by Kindra Stewart, Nonfiction editor
For our next post in DiN’s Throwback Thursday series, we are revisiting Lacey Rowland’s “Vegas, Baby” from the fourth issue of DiN, published in 2013. This was Rowland’s first publication while pursuing a degree in English with an emphasis in writing from Boise State University in Idaho.
There is a mystery to works of prose that are not categorized specifically as nonfiction or fiction. Which is it, and how do we label it as one or the other? We believe that is for the individual reader to decide on their own. “Vegas, Baby” is one of these anomalies. Rowland’s personal narrative illustrates the darkness of one family’s dynamic influenced by their mother’s drug addiction to crystal meth, eventually severing the family and her life. Unfortunately, these circumstances are not limited to Rowland’s story. Every day, drugs are tearing apart families in our country and throughout the world, whether through addiction, incarceration, or death.
Whether Rowland wrote this story about her childhood or not is irrelevant to the argument of determining whether it is fiction or nonfiction. As readers, we appreciate an author’s honesty – paving the way for new writers to feel inspired to share their truth or encourage a marginalized voice to share theirs. Honesty is not exclusive to nonfiction and never will be. The bond created and shared between authors and readers cannot be labeled or confined to a limiting belief, but it is an experience that takes you on a journey down a river of empathy.
"Vegas, Baby" by Lacey Rowland
We were all headed to Vegas the day you left us at the rest stop off Highway 95. Vance got the idea to go from watching poker on TV. “Any lucky fuck can play cards,” he’d say. You guys got high that morning, packed some clothes and threw me and Sam in the backseat of his rust-pocked Buick.
You’d met Vance the same way you met most men, down at the bar or getting high. Vance was skinny and shirtless most of the time, with a dark patch of hair blooming from his Levis up to his navel. His jeans always sagged, whether he wore a belt or not. He’d make biker coffee at the breakfast table, pouring meth the color of stale urine into a chipped IHOP mug, stirring it with his pinky while Sammy and I ate our Toasty Os.
“You’re going to love Vegas, baby,” you said, looking at us in the rearview mirror. Sam drove his Matchbox car along the window, making buzzing engine noises. “Jules, would you get Sam to shut up?”
“Sammy, can you put the car away?”
Before Sam had a chance, Vance reached back and smacked the car out of his hand. “That’ll shut ‘im up,” he said. But instead of shutting up, Sam wailed. “Fuckin’ shut it Sam.”
A few miles down the road you pulled into the rest stop and unloaded me and Sam by the bathrooms.
“I’ve gotta take a piss, wait here with Sam.” A packet of meth poked out the back pocket of your second hand jeans. You were beautiful, in a broken way. Dad told me once that I looked just like you, that you used to be a rodeo queen. I imagined you with auburn hair teased to perfection in a leather fringe coat, pageant-waving to the crowds. In my dreams you rode a pale quarter horse in bare feet because you always hated wearing shoes. Toes curled around the stirrups, you bounced along the ring of the arena, blowing kisses at farmers in feed caps. Before Dad died, before the meth, I wanted to be you. The you before the rotten teeth and receding gums.
Sam danced, holding his crotch, so I took him to the bathroom. Used diapers and rotting banana peels topped the garbage can, making me gag. It must have been days since anyone had taken it out. At five, Sam insisted he was old enough to use the men’s bathroom. I held the stall shut for him while he peed, staring at the graffiti on the door to avoid the urinals.
We stepped outside, the Buick was gone.
“Where’s Mom?” Sam’s voice cracked with hurt and worry.
I hoped you’d just forgotten, for a minute, like the time you accidentally left me at the Target in Carson City, and I’d waited by the popcorn stand twenty minutes before you came for me. Sam and I waited at a wooden picnic table. It was carved with initials of past loves and someone named Seymour Dick who was there in ‘89. I took the last piece of gum from my pocket, it was warm and soft and I gave half to Sam. A woman with a rat-tail and a creaking fake leg came by. She looked heavy in denim shorts and a faded Kenny Rogers t-shirt, asked if we needed help and handed me her cell phone. I dialed your number, but got a generic message saying the number was no longer in service. Guess the money you got from selling the microwave wasn’t for the phone bill. I told the lady you were getting gas and that you’d be back soon. After looking us over, she got in her mustard-yellow Chevy and drove away.
