tourists. It’s too bad we’re starting in the evening. Most of the good spots will already be taken. Some ladies who dress up as show girls are territorial,” she explains.
We drive up to the Starlight, a casino and hotel complex on the northern end of the Las Vegas Strip that was built in the 1950s. A tall sign with its iconic star logo towers in front of the main entrance. The sign was once lit with many brightly colored bulbs but is now darkened forever.
The Starlight was abandoned years ago and has fallen into disrepair. When I’ve driven past it before, I’ve shivered, noticing the haunted feeling it gives off, like its guests past and present have left their mark. I imagine all the people who have laughed inside those walls and all the ones who have cried. The brides who got married in its wedding chapel and the men bankrupted at its gambling tables. How many people have had sex in there? How many had their hearts broken?
Now the Starlight’s guests consist of the homeless and underage teenagers looking for a place to party. When we get closer, I can see debris and graffiti along the edges of the building. Amorphous people-like shapes move in its shadows. Through my open window, I hear music so faint I can’t make out the tune. The notes drift out from the structure and fade into the night.
It’s eerie.
Shelly parks the car, and we walk across the street, then up the Strip. We go past the Tropicana, MGM, and Paris. Women and girls dressed like us are on every street corner. Finally, in front of Bally’s Hotel, there’s an empty section of sidewalk.
Now that I’m out in public wearing my scanty costume, my nerves kick in. I’ve never felt more exposed. The warm Vegas breeze crawls around me, tickling every inch of bare flesh. It’s hard to resist the urge to cross my arms across my overly accentuated cleavage. The boots are already pinching my heels. I have that sense again, of being watched, but that’s not surprising, given what I’m wearing.
It doesn’t take long to get our first customers. A group of five college-agemen approach. Shelly shrewdly evaluates them as they come closer. I hang back, letting her make the sale. I’m impressed when she tells them it’ll be $10 each to take pictures. Fifty dollars is a lot of money, so I brace for them to reject the offer. Instead, the men dig around in their pockets and hand over $50 of crumpled bills without hesitation.
They have regular cameras and a Polaroid. The men ask a random passerby to stop and take the pictures. After some scrambling, they arrange themselves in an uneven line, with Shelly and me as bookends. Arms are thrown over each other’s shoulders, and everyone smiles.
“Cheese,” says the man next to me, with whiskey on his breath. Click, click, click. Camera flashes go off one after another, blinding me. We do a few different poses, rearranging ourselves between each shot. After we’re done taking pictures, we gather with the group of men to look at the Polaroid images. Our faces slowly come into focus, like ghosts materializing into existence.
I almost don’t recognize myself. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve grown over the past year. In my tight bikini, I can see how my legs are now long and tapered and my hips and bust have filled out into soft curves. The push-up top mounds my breasts together until they create a deep valley of cleavage.
I look hot.
The guys offer Shelly one of the Polaroid photos, which she accepts. With good-bye waves and a chorus of “thank you,” the men leave.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Shelly asks before turning to greet the next group. This time it’s a couple of gray-haired men. Nice grandfatherly types in town for a conference who tip an extra $10.
We’re a hit. A steady stream of people want to get their picture taken with us. It’s mostly men, although the occasional bachelorette or woman’s birthday party comes along. My cheeks ache from all the fake smiling. Shelly and I have just stopped for the night when a deep voice asks harshly behind me, “What’sshedoing here?”
I pivot to see Rafe standing a foot away. He’s glowering at me. Last week at school his hair was overgrown and shaggy, but now it’s been buzz cut, his scalp shining through. I want to run my hand over it to see if the short hairswill feel prickly on my palm like I suspect. I’ve watched him from afar for so long that being close to him now is surreal.
Rafe turns his glare to Shelly and repeats, “Why is she here?”
His anger at my presence makes me defensive. Does he hate me? Maybe he resents or, even worse, regrets saving me?
Shelly bristles at his tone. She spits back, “Tiffany’s here becauseI asked her to come. The tourists expect to take pictures with two girls. Not one. We’ve made almost $1,000 tonight.” She discreetly pulls the wad of cash out of her purse and flashes it at Rafe as proof.
