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On Monday Erin and I are moving to Las Vegas. We figure it'll be fun for a few months. We get mixed reactions when we tell people what we're doing. For some reason, not having a job lined up or a place to live makes some people think we don't know what we're doing. Yeah, we probably don't.... but who cares! Las Vegas is one of the fastest growing cities in America. It can't be too difficult to find a job. Ideally, I'd like to be a cocktail waitress or work in event programming. If for some strange reason I can't land my top two choices, I have a couple backups.
Backup number one: Creative panhandling. There's always a fresh batch of tourists coming in, so I can be the crazy lady they've heard stories about. It'll be a novelty to toss me a quarter. I can have signs such as, "No money for food -- had to eat my baby. Give me money or I'll eat yours." I'll look psychotic and start gnawing on people's arms and legs if I'm being ignored.
Backup number two: Car repossession. I figure tow trucks for repos are pretty common in Vegas. Locals probably see dozens of their gambling-addicted neighbors get their cars dragged away each week. I can pose as a repo company and start whisking away autos before anyone's the wiser. Then I'll sell them on ebay.
Backup number three: Rob a casino. Now, I saw Ocean's 11 so I know how tough it is to steal from a casino. The Bellagio will lock me in a room with some hired muscle who'll beat the hell out of me. So, rather than rob the casino, I'll rob one of the high rollers sitting in the casino. As long as I'm quick, they can't catch me. It's not the casino's money (yet), so how much can they really care?
Backup number four: A professional gambler. I'll read one of those how-to books written by some guy who isn't allowed in the casinos anymore because he's just that good. I'll learn how to card count and I'll memorize the best odds on craps.
uh.... sure.
So, Las Vegas... Sin City. We got here Tuesday, moved into the ghetto Wednesday, had our phone connected Thursday, and finally got online today. Many things to say, but for now I'll tell one story that will explain everything:
We had a pizza delivered from the local Papa John's. After we had killed most of the pizza, a roach crawled out from under a pepperoni. I didn't scream for two reasons: 1) it was on Erin's half and 2) it wasn't anything I hadn't seen already. Well, we tossed the food and tried to figure out if the roach was one of ours or if it came with the pizza. We figured it was a Papa John's roach because we'd had the bug man over that afternoon and the bugs we'd encountered since his visit hadn't been moving too quickly. This particular roach had spunk. I telephoned Papa John's.
"Hi, I just ordered our pizza and there was a roach in it."
"Okay, we'll make you a new one."
"But I don't want a... (Erin kicked me.) ...okay, fine."
No apologies, no questioning -- just a: "Want another?" Do they get these complaints often?
When we went to pick up the pizza there were a few customers around so I didn't want to announce that I was the roach complaining customer. The roach could've been mine, so I figured it was the right thing to do. I simply told them I was there to pick up my remake. The employee was nice but when he brought my pizza, he also brought the manager. The manager wasn't so nice and demanded the old pizza.
I was annoyed. I told him there was no way in hell I was putting a roach-infested pizza in my car. Guilt swept over his face, he muttered "Okay," then ran away. Erin and I chowed down the new pizza because there weren't any roaches running across it. Sure they were probably crawling in the dough before we got to it, but as long as we don't have to see them, it's cool.
I'm scared. No, I'm totally kidding. Life in the ghetto rocks. The rent is spot on...$99, how can you beat that? Who cares that the car I park next to has every window busted out of it, roaches run like hell when I turn my lights on, or that when I tell people where we live they get scared for Meghan and I? I've seen much worse, like the Red Light district of Amsterdam at 1:00 am.
Everyone we have met has been really cool too. People here are so friendly...always giving you their number and offering you their drugs. And once we get around to conversing with our neighbors we'll probably get invited to some kick ass ethnic meals. As long as we don't get shot on the way it will probably be a really fun time.
I mentioned a roach problem in our apartment in the ghetto and now people are afraid to visit us. I feel I should explain.
