Throughout most of 1996, I was miserable. I turned 21 in June. I was living at home. At the time, my father owned a route for a potato chip company. His job was to stock the shelves in a dozen or so grocery stores in the Phoenix area on a daily basis. I worked for him.
I was confused, and, to put it lightly, depressed. So depressed in fact, that I had been contemplating suicide on a daily basis for three to four years prior. Something about my life needed to change. Scratch that. Everything in my life needed to change...and quickly.
It was late August when I decided that I was going to run. I didn't know where. I didn't know when. I just had to run. If I had stayed, I was going to kill myself. Part of the initial "runaway" plan involved suicide, but I'll get into that later.
On Saturday mornings, I would wake up at 4:00 in the morning. It was my job to drive across town and stock the stores before they opened. Some stores were easier than others. I would just have to adjust a couple of bags and make the shelf look presentable. At others, if they had a sale that week, I would have to get a few cases of product from the back room and fill the shelves. It was an easy job, but very time consuming. I would reach my first store at 4:45 or so, and would usually get home between 11AM and noon. Then, I would have to go back out and do the same thing again either Saturday night or early Sunday morning.
When I woke up on Saturday, August 24, 1996, something inside me said, "This is the day". I snuck into my parents' bedroom closet, and grabbed a medium sized suitcase. I filled it with only about enough clothing to sustain me for three to four days. Then, I went to work as I normally would.
At one of the stores along my route, I stopped at an in-store bank branch and withdrew my checking account balance - all $600 of it.
After stocking the shelves at my last stop, I parked my pickup truck toward the back of the parking lot. I called for a taxi. Then, I threw my phone and my keys into the cab, locked the door, and closed it. I had the cab take me to the airport, even though I had no idea where I was going. The driver asked me "which airline", and I remember saying "doesn't matter".
When I walked into the terminal, I walked up to the Delta ticket counter, and asked the lady what the lowest one way ticket out of Phoenix would be. $42 to Las Vegas, but the flight didn't leave until almost 4:00. At the time, it wasn't even noon, yet. I had to wait...sweat...for nearly four hours before my flight would leave.
Now, if you grew up as one of Jehovah's Witnesses, you know the dread that comes when you're doing something that you're not supposed to be doing. It is a game of looking over your shoulder every other second to make sure that you don't accidentally bump into someone that you know. Because, sure enough, as soon as you think that you're going to get away with something, at the very last second, a Witness from the Spanish congregation on the other side of town will recognize you. And, somehow or some way, it will inevitably get back to your parents that you were spotted somewhere that you shouldn't have been. That was my fear.
Luckily for me, airports have bars. So, for four hours, I quietly sat in the dimly lit corner of a bar, nursing a Coke, watching Tiger Woods win the Amateur Championship. I took the time to buy a post card to send to my mom. I wrote on it that I was leaving, and that, by the time she read the card, I would probably be dead. I dropped it in a mailbox, then realized that I didn't put a stamp on it. As I was starting to walk back to the gift shop to buy another post card, I thought, "You know, fuck her. If she doesn't get the fact that I'm depressed and that I'm sick and fucking tired of it all after all of this time, then fuck her."
I got on to the plane, and an hour later, touched down in Vegas. That summer, I remember Circus Circus had ads in the Sunday paper all of the time for $14 or $16 hotel rooms. So, when I got into town, I had the cabbie immediately take me to Circus Circus. Little did I know that the weekend that I happened to decide to run away on, was the same weekend of the biggest Vegas convention in 1996. Every room was booked. I called the Sahara. Booked. Riviera...booked. Stardust, Frontier, Stratosphere, MGM Grand....you guessed it. Not a room in the city. Even Debbie Reynolds' place was full.
After two hours of phone calls, I finally found a room. It was a suite at the Las Vegas Hilton. It was $180 for the night, which was outrageous 15 years ago. Today, that's a bargain for a standard room on the Strip. I was on the 13th floor. Room #1316. My room had a doorbell, and, believe it or not, a balcony.
After checking in, I decided that, considering I only had about $300 left to my name, I was going to have a little bit of fun for the night, and then jump of my balcony and end it all. Growing up as a Witness, I had missed out on quite a lot of things that most 21 year olds had experienced up to that point. So, I started going through a mental checklist.
Being in Las Vegas, the first thing I did was gamble. I fooled around on the slot machines for a few minutes. At the time, I couldn't really see what the fuss was all about. Not a big deal. It was more entertainment than anything else. I still feel that way today. Great way to waste a half hour and spend $20.
Then I went to the casino gift shop and bought a cigar. Have been smoking cigars off an on ever since. I even ordered a drink from the hotel bar.
In my mind, I was ready to die. There was only one drawback. I didn't want to die a virgin. Even though I was a Jehovah's Witness, I wasn't a "good" one. Up until that time, I had seen quite a number of porn videos. I had been in a strip club or two. I didn't buy into the religion or it's moral code one bit.
