As I exit the bus at Flamingo and Pecos, I notice a woman in her early 20’s. She is wearing ripped denim shorts, which strikes me as odd since it’s below 60 degrees today. Over a black shirt that simply says “Revolution”, she has a dirty-orange color (a color I can only see in 70’s corduroy) coat. She has soft, plain features; high arched eyebrows and light brown freckles. I can tell she takes care of herself. Along her left leg is a flowery tattoo that extends from her ankle to the top of her thigh, its terminus an inch from where the tattered shorts begin. She wears no makeup. I wonder why she has made this spectacle. I remember a conversation I had with some friends from California about how all of Las Vegas is spectacle in a deconstructionist sense; I doubt this woman has read any Derrida, however. She sits near a black couple with a young child. The male of the couple is smoking, the object of my gaze lights a cigarette and I am back in California, wondering why these people have no respect for the air of others. I step away a few yards to light my own clove cigarette. The couple only notices her to ask what time the bus is due. As we board the bus, she slides her pass through the fare box and is greeted with a high pitched denial. The driver tells her to sit down and she can look for the change. Two older women are near where we sit, they begin to comment on her tattoo. I cringe with Victorian pride, it’s just rude to comment on someone’s physicality. The tattooed woman makes her egress at Tropicana and quickly disappears from my sight.