What Stays in Vegas by Beth Labonte Page A

goal. 
    “Score!”  I yelled.  Several fifth graders turned to watch my victory dance.
    “You realize that I lose on purpose so you’ll continue to do that dance?”  asked Chris.  We pushed our paddles into the center of the table and headed toward the exit, casually bumping shoulders.
    “I don’t believe you.  But it is an awesome dance and I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” 
    Chris and I were at the arcade where we had been hanging out during our lunch hour for the past week.  It began the day after the Rob Dorfman meeting fiasco.  Dan had pretty much given up on life and called in sick, taking the day to recover in front of the television.  And Kendra, understandably, had decided to take the rest of the entire week off.  I called to check on her periodically throughout the morning, but by eleven-thirty she seemed to be on some sort of cleaning rampage and I decided to just let her be.  This left Chris and I alone in our corner of the office fielding phone calls and picking up the slack. 
    By noontime Chris declared that the only way to take his stress level down a notch would be with a game of air hockey.  It took a good ten minutes before I realized he was serious, but when I did, I happily tagged along.   Our business attire made us stick out like sore thumbs among the tourists and grade school children, but it also added to the silliness.  I ended up having more fun than I’d had in a long time, and we have been going back ever since.  We liked to laugh about the fact that people like Roberta, who saw us leave for lunch together everyday, probably thought we were having some kind of torrid affair.
    We ordered two slices of pizza from the outdoor vendor, and took a seat on our favorite bench which overlooked the bumper boats.  Making fun of passengers on the bumper boats was quickly becoming our favorite past time.
    “Look at that kid,” said Chris pointing to a boy, around twelve, who was making his boat repeatedly spin in circles.  “He thinks he’s the first one to figure out how to do that.”
    I laughed and pointed to the same kid's dad who was reaching into the water and splashing strangers in the face.  “I would punch that guy if he splashed me.”  
    “He’s gonna get kicked out by bumper boat security," said Chris.  "I can’t wait.”  Sure enough, a pimply sixteen year old blew a whistle and Splash Dad was ordered out of the pool.  His son looked humiliated.
    “Look, now his kid’s ramming the hell out of that other kid because he’s angry at his dad,” said Chris.  “We could do a case study on this family.”
    “A case study?”
“I minored in psychology.”
    “You should write a research paper,” I said.  “And maybe you could also answer the question of why that guy over there is wearing green socks with sandals and black shorts.” 
    “That one's simple.  He’s not concerned with fashion.  He put those socks on because he needed something to cover his feet.  And he put the sandals on because they’re comfortable.”
    “And the shorts?” I asked.
    “It’s hot outside and those keep him cool.  A guy like that doesn’t think about color coordination or style, he thinks about putting clothes on his body for utilitarian purposes only.”
    “But how gross," I said.  "His socks are all wet.”
    “Tessa, the guy is hanging out by himself at the bumper boats.   Do you think he cares if his socks are wet?  He’s in his own little world, and he’s probably much happier than the rest of us materialistic jerks.”
    “Are you materialistic?” I asked, looking up at him with a serious face.  “You don’t seem that way to me.”
    “Maybe not with brand name clothes, but come on, look at my office.  And what do I do all day?  I help some sociopath make money off of his strip joints.  This entire city is the most materialistic piece of work on the planet.  You go out on a Friday night around here and it’s nothing but fake girls in