They Went With Fabulous
By Dayvid Figler
A tell-tales heart remains under the street. The street named after a guy
we intentionally don’t ask too much about. Our cradle of vulgarity. An
elder site, noisily thumping along. Dig into the ground and find chaos.
Beautiful chaos. Empty shells and fragrant atomizers. Sawdust
memories and planks. Shopkeep dreams and corrupt schemes.
A square grid upon sand, ever poised for a return to nature.
This Fremont Street should be taught to the world. Past, present
and maybe a future laid out on the wronged side of the tracks.
It is morning, now, here, like any morning. Every morning is
like any morning. Light breaks through. It’s windy. Or not. Or hot.
Or chilly. But mostly hot. The highs, outrageous. Record-setting. Dust
devils swirl around ankles, shuffling down long Fremont. Blistering.
People persevere. Clouds lord mountains in melancholy still. Dawn
takes shape. This city. Incubator as dreamscape. Dreamscape as incubator.
Never forget the whole of Fremont. The part of the city EVERYONE KNOWS
where faucets along the sides building can conceivably be sources for life.
Every crack in the sun-beaten ground is an oversight. City ever chasing potential.
Natural and unnatural lights sharing a space, normalcy and fringe eclipse one another.
This is magic hour. May or may not be a plan in place. Driven to the desert.
Broken backstories. This city, singular, never out of room. Burning. Grace under
a savage baptismal. Longshots growing. Uncomfortable, but acclimating. Beating the heat?
Beat upon by the heat? Finally placing the correct bet? On fire. (place your bets)
Caught fire. Prayers not to win, but be blessed. Immersive divinity.
Bowing towards Fremont. Then, all directions out, from it, exploded.
Read the tarot. Messages in suits. Dancing pips. Balls in grooves. Rolling runes.
Salvation. Sanctuary. Mistakes happen, forgiven not forgotten. No time to heal,
or cool. An earworm, a wish that there were more than 24 hours in the day
(what nonsense). Stakes up higher. The devil may care.
You’re not of here until you’ve made it through three summers.
Eligibility for a jackpot depends on it. Take the chance and win.
Sort of. This is a gambling place. Holy. Duality, sacred town and city. Doubled
down every decade for half a century, pushed the limits of math. Became the
fastest, hottest, deepest valley of superficiality. Gambling lessons offered for free,
or so you’ll be led to believe. Let me lead you by example. (I am of Here).
Let me blow on your fires. (I am of Here). Give tips. Comp you. Let me
fill your ticket slips with wise handicap. (I am the City). Make and break
habits. This city doesn’t lay odds on what happened, only what might.
Imagine, though, if it took bets on its own past. Not outcomes, but journeys.
Not scores, how the calls sounded. Not winners, but what hits people took.
Motives. Manners. Regrets. Plans. Visions. Not on the recorded temperature,
but the heat. Distorted memories. What this city could have been. Truth, neck
and neck, with perception. Photo finishes. This city is a sure bet even when it
loses. House keeps its edge on every plane. But this place isn’t in retrograde.
Impulse is the beat. Increasing heart rate. Royals get made. New bettors arrive.
Mermaids here use hidden apparatuses to breath underwater. Distinct songs for
different targets. Favor sand castle tourists over wanderers looking to shell. Crabby
or not, everyone is welcome to fabulous. Now you, too. Thanks for looking me up.
Wanna know a secret? Truth here is more accessible than any fact or skilled
therapist. This city is always defensive. Insecure. Over-compensating
even when it withholds. Deflecting. Not into self-examination. The real
slogan is It Didn’t Really Happen. Or Even It Did Happen, Why Should
You Care? Or Don’t Look Back! The city is always afraid one wrong
glance will turn it into salt flats. To its credit, this city has done its share
to advance understanding of the human condition. Good at marketing, too.
It’s not all bad results. This city has many spots where people killed
themselves. Care to wager where? This city is a beacon to people who
are done with who they were. Ponzi scheme of a city. City on fire.
Opportunity to blaze. Maybe ash. An easy path to pretend reinvention.