At 21, I had never been kissed. I had never been in a relationship. I had never been intimate with anyone. Before I died, I wanted to experience that at least once. So, I thought "prostitution is legal in Las Vegas", right? I tried to think of where I would find one. I went to the Yellow Pages, and started to search for the term "escort". Before I got to it, I came across the section for "entertainment". No lie...it was four inches thick. Filled with half page, full color ads of scantily clad women. I fumbled through six or seven pages and called the number on the page. In a half hour, "Alex" knocked on my door.
She was about 5'2", wearing cut off shorts, a football jersey, and had a pageboy haircut. Not exactly what I was expecting, but out of this world beautiful. I cashed a bogus personal check with the hotel concierge to pay for what the two of us had negotiated.
Afterward, as she was getting dressed and applying her makeup, she asked me why I was in town. You know, business or personal? In so many words, I explained to her the situation. She quietly stood there for a second, then said, "There's this club called Deja Vu. I used to dance there. They're always hiring bouncers. Stop by there tomorrow. Talk to Joel. Tell him that Alex sent you." Then she told me about a week to week apartment complex that was located across the street from the club.
I went to the club the next day and met Joel. He hired me on the spot. The club had a strict dress code for their security staff. Black dress slacks, white tuxedo shirt, black cumber bun. You may laugh, but you would be amazed at the number of celebrities that would come in on a nightly basis. Everyone from Mike Tyson to the Red Hot Chili Peppers would show up on any given Friday or Saturday night. I once threw Gene Hackman out of the club (but that's a story for another time).
I told Joel that I didn't have the money for the clothes. He let me get by for a couple of days in jeans and a black t-shirt. Then, at the end of the first week, he sent me to a local tuxedo shop, had them provide me with what I needed for work, and send him the bill.
After years of hearing how the "people of the world" were heartless and evil, imagine my shock that the people that were helping me the most were hookers and strip club managers.
After four months, my mom finally tracked me down. The bad check was what gave it away. At that point, I was only eating once every four days because I had no money. So, we both agreed to play nice and have me come home. Within a couple of months, I moved out on friendlier terms. The club sent my final paycheck to my mom's house. When she found out that I was working at a strip club for four months, she cried for a week. "I raised you better than that."
Even though I never went back to the church from that point, I still lived a double life with my family. It was a policy of "Don't Ask Don't Tell". I couldn't talk about my personal life or my relationships. The straw finally broke the camel's back in January of 2006, but that's for another time...
I was confused, and, to put it lightly, depressed. So depressed in fact, that I had been contemplating suicide on a daily basis for three to four years prior. Something about my life needed to change. Scratch that. Everything in my life needed to change...and quickly.
It was late August when I decided that I was going to run. I didn't know where. I didn't know when. I just had to run. If I had stayed, I was going to kill myself. Part of the initial "runaway" plan involved suicide, but I'll get into that later.
On Saturday mornings, I would wake up at 4:00 in the morning. It was my job to drive across town and stock the stores before they opened. Some stores were easier than others. I would just have to adjust a couple of bags and make the shelf look presentable. At others, if they had a sale that week, I would have to get a few cases of product from the back room and fill the shelves. It was an easy job, but very time consuming. I would reach my first store at 4:45 or so, and would usually get home between 11AM and noon. Then, I would have to go back out and do the same thing again either Saturday night or early Sunday morning.
When I woke up on Saturday, August 24, 1996, something inside me said, "This is the day". I snuck into my parents' bedroom closet, and grabbed a medium sized suitcase. I filled it with only about enough clothing to sustain me for three to four days. Then, I went to work as I normally would.
At one of the stores along my route, I stopped at an in-store bank branch and withdrew my checking account balance - all $600 of it.
After stocking the shelves at my last stop, I parked my pickup truck toward the back of the parking lot. I called for a taxi. Then, I threw my phone and my keys into the cab, locked the door, and closed it. I had the cab take me to the airport, even though I had no idea where I was going. The driver asked me "which airline", and I remember saying "doesn't matter".
When I walked into the terminal, I walked up to the Delta ticket counter, and asked the lady what the lowest one way ticket out of Phoenix would be. $42 to Las Vegas, but the flight didn't leave until almost 4:00. At the time, it wasn't even noon, yet. I had to wait...sweat...for nearly four hours before my flight would leave.
Now, if you grew up as one of Jehovah's Witnesses, you know the dread that comes when you're doing something that you're not supposed to be doing. It is a game of looking over your shoulder every other second to make sure that you don't accidentally bump into someone that you know. Because, sure enough, as soon as you think that you're going to get away with something, at the very last second, a Witness from the Spanish congregation on the other side of town will recognize you. And, somehow or some way, it will inevitably get back to your parents that you were spotted somewhere that you shouldn't have been. That was my fear.
