THREE HOURS IN LAS VEGAS – Saimo Tedino

April 11, 2026

It’s the first store I see stepping out of the elevator lobby.
The sign uses classic streetwear fonts, but the dim lighting and wooden interior suggest something more niche—somewhere between a boutique for upscale mountain weirdos and a surfer’s bookstore.
I lean in to get a better look at the hoodies laid out on the table in the middle of the room.
A skeleton reading The New Yorker on a park bench.
A mummy on strike over the cost of living.
A vampire wearing a Gucci cape.
Beautiful.
But right behind me, the voice of reason is already on standby.
Her name is Carol.
For fourteen years she’s been the legal owner and acting CEO of our relationship.
She runs the company. I’m just an employee.
“First store. Relax.”
“You’re right. Sorry,” I say, already pleading.
But it’s no use.
The smell of wood and tobacco-based fragrances beats common sense by a landslide.
Three seconds later I’m drowning in caps and rows of jeans.
If I don’t get out fast, I’ll end up buying the trash can too.
I try to leave.
I can’t.
The beauty of this stuff pulls me back in like a rip current.
“Yo, man.”
The voice comes from an entity leaning against the counter at the back of the room.
The lamps behind him cast a halo of backlight that—whether he’s actually God coming down to Vegas to show me the way or not—makes him look like a pretty convincing knockoff.
“Come here,” says the God of streetwear.
I walk toward him, unsure.
Maybe I died somewhere between New York and Vegas and Christ himself is summoning me to design the Paradise basketball team uniforms.
The Worker Angels are proud to announce a new collaboration with designer Henry, bringing a touch of Italian style and street culture to the PBA—Paradise Basketball Association.
I picture a sky-blue jersey with orange trim and a stylized angel wearing a construction helmet in the center.
“You’re not really here for clothes, are you?”
“No. I mean—yes. I mean… I don’t know,” I mumble, talking to what feels like the Tyler Durden of casino retail.
“Just looking around…”
“Come closer, man.”
I’m already under.
Planet Hollywood and blackjack feel light-years away.
What’s your name?
Me?
You.
Henry.
You like my stuff?
Yeah. A lot. But it’s expensive.
You think?
I do.
Which one do you like?
All of it. But it’s expensive. Really expensive.
Who are you?
Henry.
Yeah, but who are you?
I’m a creative.
“I figured,” he says.
He figured.
“And what do you create?”
I swallow.
“I write stories. And I design T-shirts.”
“Wow.”
In the dim light I can only make out tattoos and a bandana.
This guy has to be some kind of Marvel superhero.
“Thanks, but I don’t do it for a living. That’s the problem…”
“You just need to focus on who you want to be. Live as if you already are.”
I don’t get it, but I don’t want to say that.
Still—hypnosis.
“I don’t get it. Can you explain it better?”
“You just have to live inside the desire. In your own world. Think of yourself as already being who you want to become—and you’ll become what you were born to be. It’s not magic. It’s conviction.”
Where the hell am I?
Wasn’t this a clothing store?
Is this Las Vegas or the banks of the Ganges?
What if it’s Scientology?
Where’s Carol?
I can’t even turn around.
By now she’s probably been assaulted and killed by one of Epstein’s emissaries.
And then I feel a presence behind me.
Okay. That’s it. It’s over. They’re taking me—some Caribbean island, forcing me to write novels that get published under Stephen King’s name while they screw me over.
I know. I go from despair to delusions of grandeur in seconds. That’s just how I am.
Except it’s not Scientology.
Not assassins.
Just Carol.
“So now you’re getting spiritual in a hundred-and-forty-dollar-a-night hotel?”
I shoot her a look.
This is a pivotal moment. The breakthrough is right there, within reach, and I won’t let anyone come between me and the God of streetwear.
But Carol isn’t afraid of anything.
“Looking for yourself in a place where a tank top costs as much as a week’s groceries?”
She goes dramatic. Give her ten seconds and I’ll be responsible for war and world hunger too.
She’s shamelessly trying to sabotage my dream.
“Relax. We’re leaving,” I say, without turning around.
But a god isn’t just any god.
He sees everything. Knows everything. Otherwise what kind of god would he be?
“Man, come here tomorrow morning. We have to explore your game.”
He said game.
Game means talent.
He saw it immediately. I’ve got plenty of it.
“I’m Patrick. Patrick Waver. And I’m the CEO of this brand.”
CEO.
Brand.
Vegas.
The future. The turning point.
Boom. Black.