People on the come. City is burning. People who pass. City on fire. City,
red hot. A mountain, a mere action-flick of time away, once resisted
an attempt to store the toxic wastes of the world. The world didn’t think
the city would mind. Was it the joke that “we’re already full up” that
won that fight? City of freedom. Unburdened by reasons, seasons.
Summer frolic, until it’s not cute. Breezes, except when it whips.
Celebrating the company. Town looking forward. No other direction.
Believes the brightest spots shine for everyone. Undaunted by statistics.
Unimpressed with plans. This is why we don’t sweat, even when
we’re drenched. Action, in the now, is up. It’s high. Despite some parts
running low. And this is where I am, who I am. Don’t be deterred by
my sad story. I once was accused of attempt murder of a golden goose,
so my credibility is suspect. I am this city. Short on ammo, right now.
Still in the ring, though. Getting the rope-a-dope. On tilt, but self-correcting.
I was Lot’s wife’s divorce lawyer. Lazarus’ gravedigger. Maybe Job
getting punked by the Gambling God. Heed my allegories. I am town and city,
defiant. Beating back the dust. I may fall into Fugue. Only temporarily. Not
hopeless. Las Vegas, seamless city though the shifts. Days into Swing,
Swing into Graveyard, Grave, then Days. Everyone on the clock. No
time to unwind. There’s a need to sleep. Even sleep that isn’t sleep.
No healing, only forgetting, for now. Ready soon to gamble again on the
turning point. The boiling point. What’s blowing in the wind. The real
bottom. Make the point. Lose the point. Mystic number seven, invisibly
branded on the bottom of the foot. Often, people feel the itch. In their
boots. On their bare feet. Wandering the tilted sidewalks. Burning soles.
Blazing sevens. Pony walls are respite. No such thing as a last dime.
Wearing a barrel. Only a pause until another shot arrives. Wait for it.
Redemption or acceptance, either way. The willing, the wild cards.
Next shooter, up. Next one, down. Unreliable balance sheet. Staying
upright. Cheerleaders, dehydrated, have water to spare. Pumps, primed.
Land of sunshine and darkness grows. Bets, placed. A myth, manifested,
exactly as expected. Even money, for sure. Fabulous. Fantastical.
This city of action. Heat. Vibrance. Back to Fremont and beyond. The elders
never thought it would last so long, which is why so many poor decisions
have been buried. The all-seeing eye in the pyramid, miles south, never
closes. Everyone, only a step away from everyone else. “I will get out”
Mantra. But none ever do. No one can resist seeing how the story ends.
Stir the ashes. Happen on diamonds? It happens. I’m on a hill, now.
Flames abound. There’s a fiddle in my hands. I am sour, no? A pudgy
Caesar dreaming of a new city. Meet the new city. Same as the old. Canonical.
Here we are doomed to burn. When the fun doesn’t stop.
Above the stratosphere.
Below the mountains.
Surrendering to the sun, rising again.
Referred to by the New York Times as a “defense lawyer who doubles as one of Las Vegas’ most popular podcasters + cultural commentators,” Dayvid Figler was raised in Las Vegas. His father dealt cards, and his mother was a PTA maven, bingo addict, and creative financial planner for his family who persevered through poverty.
Dayvid is an advocate for people with gambling addictions, a punk polka singer, storyteller, and an award-winning writer and radio personality. He has practiced law for three decades and served as a sitting judge for the Las Vegas Municipal Court. In 2019, he received the Medal of Justice from the State Bar of Nevada for his advocacy to create greater access to fairness in legal systems. You can find his storytelling work on NPR’s All Things Considered, Risk!, OPB’s Live Wire, Black Mountain Radio and more.
In everything he does, Figler asks, where does chance land and how does grace fit in? You can listen to Dayvid as co-host on the daily podcast, City Cast Las Vegas, and find his freelance writing in ProPublica, Electric Lit, KNPR’s Desert Companion, Book and Film Globe, the Nevada Independent and probably a newly published book near you. He’s twice been named a Nevada Arts Council fellow for his poetry and performance.
Visit his website HERE to invite him to speak to your community.