Luckily for me, airports have bars. So, for four hours, I quietly sat in the dimly lit corner of a bar, nursing a Coke, watching Tiger Woods win the Amateur Championship. I took the time to buy a post card to send to my mom. I wrote on it that I was leaving, and that, by the time she read the card, I would probably be dead. I dropped it in a mailbox, then realized that I didn't put a stamp on it. As I was starting to walk back to the gift shop to buy another post card, I thought, "You know, fuck her. If she doesn't get the fact that I'm depressed and that I'm sick and fucking tired of it all after all of this time, then fuck her."
I got on to the plane, and an hour later, touched down in Vegas. That summer, I remember Circus Circus had ads in the Sunday paper all of the time for $14 or $16 hotel rooms. So, when I got into town, I had the cabbie immediately take me to Circus Circus. Little did I know that the weekend that I happened to decide to run away on, was the same weekend of the biggest Vegas convention in 1996. Every room was booked. I called the Sahara. Booked. Riviera...booked. Stardust, Frontier, Stratosphere, MGM Grand....you guessed it. Not a room in the city. Even Debbie Reynolds' place was full.
 |
| This is Las Vegas in 1996. Pretty sad by today's standards. In the distance you can see the Monte Carlo, which opened that year, and the cranes working on New York New York, which opened shortly before New Years 1997. |
After two hours of phone calls, I finally found a room. It was a suite at the Las Vegas Hilton. It was $180 for the night, which was outrageous 15 years ago. Today, that's a bargain for a standard room on the Strip. I was on the 13th floor. Room #1316. My room had a doorbell, and, believe it or not, a balcony.
After checking in, I decided that, considering I only had about $300 left to my name, I was going to have a little bit of fun for the night, and then jump of my balcony and end it all. Growing up as a Witness, I had missed out on quite a lot of things that most 21 year olds had experienced up to that point. So, I started going through a mental checklist.
Being in Las Vegas, the first thing I did was gamble. I fooled around on the slot machines for a few minutes. At the time, I couldn't really see what the fuss was all about. Not a big deal. It was more entertainment than anything else. I still feel that way today. Great way to waste a half hour and spend $20.
Then I went to the casino gift shop and bought a cigar. Have been smoking cigars off an on ever since. I even ordered a drink from the hotel bar.
In my mind, I was ready to die. There was only one drawback. I didn't want to die a virgin. Even though I was a Jehovah's Witness, I wasn't a "good" one. Up until that time, I had seen quite a number of porn videos. I had been in a strip club or two. I didn't buy into the religion or it's moral code one bit.
At 21, I had never been kissed. I had never been in a relationship. I had never been intimate with anyone. Before I died, I wanted to experience that at least once. So, I thought "prostitution is legal in Las Vegas", right? I tried to think of where I would find one. I went to the Yellow Pages, and started to search for the term "escort". Before I got to it, I came across the section for "entertainment". No lie...it was four inches thick. Filled with half page, full color ads of scantily clad women. I fumbled through six or seven pages and called the number on the page. In a half hour, "Alex" knocked on my door.
She was about 5'2", wearing cut off shorts, a football jersey, and had a pageboy haircut. Not exactly what I was expecting, but out of this world beautiful. I cashed a bogus personal check with the hotel concierge to pay for what the two of us had negotiated.
Afterward, as she was getting dressed and applying her makeup, she asked me why I was in town. You know, business or personal? In so many words, I explained to her the situation. She quietly stood there for a second, then said, "There's this club called Deja Vu. I used to dance there. They're always hiring bouncers. Stop by there tomorrow. Talk to Joel. Tell him that Alex sent you." Then she told me about a week to week apartment complex that was located across the street from the club.
 |
| I found a pic of the stage, before they remodeled it. This brings back memories (and not too many good ones). |
I told Joel that I didn't have the money for the clothes. He let me get by for a couple of days in jeans and a black t-shirt. Then, at the end of the first week, he sent me to a local tuxedo shop, had them provide me with what I needed for work, and send him the bill.
After years of hearing how the "people of the world" were heartless and evil, imagine my shock that the people that were helping me the most were hookers and strip club managers.
After four months, my mom finally tracked me down. The bad check was what gave it away. At that point, I was only eating once every four days because I had no money. So, we both agreed to play nice and have me come home. Within a couple of months, I moved out on friendlier terms. The club sent my final paycheck to my mom's house. When she found out that I was working at a strip club for four months, she cried for a week. "I raised you better than that."
Even though I never went back to the church from that point, I still lived a double life with my family. It was a policy of "Don't Ask Don't Tell". I couldn't talk about my personal life or my relationships. The straw finally broke the camel's back in January of 2006, but that's for another time...
1 comments:
Aww, this is actually a really nice story! I mean, while life didn't work out perfectly after that (like in the movies), it did get better. And you're right that we were taught to think "those people" were the lowest of the low, and it's lovely to find out that is so wrong.
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