TWO HOURS AND FORTY-EIGHT MINUTES LATER
But nothing can stop the creative fury of a free spirit.
Or maybe an idiot is just an idiot.
“You sure it’s this way?”
Forty-one degrees. The soles of our shoes are melting.
Vegas isn’t built for walking.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s close.”
Carol sweats in silence between warehouses and empty parking lots.
“Think about it—largest dispensary in Nevada.”
“Yeah, exactly what I dreamed of doing on vacation,” she says, flat.
I feel absolutely no responsibility for this little expedition.
She should’ve thought about that before interrupting my rise to success.
Serves her right.
We keep walking.
After twenty minutes, she stops asking questions.
After thirty, I stop promising we’re close.
From the outside, the dispensary looks like a gardening store.
And sure, there are plants—but already dead. No need to remember to water them.
I pictured something dark, dusty photos of stoned celebrities on the walls.
Instead—it’s a pharmacy inside a freezer.
Three guys are ahead of me.
An old man with handlebars like a Harley.
A Black guy with size-fifty feet.
And the one in front of me so wide he looks like the horizon.
Then it’s my turn.
Carol stands far enough away to judge me in silence.
I can feel her thoughts.
She’s trying to follow the voice of this model-turned-cannabinoid salesman.
“Relax, they’re not strong. Zero paranoia,” he says, with a LeBron tattoo on his forearm and a Stephen Hawking T-shirt.
Perfect.
P-e-r-f-e-c-t.
I walk out with the bag in my hand, and it smells like victory.
The scent of weed spreads into the desert.
The next forty minutes are just smiles and promises of an epic day.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you.”
Maybe.
We’re on the Strip when, after three puffs—three—I realize I’ve made a mistake.
My heart pushes against my chest, crushing my lungs.
My hands go slack. My tongue turns to paper.
I’m going to suffocate like George Floyd—except in my case, because I’m an idiot.
I try to stay calm. Tell myself it’s normal. It’s just kicking in.
We’re stopped at a light. Two kids in front of us.
I hide in the thin shadow of the pole.
The sun is directly overhead, drilling into my brain.
I can feel it frying me, but Carol hasn’t noticed yet.
I slip back into the narrow line of shade on the ground.
The two kids suddenly look older.
They were eighteen—now they’re ready for marriage.
How long have we been at this light?
Minutes? Hours? Years?
Maybe the light doesn’t exist.
Maybe shadow doesn’t exist in this city.
She’s starting to watch me now, while I feel hell bubbling up from the asphalt.
I reach for her hand.
“Let’s go into the Venetian,” I say.
“Three seconds ago you said you wanted to stay outside.”
“No—bad idea. Too hot.”
We just need to cross the street.
Once inside, in the AC, I’ll be fine.
But the more we walk, the further the other sidewalk gets.
I just have to hold on.
One more effort and the doors of a paradise made of cold drinks and air conditioning will open in front of me.
I stagger behind her in a city where everything looks close but is always an hour away.
The street, usually packed with cars, now feels empty—just me, her, and that miserable traffic light behind us.
Months later, we finally reach the casino entrance.
I grab her instinctively and look at her.
In her eyes, I see my own terror reflected back.
There’s no turning back now.
“See? I knew it. I knew it. You never listen to me. Are you feeling sick?!”
No point denying it.
My face is saying everything.
My heart is racing.
This is it. I’m going to die.
“You’re not well—what do I do now? I barely speak English, this place is chaos—come on, let’s get you inside!”
She pushes open the casino doors.
I step in, and for the shortest second of my life, I feel slightly better.
But like I said—it’s the Usain Bolt of seconds.
Thousands of colored lights burn through windowless corridors, mixing with the noise of people, music blasting from above, glasses clinking, slot machines screaming.
“Stop,” I say.
Or maybe I don’t. I don’t know. She freezes anyway.
I instinctively turn back toward the hell of the Strip.
Her eyes fill with tears.
She grabs my arm.
“Let’s sit down!”
Panic.
I’m drenched in sweat.
My hands are shaking.
The nearest store feels like it’s collapsing on top of me.
I try to say the word “drink,” but I don’t even know if my voice comes out.
I see her walking away, swallowed by the chaos of this thing called life.
I’m about to die alone in Las Vegas.
I deserve it.
And then I feel someone grab me, pull me.
Saving an idiot is forgiveness.
Not abandoning someone like me—that’s one of the purest forms of love.
She points to a bench.
I sit, but I don’t know how to sit.
In front of me, in a store window, a lineup of rubbery, orange-faced political dolls stare at me in disgust.
“Where’s a juice place?”
“Juice? I don’t even see water and you want juice?!”
Was it juice or milk that stops paranoia?
I can’t remember what the stoner survival manual says.
I grab her and whisper, “I’m sorry.”
I want to cry, but I’ve lost all my fluids.
What comes out instead is just: “anything”—which really means anything to drink.
I’m about to throw up stomach acid onto the shoes of some high-ranking European bureaucrat deep into gambling.
One more heartbeat and I’m gone.
Fate is a croupier, slowly releasing my ball onto the roulette wheel of life.
Red—you live.
Black—you die.
My parents will have to take a fourteen-hour flight to collect the body of their idiot son.
I picture them getting into a cab.
“Where to, sir?”
“To the morgue, please.”