I took Sam into the shade behind the bathrooms. Somewhere we wouldn’t be seen, and no one would ask questions or call the cops. I knew that calling the cops would mean we probably wouldn’t see you again. They’d figure out where you were and what you did, and they’d lock you up. Sam and I would get sent to some group home, like that one outside of Carson City, Lockewood. At fourteen, I could’ve handled it, but Sammy, he was too young. So we waited.
A couple hours passed with no one at the rest stop. I rummaged through the garbage cans by the parking area and found a sandwich bag of crushed vanilla cookies and a half-eaten Subway sandwich. The cookies tasted like sawdust, but Sammy inhaled them. We split the sandwich, which was on Italian bread, my favorite. It was soggy, but it felt good in my stomach after not eating all day. When we finished, Sam laid his head in my lap, and went to sleep in the shade of the bathrooms. A breeze picked up, making the desert brush lean and hush. Dust stung my eyes. I nudged Sammy awake, made him go to the bathroom with me so I could wash the dirt off. He sat on the counter, feet dangling.
In the mirror, I saw you for a moment. Dirt coated the edges of my mouth and I splashed water on my face. Dad was right, I did look like you, though I mostly wished I didn’t. We had the same smile, close-mouthed and turned down at the corners. Dad said you’d mastered the frowning smile. You were skinnier than me, and when I wore your jeans they always cut into my hips and squeezed my thighs. Sam and I both had your hazel eyes, but he must have got his dad’s nose and mouth. I never remembered Sam’s dad. I always hoped it was the guy who left Captain Crunch for us in the cupboard. It beat the store-bought crap you’d buy at Pick ‘N’ Save. People who bought Captain Crunch had money, and maybe someday he’d come back with a big wad of cash for Sam, who’d split it with me.
It started getting dark, and even though it was summer, it got cold. Sammy started to shiver, so we went into the handicapped bathroom for the night. I locked the door. Toilet paper stuck to the cement floor, and the smell of sour disinfectant coated the walls. I laid some of those toilet seat covers down so we wouldn’t have to sleep on the bare concrete. Sammy curled on top of me and we slept against the wall. In the night, I heard the handle jiggle once. I didn’t say a word, and eventually, the person left to use another bathroom, or drove away. The walls were thin, and from the other side I heard a trucker talking on his phone, grunting while he went to the bathroom. The toilet finally flushed and I heard him start up the clattering engine of his semi before driving away.
We woke to a rapping on the door. It was a man from the county, come to clean the bathrooms. I got up and peeled off the toilet seat covers that clung to my skin. One still hung from my elbow when I opened the door.
“Have you been here all night?” He wore a bright orange vest that had an Esmerelda County Highway District patch on the pocket. Middle-aged with a paunch and greasy hair. He’d already started radioing the police before I could answer.
“She’s coming back for us. She said she’d be right back.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“The police are on their way. Don’t worry, sweetie, they’ll find your parents.” He went back to cleaning the bathrooms.
I didn’t want Sam to end up in Lockewood, where I was sure people told you what was wrong with you, but never what was right. A friend from school had lived there for three months once. Her parents sent her there for stealing nail polish from Walgreens. I grabbed Sam and we snuck behind the bathrooms. Through the wall I could hear the man from the county singing some old ballad out of tune. I dragged Sam across the cracked earth, through the sagebrush. The sharp turpentine smell mingled in our burning lungs. We ran until our calves ached. My muscles trembled with fatigue. When Sam couldn’t run anymore, I carried him piggy-back.
We crouched behind a small ridge to rest, the sun scorched the back of my neck. I wondered if your car broke down as you were coming back for us. I hoped you missed us, and maybe you were in Vegas, scoring big at craps, and you’d have snowglobes and t-shirts from the Bellagio for me and Sam. And I wondered if in every hit and every high, you were just trying to see my father again. In the fractured landscape, sitting among the ticks and mesquite, I wondered if you thought of us while the crystal traveled through your veins and you drifted away.
Kindra Stewart is a former U.S. Air Force photojournalist and award-winning writer based in New Mexico. Her writing and photography have been featured in various military publications and the Alamogordo Daily News. She is one of DiN’s nonfiction editors and is studying English with a minor in Journalism at New Mexico State University.
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