Joie de Vivre

The two women arrived in Virginia City like a pair of misplaced aces in a rigged poker game. Their attire? Let’s just say they’d raided the clearance rack at the Devil’s Dress Emporium. Red and black, their dresses clung to them like desperate lovers—nylons twisted, corsets protesting, and lacy pantaloons threatening to reveal secrets best left unshared.

Around each of their necks hung cheap, white boas—the kind that exfoliate more dignity than a cat sheds fur. These weren’t your elegant swan feathers; no, these were the remnants of a pillow fight gone wrong.

From saloon to saloon to the boardwalk, they drifted like tumbleweeds in search of a purpose. The locals stared, their eyes wide as moon pies. Undeterred, the women giggled like schoolgirls who had just discovered the anatomy of a whiskey bottle.

And then they stumbled upon the Tahoe House—a place where dignity checked its coat at the door and hung out with the moth-eaten ghosts. They took rooms, then drained the life from the party—the soiree now a mere husk of its former self.

And there I was, a spectator in this circus of chaos. I’d sidled to the bar, swilling a beer between the two women. They bit me a goodnight, their teeth sharp as broken promises. Beneath and to the side of me lay piles of white feathers, making me look like a molting Gauloise.

Paul, the owner, surveyed the wreckage. His eyes held the wisdom of a man who’d seen it all—the drunks, the dreamers, and now, the feathered fiends.

“Two days,” he muttered, grabbing a broom. “It’ll take me two days to sweep up these damn feathers.”

And sweep he did, muttering curses as each downy tuft floated through the air like tiny, misguided angels. On the other hand, I found evidence of the women along the boardwalk for the following five days–a stray feather here, a forgotten feather there.

As for the women? They vanished, leaving a trail of charm and a lingering scent of contrition–not to mention angel feathers.