She drags me into the first fast-food place we find.
“You need to eat something,” she says.
“You’re on an empty stomach.”
The cashier hands me a drink and a slice of pizza almost immediately.
I start drinking while she runs the card.
I need fluids. I need electrolytes.
And then—
Declined.
Declined.
Declined.
Declined.
Declined.
Declined.
Declined.
Declined.
Declined.
Declined.
Declined.
Transaction denied.
After eleven attempts, I even know how to pronounce it correctly.
Four credit cards.
Two different bank accounts.
This is panic in its purest, ancestral form.
“I told you yesterday not to take pictures with those hookers—they blocked our cards!” she snaps.
I took the picture out of politeness.
Then I didn’t have cash, so I paid them by tapping my card on their phone.
This is hell: crushed hearts between credit cards and prostitutes.

Then suddenly—a presence behind me.
Short. Thinning hair. Dark skin.
“Excuse me, how much is it?”
“Just a moment, sir, I’m finishing with these customers,” the cashier says.
“I meant—their total.”
“It’s eighteen dollars,” she replies, somewhere between annoyed and confused.
“May I?” the man asks, looking at the zombie version of me.
“What did he say?” Carol asks, on edge.
“He wants to pay for us…”
There is such a thing as pure, unmotivated kindness.
He’s about five-seven, a little round, with two small mustaches that would look kind even if they weren’t—especially right now.
His last name is probably Hernandez.
His parents probably broke their backs to give him a proper education.
He became a respected surveyor.
A wife. Two kids in college.
Meanwhile the cashier is doing her best to make us feel even worse.
I’m falling apart—what else can I do but accept this gesture from one of the few heroes I’ve ever met?
A hero of our time.
Of my time, for sure.
Carol is crying now—caught between the fear of watching me collapse and the fear of being stranded on the other side of the world with no money.
There’s not even gratitude in her face.
At most—shame.
The only thing I manage to say is:
“Thanks a lot, sir… we can go to an ATM together…”
“Don’t worry, guys. Enjoy.”
And just like that, he disappears into the maze of shops and slot machines—
one of those people I’ll remember for the rest of my life without ever knowing who he was.
TIME GAP
I come back online in front of gummy candies and beef jerky.
Then donut-shaped magnets. Hamburgers.
I don’t know why, but I feel good vibrations.
I grab two bottles of water, a Fanta, and three packs of cookies.
She sees I’m slightly better now and touches my face.
“Let’s get them. Hopefully the cards work.”
“And if they don’t, we’ll put everything back and figure something out.”
I regain a tiny fraction of her respect.
From level minus thirteen to minus eight.
Nine more good actions and I might earn back something resembling trust.
And all three cards work.
The cashier—a chubby Asian guy—looks at us like we’re idiots.
I start shoving cookies and Fanta into my mouth as we rush toward the exit.
“If you even touch that stuff again, I swear I’ll kill you.”
I nod.
Not the moment to argue good intentions.
The doors open and we’re finally outside.
I have no idea what time it is.
It could’ve been an hour. Or a full day.
Casinos without windows are disturbing.
Gamblers aren’t supposed to know how much time is passing.
Same as addicts.
You never see either of them checking a watch.
At least give them that.
Then I look down.
A homeless guy is sitting to my right, asking for money.
Young. White. Maybe twenty-five. Thirty, badly worn.
He’s got a dog. A mutt.
And suddenly—clarity.
This is it. My chance to redeem myself. Clean the slate.
I crouch down so I don’t look like a rich junkie.
Junkie, sure. Rich—not really.
“Hey brother… I want to give you something…”
He looks at me, confused, pointing first to his ears, then his mouth.
I turn to her for help.
Carol is studying him.
“What do you think he’s saying?”
“You’re asking me?”
He taps his mouth and ears again.
“Oh—he’s deaf,” she says.
No.
I can’t believe this.
Jackpot.
A homeless guy. With a dog. And deaf.
I couldn’t have designed a better chance to clean my conscience.
I open my backpack and look for the evidence.
I pull out the pack with the two joints and the lighter and hand it to him.
Then I hesitate.
“Not the lighter. That I’m keeping. Souvenir.”
He doesn’t give a shit about the lighter.
I pull it back and stand up, hooking my arm through Carol’s.
She looks at me like I’ve lost my last functioning brain cell.
The homeless man—silent, voiceless—starts signing animatedly to his dog.
Do dogs understand sign language?

