In Leaving Las Vegas, Nicolas Cage’s character, Ben, moves to Las Vegas to drink himself to death. Maybe a metaphor of sorts since I think many people move there to escape, kill their past selves, and, unlike Ben, become reborn. Of course, some do achieve this Hero Myth rebirth, but most just bring their bad habits to a new place—bad habits that in Sin City are allowed plenty of room to bloom. At least Ben knew what he was getting into.
My personal story fits right in. I grew up in Minneapolis, and at the age of 23, my father died of lung cancer. My brother and sister had already split for the East and West Coasts, and my mother took a job in Houston. I held a pretty-much worthless degree in literature from the alternative Hampshire College (SNL used to make fun of the school) and a low-wage job renting movies—classics, new releases, and porn. When my father died, I felt utterly lost. I bought a beat-up 1971 VW Bus and took off. I spent four months in Northern Minnesota as an itinerant laborer planting tree seedlings at roughly eight cents apiece and then a few months just wandering the West. Las Vegas seemed like a good idea at the time; a place where I could reinvent myself and find a trade—plumber or electrician looked good to me. I rolled in with five hundred dollars to my name, paid two hundred for a studio on Koval Lane right behind the Imperial Palace Casino, and another two hundred for a security deposit. The next day I got a waiter job at the TGI Fridays on Flamingo Road. I survived on shift meals, spaghetti, and cheap Gallo wine. Plumbing or electrical work would have to wait.
Did I live the Hero Myth, metaphorically die, then become born again—reinvent myself? I guess so. I did a lot of cocaine, which was a kind of death, staying out until the sun rose over Sunrise Mountain, then trying to get any sleep before going back to work and waiting on tables. Then, six months after moving to Vegas, a manager who had left to open a new restaurant invited me to come along. He asked if I wanted to be a manager or bartender, and I said manager. At the time, I could barely manage my checkbook and pay rent. The restaurant, Tramps, became more of a nightclub, and two months later, I was working from 10:00 at night until 7:00 in the morning, managing bartenders (who made much more than me), cocktail waitresses, DJs, knucklehead bouncers, a kitchen staff, and the fun and trouble that ensued. Instead of becoming a plumber or electrician, I became a nightclub manager. I worked in that trade for another seven years.
I’m fascinated with relocation stories; almost all my Las Vegas characters have one. Rarely do they involve escaping the law. More often, it’s a nasty divorce, a death, the promise of a job with more income, a dysfunctional family, wanderlust, community disgrace, or, like Cool Hand Luke, “Never planned anything in my life.”
Can't wait to read the new book!