By Eva Ferguson

I struggle to focus on anything as I walk down Fremont Street; a feast for the eyes. Everywhere I turn, a new spectacle presents itself ready for me to dig into. I do not feel present. Rather, I feel as if my body is falling down a cascade of the bizarre, back into my nightmare from the night before. The figures flooding the street become my distant friends. “Fuck Trump: Tip me if you agree” reads one man’s sign. I wander over to plop a few coins into his tip jar. I want to take him to the casino three feet away and spend the night hearing about what brought him to Fremont Street; his childhood, his lovers, his hopes and dreams. I turn and smile as I walk away. He smiles back. I wonder where he will go that night. What is home for him?

Heavy bass drums thrum in my ears, interrupting my thoughts. A group of teenagers circle around a speaker and one of them looks around before breaking into dance. A girl sits on the speaker, another sits cross-legged next to her eating from a bag of potato chips. They are lost in their friend’s exhibition, unaware of the forming crowd. They dance for themselves and no one else; lost within the all-consuming dream that is Fremont Street. What is home for them?

Further up the street, a small stage is placed to the left. Sweat glistens on the drummer’s forehead as he becomes engulfed in the rhythm of his song, glancing at his band-mates’ faces and flashing the occasional smile. I move my gaze to the audience members in front of me, and to the lady dancing on the bar in nothing but black lingerie. I worry her 6-inch stilettos will give out from under her. I wonder where she will go that night. People yell the lyrics and move their bodies, gluing their eyes to the band, forgetting any time before this song. I wonder where their tour bus will stop that night and who will stay to pack up the set.

Heads turn but continue down the street in a mindless procession. My mind grows fuzzy, cloudy, with each new thing I lay my eyes on; senses numbing.

I look up at the ceiling as the light show begins. It stretches down Fremont Street like the dusty country road and periwinkle skies I will dream of that night. My eyes squint as I admire the neon pink, green, blue, and yellow, all gone in the blink of an eye as they transition to other variations on the digital ceiling. Early 2000s music blares as my brother and I screech the lyrics, stumbling over forgotten words yet carrying on as if nothing has happened. My body gradually feels heavier and heavier, like water filling my body from my toes to my head, overflowing my mind. “Let’s go back home”.

Home is a symphony of gambling machines as I make my way through the Bellagio Hotel lobby. Home is cigarette smoke burning my throat and lungs. 2:30 in the morning is perfect for a smoke and a couple of rounds at your favorite slot machine. Your partner in crime, your best friend who won’t let you down until your 10th round at 4:27am when you begrudgingly call it a night. Home is still bodies, slouched with crossed feet and cigars in hand while they stare, expressionless, at the slot machines in front of them, the only movement - their hands as they press the button and pull the lever over, over, and over again.

Home is the drunk woman stumbling her way to the elevator, spilling her martini down her fur coat. She hasn’t looked at her phone since she found out her husband cheated on her. She is a dreamer who came to this place to forget as she gambles and drinks and spends her life away, searching for something but never quite finding it. I enter the elevator after her and take one last look as she exits, a wave of relief washing over me as she manages to unlock her room and disappear inside. She will stay in this dream for a little while longer.

Except, this is no dream. This is Vegas.