The Vegas Electric Chair

Had to make a quick run down to Las Vegas the other day. Nothing glamorous about it—no poker chips, no sequined showgirls, no Elvis impersonators waiting with a guitar. Just me, an empty stomach, and the promise of some heavy equipment that needed hauling back north.

Now, it’s one thing to go to Vegas in spring, when the breeze feels like a warm hug from your grandma’s afghan. But in August, stepping onto the Strip is more like opening an oven door and climbing inside to look for lost change. I swear the air shimmered like it was trying to dance away from the sidewalk, and I had to check my shoes to make sure the soles weren’t melting.

When I walked into the hotel lobby to sign some paperwork, I must’ve looked like a roasted turkey that had just come out of the pan. The young lady at the front desk, smiling as fresh as an ice cube in lemonade, says, “Don’t worry, sir—it’s a dry heat.”

Now, I don’t know who first came up with that phrase, but I’ve heard it more times than I’ve had hot dinners. Every time I do, I have to laugh.

So, I looked her square in the eye, sweat dripping off my chin, and said, “Ma’am, so is the electric chair, but I’m not volunteering for that either.”

She froze for a second, then let out a laugh that echoed all the way down the marble hallway. I reckon nobody had ever answered her quite like that before.

Truth is, “dry heat” is one of those little half-truths people use to make misery sound reasonable. They say it like it’s supposed to make you feel better, like you’ll suddenly stop sweating through your shirt and your tongue will unstick from the roof of your mouth. That’s the same logic my Uncle Kenny used when he said, “Sure, the dog bit you, but at least he didn’t have fleas.” Comforting words, but not really a solution.

Las Vegas heat is a sly sort of thing; it doesn’t hit you with the wet slap of a Louisiana summer, where the air feels like soup and you need a snorkel to mow the lawn. No, Vegas heat bakes you quietly, like a forgotten potato at the back of the grill.

You don’t notice it at first, and then suddenly you’re cooked clear through.

I kept thinking about my granddad, who used to say, “Heat like this makes a man consider the benefits of being a lizard.”

He had a point. Lizards don’t worry about mortgages, gas prices, or how their hat makes their heads sweat. They soak up the sun, blink now and then, and call it a good day. Meanwhile, there I was standing on blacktop hot enough to fry eggs, wondering if anyone would notice if I flopped down belly-first and gave it a try.

By the time I loaded up the equipment, the thermometer on the bank sign read 111. My water bottle was the same temperature as my coffee had been that morning, which wasn’t very refreshing.

I muttered to myself, “Dry heat, my foot,” and pointed the truck north, chasing the mirage of mountains.

But I’ll tell you what—when I got back home and stepped out into our own 90-degree weather, I thought I was in a spring meadow. I nearly had to grab a sweater. That’s the gift Vegas heat gives you: it makes the merely hot feel heavenly.

So, next time someone tries to console me with that “dry heat” business, I’ll smile and nod politely. But deep down, I’ll remember standing there on the Strip, sweat rolling down my back, and I’ll hear my own voice again, “So is the electric chair.”

Because sometimes, common sense is the only fan you’ve got in the desert.