INT. CASINO PARKING GARAGE – AFTERNOON
Inside a labyrinth shaped like Hurricane Katrina—but made of concrete and Chevrolets—I pretend to look for our car.
How the hell am I supposed to know what floor we’re on?
I only remember this: third level. Stall 34A.
Thirty-four is the number of one of my favorite basketball players.
A was my section back in high school.
I must be lucid to think like this.
Yes. I’m coming back. Final—
Heat wave.
I wobble.
I grab the side mirror of a pickup truck.
When I look at Carol, I see only anger and disgust.
The truck is huge.
Like my dreams.
Must belong to someone successful.
Then I see a wreck.
Yellow. Rust eating through the doors. Side smashed in.
That’s the car I’ll be driving soon.
Maybe even living in.
The anxiety comes and goes.
Like luck in poker. It does whatever the hell it wants.
Micro-waves. Short. Violent.
Between them—deceptive pauses.
Almost normal minutes where I think: it’s passing.
If it’s cold, I freeze.
If it’s hot, I suffocate.
Inside, I can’t breathe.
Outside, I feel like an astronaut drifting away from the ship, the cord snapping.
I’ll end up alone. Poor. Stupid.
Wandering these streets paved with heat and cynicism.
But she—Carol—still saves me.
And she finds the car.
Inside: our suitcases.
Like finding a piece of home.
We look for the keys.
Meaning—I look. She finds them.
She holds them and looks at me.
She doesn’t drive much.
Not big cars. Not abroad.
So what do I do?
Test her again—or bluff and test myself?
The choices that define us are made in eight seconds.
And I may die an idiot, but not a coward.
I grab the keys and mumble something that, in my head, sounds like:
Relax, baby, your Billie Joe’s got this.
But in reality it comes out more like:
“Okay… I’ll try… uh… yeah…”
“You sure?” she asks, staring straight ahead.
In front of us, a low concrete wall separates us from open air.
I focus.
If I mess this up—if I hit first instead of reverse—we go straight off the building.
Calm.
I lock onto the letter R.
She watches my hand on the gear shift.
I double-check.
Slowly lift my foot off the brake.
The car moves.
Backward.
My head spins with the wheel, inside this concrete snake where parked cars are scales.
I turn.
Everything turns.
Then finally—light.
Cut by a barrier.
Barrier means ticket.
Ticket means we were supposed to pay.
Panic.
Eyes, head, heart—everything pounding.
“We forgot to pay for parking!” I say.
“What the fuck are you talking about?!”
“The ticket—”
“You took the ticket after paying!”
I don’t remember. Better trust her.
“Where is it? Where the hell did you put it?!”
“I—wait—one second—I’ll find it—”
I start searching myself.
Sweat. Tissues. Phones. Receipts. Crumbs.
Wallet. Pockets. Zippers.
“Maybe I left it at the machine…”
“Fuck!!! There’s a time limit to get out!!!”

