“Why so glum?” my old buddy asked.
“I’m getting married tomorrow,” I said.
“You don’t seem too happy about it,” he said.
I just shrugged.
“C’mon,” he said, “pack a bag. We’ll hop a Greyhound and spend a few days in Vegas.”
Now I have to live with the consequences.
Alex Markovich started writing fiction late in life. He’s 76. He also wrote You Promised.
“Now I know my ABCs,” crooned the little girl, “next time won’t you sing with me?”
“Awesome!” said Paula Abdul. “You’re going to Vegas!”
“But I wan’ go home!”
“Isn’t this exciting, folks?” enthused Ryan Seacrest. “Little Kimmy’s going to be our next finalist on American Idol: Toddler Edition!”
“But I really need to go!”
“I’m sorry sir, but it’s in the contract you signed when you bought your ticket: no stops ’til we get to Vegas.”
“You can’t even pull over for a minute to let me pee?!”
“Then I’ma use the window!”
“Very good, sir.”
This story is dedicated to the Desert Bus For Hope charity fundraiser marathon, which is raising funds for Child’s Play.
A song on the radio triggered. She knew immediately that she had a destiny.
She quit her job, hitch-hiked to Vegas, and spent three days wandering aimlessly, waiting for a sign.
The cute waiter who served her fettucine asked her why she was eating alone.
They lived happily ever after.