In the middle of the desert, an oasis called Vegas sits smack dab in the middle of an enormous valley. Two homeless men sit on the Las Vegas Strip and bake in the heat, sipping on Steele Reserve — who said it was too early to drink? It’s already noon. The only thing these two men have going for them is conversation.

And don’t you dare feel sorry for them. They put themselves in the position they are in. It was no freak accident. One of the two has a bank account with at least $50,000 saved up from when he, in his past career, had been a greedy lawyer. These two men no longer wanted to be part of the capitalistic machine. No, they chose to be homeless. Left their families and careers behind to live out their lives with a new, nomadic family. More selfish than helpless, you could say.

Joe had been a CPA, accountant for a corrupt firm out of Henderson. He just couldn’t take it any longer: the stress, the deadlines, and the adoration of green paper. Now he lay content in the hot shade of Circus Circus next to the gas station, talking to his pal, Petey.

“If you can’t see that Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers are symbols for the new spirituality, you’re fucked. In an economy where no one can find a job — unless your buddy can hook you up, or you were rich before the recession — religion doesn’t fill the void that it previously did. Ya know, centuries ago.”

“Yeah, but Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers? You must be crazy!”

“I’m as crazy as a mechanical eye with a fatal flaw!”

“Shit. You…you are crazy!”

“Look, here’s some interesting kids comin’ along the strip. Let’s ask them what they think.”

“…crazy…”

Joe called to the two young men to come closer, and they do. They are dressed in “punk” fashion, complete with studded belts, patches and buttons all over the place.

“How you doin’, boys? Got any change?” The older of the two fishes in his pockets and pulls out over a dollar in change and dumps it in Joe’s tanned hand.

“Thank you! Name’s Joe, this here’s Petey…Hey, you boys wanna drink?” Petey holds out the communal can of Steele.

“Sure! My name’s Jeff, and this is my brother, Sam.” The boys take big gulps of the beer, and, wincing, hand the paper bag and its contents back to Petey. He takes another drink himself before continuing his new conversation.

“What are all those buttons?”

“Well,” Sam opens his mouth this time, “some are bands — like ESL, Crass…and others are political statements…this one is a Food Not Bombs button.”

“Wow,” Joe’s eyes search for the latter on the boy’s shirt, “that’s a great slogan. We need food, not bombs! What are bums gonna do with weapons? We need food. Lemme see that.” Sam takes his button off and hands it to Joe.

The men look at the boy’s button. It has a carrot insignia of some sort on it with the words “food not bombs.” Petey takes the button from Joe’s hand and pins it on his beanie.

“I hope you don’t mind! You can get another one more easily than we could! Anyway, we pulled you over here to ask you a question. You know who Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers are?”

“Yup.” The boys say in unison.

“You think faith should be based on these two floundering oldies?”

Joe quickly bats his friend with the back of his hand. “Their graceful movements are like meditation, you fool! Meditation will lead to spiritual fulfillment. Faith has nothing to do with it!”

“You crazy.” As the two begin to fight again, the two young men have already joined the moving crowd on the Vegas strip.

“See,” Petey says taking another swig of the luke-warm beer, “Even they thought you were crazy. They didn’t even stay to agree or disagree. Which means they disagree.”

“It does not mean that. Those boys weren’t even 18 yet. They could have been in a hurry to catch up to mommy. You old fool.”

“Crazy. The button is mine, you know.”

“Shut up.” Joe finishes off the rest of the beer, and recounts his change pile to see if they have enough for another.
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Shahab Zargari writes words and music sporadically, runs GC Records with his wife Heela, and they both have a hand in raising their daughter, Mahtab.