To all NYC Midnight viewers, welcome to my blog. Story below.
To my regular blog readers, I’m participating in NYC Midnight’s Creative Writing Competition, which entails a series of short fiction timed writing assignments. This past weekend, I had 48 hours to write a comedy 1000 words or less that took place in an auto shop and involved chopsticks (I know, wtf?).
Enjoy (or don’t, as the case may be)—
“What Happens in Vegas”
Synopsis: Nipple rings and Elvis, or another day in the life for an auto repair shop guy in Las Vegas.
The first thing I noticed about the guy was his nipple. He walked into my auto repair shop wearing the kind of tank top that curved inward in the front. Girls sometimes wore them over bikinis in the ads in my auto parts supply magazines, and they looked all right, but this guy—what was he thinking? Both of his nipples were showing and one of them was pierced. It was a gold hoop with a charm hanging off of it. I couldn’t quite tell what it was, though. Golf clubs? A ballpoint?
The guy started in with his story, the same song I’ve heard sung from all my customers. My shop is in south Las Vegas. People from all over the country, hell, the world, have come into my shop with unexpected car problems, ending their tales with the same words: “Only me! This only happens to me!”
I always want to respond to these stories, it’s not just you and it’s not bad luck. It’s never getting your oil changed or never looking into that rattle that you’ve been hearing for four months or not replacing your tires when they have no tread. Or trying to go off-roading in a friggin’ Sebring, which is what Nipple Guy had done.
I handed Nipple Guy a blank form for his contact information. He stood at the counter, scribbling into the blank spaces, and the charm on his nipple jiggled. The pierced nipple looked different from the regular one—pinker, redder, purpler, swollen. I was horrified but couldn’t take my eyes off it. I feared it might burst, or at the very least, ooze. I once cut my finger off, and it got an infection while growing back. Those were tough days, and I had to wonder, while looking at this guy’s blistery bauble, if he’d remembered to take his prescription antibiotics.
The charm jiggled again, and I realized what it was: chopsticks. I wanted to ask him why he was wearing a chopsticks charm, but I didn’t want to let on I’d been looking at his nipple. But really, why? He was ruining my entire Chinese restaurant experience standing in front of me with those chopsticks dangling from his nipple. I’d never be able to eat orange chicken again, I thought. I’d only taste nipple.
“Your car will be ready at three o’clock, sir,” I said. “Do you plan on waiting here?”
He said yes, and sat down in the waiting area. Of all the times for one of my customers to wait. Couldn’t he walk across the street to the Station casino and expose himself to the old ladies at the nickel slots?
I started helping the next customers, a group of girls who’d been in Vegas for the weekend. They seemed to be in competition for who could spill the best details about each other’s indiscretions, each trying to top the other in what dirty little secret they could tell. After every tale—and there were quite a few for one weekend—they laughed and said, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
My next customer was Elvis. He looked exactly like the young Elvis, with thick black hair, and he even spoke with a southern drawl. He filled out his paperwork and when he walked over to the waiting area, I heard him say, “Reg, is that you? I thought that was you!”
An hour later, the guys and I were hard at work listening to a mix of Los Fabulosos Cadillacs and Creedence Clearwater Revival when one of the girls-night-out girls opened the door to our garage. “Sir!” she said. “Excuse me! Sir!” She looked terrified and when I got over to her, I could hear noise in the waiting area. “There’s a problem,” she said.
Elvis and Nipple Guy were in the throes of a fist fight, with the girls-night-out girls huddled in one corner. We entered the room just as Elvis reached for the nipple ring.
I never knew it was possible for a group of men and women to scream in vicarious pain at the same time, but it sounded something like “Ahhhhhhh…” that started off really loud, and then faded to gaped mouths and no additional words. Nipple Guy writhed on the floor, clutching his nipple while flinging insults at the Elvis guy and his mama. And the real Elvis. Which hardly seemed necessary. Elvis Presley was a talented man.
We called the police, the hospital. When it was all said and done, Elvis was taken by the police, Nipple Guy was taken to the hospital for stitches, and we were behind three hours on our workload. The girls-night-out girls were much more subdued and ready to go when their car was done.
That night, my girlfriend showed me a news report that she’d recorded earlier about the fight. It turned out Nipple Guy and Elvis knew each other. Nipple Guy was dating Elvis’ ex-girlfriend and Elvis had only gone into my car shop because he’d been looking for an opportunity to confront Nipple Guy. The sight of the chopsticks charm on Nipple Guy had pushed Elvis over the edge. Apparently, the girlfriend ran a kiosk at the mall selling decorative chopsticks and jewelry, and had once given Elvis the same exact charm.
“Looks like you had a fun day,” my girlfriend said.
I thought of those girls-night-out girls, probably driving home right then, horrified or amused, or both, by the day’s events. I could already imagine how the story would be told and re-told to everyone at home.
“You know what they say,” I said and stretched out on the couch. “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
The end.
In other news, I can’t wait to see what kind of Google searches lead people to my blog, due to excessive use of the word nipple – perverts or breastfeeders? Either way, sorry I don’t have what you’re looking for. But I do have this:
Mmmm, tasty!
