Free Fat Old Woman in Las Vegas: Gambling, Dieting and Wicked Fun by Pat Dennis

see three newly arrived police cars with their lights spinning and sirens blaring. Bent over one of the police cars was a young man, his hands cuffed behind him. The police performed a quick body search. One of the officers was holding his head firming against the trunk of the car. Four other patrolmen rushed into the station.
    I scuffled over to a young man seated on a concrete bench and sat down next to him. An older woman joined us.
    “What’s up?” I asked.
    He shrugged his shoulders, as if witnessing three cops on one citizen was an every day occurrence.
    Hector and I became fast friends. Within the first few minutes of meeting him, I’d heard his entire life story, and those of anyone he’d ever met. Hector liked to talk as rapidly as humanly possible. He was a sweet young man with black hair that glistened as much as the thick gold chains that dangled around his muscular neck. His black, silky shorts were loose and reached below his knees. His L. A. Lakers jacket was zipped open, revealing a white, ribbed sleeveless t-shirt.
    Hector had a strong Mexican accent though he was born in L.A. He said he grew up in the city but needed to get to Vegas to chill. His friends told him to give it a shot. They claimed he’d love it. Frankly, I couldn’t see Hector ever becoming mellow.
    He continued his swift dialogue, allowing here and there to let the woman on the other side of me, speak. Living in Tennessee, she was on her way to visit family in San Francisco for the first time. Her connection to Frisco was scheduled to pull into the lane next to Hector’s and mine. If nothing else, bus passengers are chatty.
    Hector was nonchalant when he asked if I minded if he smoked. I told him to feel free. Why would I care? Within hours I’d be drowning in a tsunami of smoke filled casinos.
    Hector reached into his pocket, and instead of pulling out a pack of Marlboros, he removed a plastic container and began to rotate the top to open. My Midwesterner sensibility told me Hector was obviously the frugal sort. He rolled his own cigarettes to save a few pennies. As soon as Hector lit up, the scent told me otherwise.
    My jaw dropped open at his brazen, law-breaking attitude. The aging Southern belle and I stared at each with eyes as wide as Hector’s pupils. Together, the two of us bolted twenty feet to the left, the furthest we could get away from Hector without standing directly in front of a police car.
    “Can you believe …?” I started to ask.
    She interrupted. “My family told me to never be surprised by anything in California.”
    I looked toward the gaggle of cops wondering if one of them had noticed the distinct illegal odor. Hector was such a sweet kid. I didn’t want him arrested for his stupidity. I didn’t want him to ….
    Wait a minute. The plastic bottle Hector kept his weed in was a blue plastic cylinder with a white label encircling it. It was a prescription bottle. Hector was on medical marijuana, perfectly legal in California.
    I mentioned that fact to Ms. Tennessee and we humbly headed back to where Hector was sitting. I felt old and outdated as if I’d started a rant about young kids and their music. Now Jimmy Dorsey! There was a band.
    By now, Hector was quiet and smiling like a contented feline who smoked a dime bag of catnip. We hadn’t even left for Las Vegas, yet Hector was already beginning to chill.

Akeisha & The Bus
     
    The bus pulled into a small desert town, an hour or so outside of downtown L.A., and I saw her step off the bus idling next to mine. Akeisha was one of my own. Tribal members fighting the same enemies in the universe. Sadly, the war will never end for either of us. The twenty-some year old warrior was a minimum of one hundred and fifty pounds overweight, maybe even two hundred, or more. Once the weight reaches a certain point, it’s hard for me to know.
    Her steps were slow, hampered by chubby feet cramped into shoes too small. Her arches looked like a bubble ready to burst.