Flashback:
After the Winona State debacle, WSU asked me not to come back. It was a polite letter, and I granted their request. I transferred to IHCC and that’s where I met Raffs.
I was rehabbed. Ready to join society again. I felt like Ellis Redding, minus sixty and one-half years.
Let Freedom Ring - never spoke more truth, but considering I’m talking about coming home from a short 60-day jail stint versus years of slavery, my definition of those words amounts to nothing. So I won’t say it, but I hope you get the picture of how happy I was to be out of jail.
I was ready to face all the new stuff that people would think about me. Fun. I entered jail able to say that I’d never been to jail. But now it’s a completely different story I would swear to never tell. I belong to the population of people that HAVE been to jail. News that I might have to tell my kids, my nephews, any new friends I make, any new girlfriends I have, or any new employer that’s hiring and specifically asks if I’ve ever been to jail. Fun.
I don’t know how I even handle it today, thirteen years later, with more maturity and life under my belt. So I have no clue how I got through it back then.
Yes I do. Looking back: Man, I ran as fast as the wind blows. Not jogging. I ran out of town. Not down 61 to Newport. I ran out of state. Not just to Iowa, but through Iowa, where I would only go if I absolutely had no other route to drive. I ran out of the time zone all the way to Las Vegas.
Before you confuse me with Forrest Gump, I didn’t really run; I drove.
Vegas.
I didn’t go there to party, who me? (Yes I did). No, I went there to work. (No I didn’t).
In the first two hours that I was released from jail, I kissed the air, kissed you and Dad, kissed the interior of the car, kissed the driveway when we got home, kissed the front door, and then collapsed in the living room. I slept without the worry of wondering if I was going to wake up with someone trying to mount me.
When I woke up, my biggest addiction kicked in - night. And what did I do?
I didn’t go belly-up at any bar hoarding all the booze I’d missed out on during the past sixty days, trying to satisfy the stereotypical uncontrollable urge. Drinking was the last thing on my mind. Liar. It wasn’t the last thing on my mind; it’s always right up there near the top of the list, but here’s what I did -- I did the exact opposite of what every counselor told me not to do.
One flaw of mine has always been the same year after year: Tell me not to do something, and I will justify a reason to do it. How has it been the one thing you and Dad never caught on to? Can I offer some advice to you, from me, about me? If you recommend something and tell me why you recommend that certain thing, I’ll take your recommendation to the bank. But if you forbid me to do something, I will do it to show you that only I can make up my mind. Only I am willing to be so stubbornly stupid. How could you never catch onto that??? (hint, hint).
So, when my counselors told me not to reconnect with my old friends, it lit my wick, and I laughed. “Whatever you say, counselor.” And without sharing, I instantly made a list of why TO reconnect.
One of those guys was Raffs. We drank together, but our friendship was more than just booze and college girls. Together, we were in three or four of the same shows at Inver Hills CC. I played Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web; he played Templeton. I played Sammy Goldenbaum in Dark At The Top of The Stairs; he played Sammy’s best friend. I played Jack Favell in Rebecca; he played a few different supporting roles. We acted together; we studied together; we hung out together; we listened to rap together; we played hockey together; we dated a couple of the same ladies together; and yeah, we partied together.
So, after jail I called him up. He was touring the country with the National Theatre for Children, and I’m looking for work. He ended up scoring me an audition.
I went, and knocked it out of the park. I’m hired.
So we go to Vegas. Las Vegas. Las Vegas, Nevada.
Literally two weeks after I was released, I was on my way to the city with the most sin. Fresh out of jail, fresh out of treatment, but I was stronger than King Kong. My mind was better than Einstein’s in his heyday.
Entering The Strip is unlike any other city entrance, it’s hypnotizing. Raffs and I, strollin’ through the hood, listening to secondhand rap from the car next to us. I rolled down the window for a cleaner view of the sights and I could smell it. I love that smell. The smell of a party. A really big party. I close my eyes and breathe it in. Inside, I feel the switch flip.
Suddenly, I’m in a hotel lobby in Vegas. The cocktail cutie looks hot in her skimpy outfit with fishnet stockings and drink tray in hand while walking around taking orders. She stops in front of me and asks if I’d like a drink. She immediately flips the napkin over to write down my order while I check her out from head-to-toe - except in reverse order. She notices and acknowledges it by giving me the stink-eye. Like a scolded step-son, I humbly look away and order my drink. She scribbles on the napkin and walks away with my order. Again I check her out. I get my drink and lift the cool sweaty bottle up to my lips, anxious for the buzz. I open my eyes and exhale. We’re still in the car on The Strip, hearing the secondhand rap from the car next to us and, the truth is, that scene is from my past. The realization is that I’m better than that scene.
Never mind the fact that Raffs and I were neither in school nor girls, but we were like little school-girls as we drove through the strip: wide-eyed and jaws dangling out the window.
We had the pick of the litter - whatever hotel and casino we could find within our per diem. But, it was still pick of the litter to us: Circus Circus, The Flamingo, Paris, The Monte Carlo, New York New York, MGM, Caesars Palace...
I’m tired as we unpack the car. If the actual non-stop car ride from Minnesota to Nevada wasn’t tiring enough, then the last mile driving through The Strip and the emotions that came along with it was enough to trip me up and make me want to stay away from boozin.
The Extended Stay was nice. We moved in and caught our breath on the provided couch and loveseat.
Across the street from it was The Orleans Hotel and Casino. It would become ours. We’d own that place by the time we left three months later.
NIGHT ONE.
I grabbed my bags, yawned, and picked a bed from the room we were to share.
“Hey, wanna go out?”
"Out? I’m ready to crash, bro."
Inside The Orleans, is exactly how I envisioned it to be. Full of people. Smells of booze. Slot machines ding. Coins fall loudly into the catch-bins. Vegas wives walk all over the place. They scurry by and I check ‘em out equally as fast.
I know where the bar is. I can see it. I was like a Vegas Princess, except I wasn’t afraid to drink due to a previous night in Vegas, just previous nights. The internal monologue is deafening - and unavoidable. I check myself:
Why don’t I drink again? Just got out of jail, dummy.
Do I need a drink? No.
Do I want a drink? Sure.
Do I want this trip to be fun? Yes.
Am I lame if I don’t drink? Yes.
I keep that conversation a secret, and I completely avoid the real-life dialogue. If he offers me a drink, I’ll deal with it then. But I’m not bringing it up because if I don’t bring it up, maybe it won’t happen.
My heart is beating 220 miles per hour, but I want to stay sober.
Raffs looks at me, “Drink?”
