Indigo's Last Day in the City
by H. Beth Taylor

(8/3/96) 
I awake to the misery of yet a new day.  I know that I am still alive because I can feel the warmth of the sun on my face.  I must have forgotten to close the drapes.  I barely open my eyes as I roll out of bed and stagger towards the bathroom.  The taste of bile is a stale 
reminder of last nights indulgences.  A dull pressure at my temples indicates further penance to come. 

As I reach over the basin and splash my face with cool water, hazy memories of last night begin to resurface.  I turn on the shower, hoping to wash away some of my self inflicted discomfort.  I also hope to pummel yesterday's events back into the hole which I drowned them 
in last night.  Instead, it brings them into sharper focus. 

The bar was dark, but it matched my mood.  I ordered the poison of choice, "Vodka, straight."  The bartender delivered.  I swirl the clear liquid and swallow a bitter mouthful. First, I find out the wonderful man I always knew as Dad wasn't.  How could mom have ever done that to Dad?  He must be spinning corkscrews in his grave.  My real father was some upscale, sleaze-ball corp exec.  I'd bet money he was a crook...maybey even the mafia. 

I toss the remainder of the liquid to the back of my throat.  I savor its fiery warmth and motion for a refill.  It appears.  A pleasant numbness begins to spread. Second, that mangy cur of a boyfriend dumped me.  That scum-bag already has some beautiful young twit in his arms, cooing the same old and rusty lines in her ear.  Don't forget those 
promises of fame.  She probably only has half my talent, and 10 years less experience!  Hell, he probably has her tight, young ass slated for my spot in the show.  Shit, now I'm really depressed. 

An unfiltered cigarette is drawn.  I strike a match and the spicy tobacco aroma surrounds me.  The Hell with my lungs. Of all luck, why did bad have to come in threes?  On top of everything else, I twisted my ankle before the show.  Luckily I could ignore the pain during my performance, but its throbbing reminded me that the injury had not yet gone away. 

I looked up from my empty glass to the bartender.  Another full one appeared.  I smiled in appreciaton. I reached for the Dijarum, but the cigarette had gone out.  Those things never seem to stay lit.  Reaching for a new match, a flare appears next to me.  Glancing over, I was 
surprised by the appearance of a man sitting beside me. He looked familiar, but I could not place his face...perhaps a fan?  I let the fire he provided rekindle the tip of my cigarette. I thanked him, he smiled. 

After that, the memories resume a blurry indistinctness.  I vaguely remember thinking that maybe it was time to move on...to go somewhere where I would be appreciated.  After all, many 
places could use a woman of my talents...like Las Vegas.  Did he call me Indigo? 

No, I must be mistaken.  He couldn't have used that name.  Hardly anyone even knows it exists. Strangely, the more I think about him, the less I seem to remember. Oh well, at least I woke up alone.  That's probably more than Mom could have said. 

I turn off the water and towel dry, wrapping up my unruly hair.  I look at my turbaned visage in the mirror and reflect on those recent events.  Fuck it.  Fuck my sleaze-ball father, my scum-bag boyfriend, my kiss-up job and this suck-ass town.  Fuck it all; I don't need any of it. 

My hand slaps the counter in a flash of anger, bringing the headache to the forefront of my attention.  As I reach for some Advil to assuage the pain, I realize that yesterday's excesses have proven only one thing.:  today, it is just Fuck Me.      Maybe it really is time for me to leave this cesspool of misery and go somewhere I will be appreciated.  Maybe I just need to get away from this God-forsaken City as far and as fast as I 
can.  After last night, I know where I must go. Las Vegas, ready or not, here I come.