Smartly he discussed schooling options at the University of Nevada–Las Vegas for Doug to include pros and cons of several schools Doug had already been accepted to. His sales pitch turned to enticing me with all of the possibilities for graphics positions in a city where graphics and marketing dominate in neon signs. When he pieced everything together, it all made sense, including the plethora of pussy that apparently came his way in droves.
We were sold; Doug told him we would leave in a month after my thumbs up. Rico, always living for the moment, jumped in, “Man, fuck a month. Don’t be pussies. I leave in two days. I’ll pay for your ticket. You can stay with me, enroll in your fucking classes before the semester enrollment ends, and set up a place for Emma.”
Rico looked to me. “You can stay with your sister, right? Get all of this shit sent to Vegas when this Leva gets a place. There is nothing to wait for here. For what? The Children of the Corn to ass rape you on the way to Grandma’s house?”
With more vulgarity and disgust, Rico repeated his concern of getting ass raped on a farm in Spanish. “Nadie me va a poner su verga en mi culo en medio de una granja! Pinche, Deliverance, y me cago en tu madre que si no!”
He continued, “I warn you, though, once you live in Vegas, no other city compares. I don’t give a fuck. You won’t be able to live anywhere else if you leave it, I promise.” He grabbed his genital area to adjust himself, then sat at the table with us to explain further.
What a deal closer! Rico could sell ice to an Eskimo. Well, to a pretty liberal one, if his language didn’t get him killed first. I tilted my head to the side and teased, “What exactly do you do for a living again?”
His response: “Chinga tu madre, I deliver fucking pizzas.”
Douglas left for Vegas two days later, and I paid for a storage company to get our stuff the next week. I stayed with my sister and waited for his green light to drive to the City of Sin. Being jobless has its perks, for a while, until you have watched all the reruns of Oprah and organized the canned goods in alphabetical order. Eventually my ritual included borrowing my sister’s work computer to surf the net and chat after she went to bed.
My favorite site was a gay connections chat room, which I frequented. One night, while I was up late typing, my sister walked into the living room to find me on the couch with her laptop, giggling at the screen. I jumped.
“What are you doing?” she asked as she rubbed her eyes, pushed long red hair behind her shoulder, and yawned.
“Chatting online.” I shifted the computer away from her. My heart was pounding with fear.
“With who?” She reached over and turned the laptop so she could read the screen without my consent.
I was shocked and embarrassed. “A girl in Youngstown.” I moved the laptop away from her again.
That’s when she realized it was a gay chat site and asked, “What are you doing there?” She knelt by the armrest of the couch to get a closer look and pointed to the word gay on the screen as she pushed it back so she could see it.
“I like girls,” I said, slightly defensive with a hint of humiliation.
Her face changed to bright-eyed awareness. “Oh my God, you’re a muff diver? Does Doug know?” She was dead serious as her jaw dropped in amazement.
I laughed hard at her face and her use of that term. “Well, I wouldn’t say that, but yes, he knows. I can’t believe you just said muff diver.” I tried to muffle my laughter as it was nearly three in the morning.
“Well, who’s the girl in Youngstown?” Sheepishly she asked with intense interest.
“I don’t know. I just started talking to her tonight. I think we are going to meet up tomorrow for coffee and maybe go out.”
“Oh my God, like a date?” She stood up from her crouched position to stretch.
“Yes, on a date.”
Her arm swung across the front of her chest as she pulled it tight with the opposite hand. She held it for second, then switched arms. As she pulled it, she noticed the computer I was using. “Oh my God, Emma, you are on my work computer. Here, use this one.” She pulled out another laptop hidden under some magazines. It was an older model, but it was also a laptop where gay dating sites could be accessed without the risk of being fired. “Okay, don’t stay up too late. I’m going to bed.” She crossed her arms, yawned, and returned down the dark hall to her bedroom, where she snuggled herself and went to sleep. That was it, total unconditional acceptance. My sister, whom I lovingly referred to as Beaner, until I realized it was offensive to Mexican–Americans when I was twelve, didn’t even flinch. She was officially cool in my book. Well, kind of; she will always be my dorky, redheaded, spectacle-wearing sister to me.
Supposedly, eighty percent of couples split or divorce after living in Las Vegas. The origins of this research are unknown, so don’t ask me, but it’s probably true. Vegas is known as the City of Sin for a reason. One cannot deny the history of the city ridden with crime, gambling, drugs, strippers and whores, exceptional wealth, and incumbent poverty. All of which, I seem to have experienced during my residency, but we are not to that part yet.
After moving, Douglas managed to land a job with a real estate company and was doing very well. I was working as a third-party collections agent. It wasn’t adding anything to the savings account, but we paid our bills. Doug worked late hours, learning state laws and putting together contracts. I was, well, a fucking collections agent with a headset in a five-by-five cubical. If you have ever been called by a collector, you know the familiar “This call is being monitored…” disclaimer, which we were required to say to each “client,” about eighty times a day.
Once again, we were miserable, but our relationship was rock solid. We went out, we shopped, we stayed in to watch movies, and we had dinner with his family. We were generally very happy. We even started paperwork to buy a house.
Then Douglas received his layoff notice with the unfortunate “new guy goes first” rule. The sad part was that the manager had just offered him a promotion over dudes who had been with the company for two years. I’m telling you: he is a smart little fucker. But always a forward thinker, he enrolled himself into the University of Nevada–Las Vegas the next day. He was much happier in a learning environment anyway. Doug is not one to enjoy grunt work, even if it involves paperwork.
Meanwhile, I was stuck wearing business casual clothing borrowed from my mother-in-law and listening to debtors threaten my life if I called their homes again. Excuse me; their cell phones, that they somehow maintained while claiming they were so broke. They spoke to me from the darkness.
Some of my coworkers had been in the collections business for years. I quit after the longest six months of my life and applied for a nanny job with a company just up the street from our apartment. I lied on my application so as to be placed with a family quicker. With a flick of my pen, my resume included a year and a half of experience working with a child afflicted with an attention deficit disorder. The company hired me a week later without a background check.
Every Monday, just as they instructed, I visited the office to see if they had placed me with a family. Every Monday, I was turned away. Unemployment is not fun, especially for the second time, so two months later and still unemployed, I bought my first pair of stripper shoes.
The bills were behind, the refrigerator was empty, and regular jobs wouldn’t have paid enough to keep us afloat anyway. Douglas was in school pulling a full schedule and mastering every subject. I volunteered to shake my ass with his blessing, which he granted the best way he knew how. “Bring Daddy some money. A bitch is broke.”