Dangerous Evolution

Bill Richards pulled a half-crushed pack of Marlboros out of the pocket of his grease-stained Panama Jack tee shirt and fumbled around for a lighter as his eyes peered out into the night through the dirty windshield of his 1971 Oldsmobile Cutlass. The vehicle was a composite of fenders and other parts from half a dozen different cars with patches of orange Bondo scattered here and there giving a calico effect to the oil-burning rattletrap as it meandered through the night desert outside of Vegas. The flash of a tiny flame briefly illuminated the interior of the car with a flicker as Richards drew on the butt of his cigarette. The fire went out and the tip of the cigarette glowed a warm orange hue as the thick, rich smoke filled his lungs. Richards tilted his head back slightly and slowly exhaled, filling the car with a haze of white smoke. He reached for the window handle to crank it down a bit. As the smoke silently slipped out into the cold, crisp night air of the desert, he gazed up at the countless millions of stars that hung in silent vigil overhead as they had ever since this desert was at the bottom of a vast ocean countless millennia ago. He revisited the casinos in his mind trying to add up his losses for the evening at the blackjack table. He had taken full advantage of the free flowing alcohol, which was given to all guests as long as they kept gambling. The effect was to lower inhibitions and to impair judgement so that one would not necessarily know when leaving the gambling table was in their best interest and Richards was no exception. However, he was not a very effective gambler and kept hoping that the next card would be the one to bring him up out of the hole that he had dug for himself. It never did, and his financial situation only worsened with each deal from the shoe. Indeed, Lady Luck had not been at his side throughout this long evening, nor would she be joining him anytime soon.

Five miles back across the perfectly flat landscape, Ron Clarke lit a cigarette of his own off the hot coils of his glossy black Dodge Durango's built in lighter. A Jimmy Buffet CD thundered from the speakers as Clarke tapped his hands on the steering wheel in time to the music. In the distance he could see the tail lights of a car with the bulb burnt out on the passenger side. He was heading back to San Diego after a week-long seminar on personnel and materials management, during which he spent as much time at the blackjack tables as at the conference. Clarke's luck had been somewhat better than Richards' and he left Vegas $800 ahead. He smiled to himself as he thought about his winnings. He enjoyed the non-stop energy that pulsates through Vegas 24-7 and often took off for an extended weekend there to take in a show or two. This trip he went to see Cirque du Soleil at the Treasure Island hotel. The show was a surrealistic blend of acrobatics and bizarre visuals set to an amazing soundtrack. More than once during the show he wondered if they were even human, given the way they seemed to defy gravity with each feat being more spectacular than the one before it.