I freeze, staring at the parking barrier.
Then—
“Look where the hell you put it!”
I turn around.
On the back of her phone case, where my dog Iago’s picture used to be, there’s the ticket.
I take it, embarrassed, and slide it into the machine.
Humiliation is a quiet creature.

She asks if I feel better.
I mumble that it’s almost gone.
Traffic lights. Lanes. Cars.
Heading toward Circus Circus, Las Vegas watches me, judging.
I drive stiff, clinging to the boom of this boat flying the flag of the Republic of Idiots.
She keeps pressing a wet tissue to my neck, trying to keep me lucid.
If the police stop me, I’m spending the next few months in an orange jumpsuit next to people with killer written across their eyelids.

SPACE-TIME BLACKOUT
If I collapse in front of an elevator, I want my last thought to be for them.
My grandmother. My best friend, Iago.
Then suddenly—a familiar figure appears in my head.
A surfer-looking guru.
Patrick.
In the soft light of his store, he says:
“Set small goals.”
“Should we sleep in the hotel lobby for three nights?”
That’s Carol.
The elevator doors open.
This is it.
If I make it to the eighth floor without having a heart attack, I tell myself I get one more day.
Steel walls on both sides. A mirror behind me.
I try to focus.
Visualize.
Visualize.
Visualize.
No. I can’t.
She tries to push me in, but I pull back like a dog at the edge of an escalator.
I turn toward the lobby, looking for an escape.
Then I see Carol’s face.
It says: if you don’t get in, I’m leaving you here.
I think of my grandmother.
Iago.
Carol.
I take a run-up and throw myself inside.
I misjudge the distance and slam into the mirror.
She takes advantage of the moment and hits “8.”
The elevator starts moving.
“1.”
Half an hour later—“2.”
Stay calm.
Visualize.
Stay calm.
I picture myself with my grandmother. Morning light.
Then I add Iago.
We’re walking down a country road.
Picking berries while he takes a dump in front of two cows.
The image breaks.
Back to the elevator.
I try again.
Now he’s still taking a dump. Diarrhea.
“4.”
“5.”
“Come on, we’re almost there,” she says.
Yeah. Almost my ass.
“6.”
“7.”
“8.”
I’m standing in front of a door.
She opens it.
Either hell—or the room.
Hell doesn’t have air conditioning.
Or a TV playing baseball.
It’s the room.
I look at my shirt—anchors and daggers—thrown over a chair.
I already took it off. Didn’t even notice.
Space-time blackout.
But I feel better.
Adrenaline drops fast.
The dim light and the cool air do the rest.
I pass out.
I dream.
No—actually, I don’t.
I don’t dream about Patrick.
Or my grandmother.
Or Iago.
I wish I had.
It would sound better. More meaningful.
But it didn’t happen.
There’s no moral.
Just this: fear and hope in Las Vegas.

EIGHT MONTHS LATER
The plane door opens.
I let everyone else stand first.
Then I walk toward the exit with casual confidence.
Before stepping off, I shake the pilot’s hand.
“Thank you, sir, for getting us here safe and sound.”
He gives me a smile straight out of a Matthew McConaughey movie.
Then it’s Dakota, the flight attendant.
“Your T-shirts are amazing, Henry. Don’t give up,” she says, without ever breaking eye contact with this unusually handsome artist.
“…and if you’re ever in Minneapolis, call me.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” I say, winking.
I walk down the stairs like it’s a red carpet.
Patrick must have sent an Uber to pick me up.
In my left hand, a duffel bag with my prototypes.
In my right—the future.
Vegas.
I’m coming.