First, our ghetto isn't really a ghetto. The lady who handed us the lease papers did tell us to drive by the area at night before we committed to living there, but she was just overreacting. And the car parked next to us with a club on it really does have every window smashed in, but I think people were just insulted to see a don't-steal-me device in their neighborhood. And yes, the apartment across from ours is a major crack house, but we just ignore them. We figure that as long as we don't use a club or try to steal some crack, everything will be cool. And most importantly, the roaches aren't that bad. We had a couple, but they're gone now. They either got killed by the toxic chemicals we released, were crushed by my fist or got scared and went next door. Either way, we haven't seen or heard them lately. They weren't much bigger than ants anyway.
Let me tell you about Moroccan roaches. They're much, much bigger than Vegas roaches. Erin and I found roaches, spiders, and bugs in every hotel room, no matter how clean it appeared. Restaurants had them too -- some just hid them better than others. Lots of times we wouldn't tell each other what we'd seen until after we'd left. It's better that way.
Once we were in a decent looking restaurant and the waiter set a glass full of paper napkins on our table. There were two roaches crawling on the outside and four visible on the inside. We would've walked out and gone to another restaurant, but we knew we'd encounter the same thing in every one. I grabbed the glass of napkins and ran to the counter. I pointed to one of the roaches and the guy pawed through the pile and just shrugged. He offered me a new napkin glass, but I declined. I figured I'd use my sleeve.
The thing that grossed me far more than the roaches was the lack of hygiene. In Morocco, not only do people wipe with their left hand, but they don't use soap when cleaning up, so everyone walks around spreading feces all day. Meals are communal without silverware. You share food with people who paw through the entire plate, picking out what they want and touching everything they don't. Sometimes they're nice and only use their right hand, but it's not like the right hand didn't touch their left all day.
I'd chose roach over feces any day.
Las Vegas is a very horny city. There are pictures of half-naked chicks on every taxi cab, billboard, and flyer, so guys can't avoid seeing boobs all day if they try. They end up wandering the streets sex-starved and desperate and God forbid you get in their way. They're in Sin City, so they think they can behave as animalisticly as they want.
At dinner tonight some nasty Nigerian guy hit on us. He had food in his mouth the entire time he spoke and from the smell I could tell he'd ordered chicken. He said that he and his brother were going to take us out (first taking us to their room, of course) and later they would fly us to Nigeria. He was very demanding for someone who didn't even know our names. We finally got away by trading phone numbers and promising to call. He wrote his name was Tony then crossed it out and wrote Jack, followed by his Nigerian number. When I went to the bathroom a minute later, I mixed the napkin he wrote the number on with my toilet paper and symbolically wiped my ass with it.
Later we saw two old guys wandering around lost and asked what they were looking for. They happened to be going to the same place we were, so we told them to follow us. When we arrived at the casino, they asked to buy us a drink. We figured we could blow 20 minutes talking with them -- they seemed nice. Well, at the end of our allotted 20 minutes one of them was talking to me about rent -- how much I paid, what part of town I lived in, etc. Then he told me he had a proposition. He would pay our rent if we would allow him and his friend crash at our place whenever they were in Vegas. Uh, that was a bit odd. Erin asked if they wanted to sleep on our couch and he explained part of the deal was sex in our beds. I yelled a little and told him to fuck off. Neither of them looked the least bit agitated that I was causing a scene. They shrugged as we walked away.
These are just two examples, but we have plenty more -- like the limousine driver we walked past who tried to buy us for his customers in the backseat. Everyone in this city is ridiculously horny and they think money can buy everything. I'm going to make a conscious effort not to get mad next time someone mistakes me for a prostitute. I either want to take their money and run or kick them in the balls as hard as I can. I can kick pretty hard.
1. Even the little dive bars off the strip are open 24 hours a day.
2. My ego gets boosted every time I stop at a red light.
3. People are really happy here -- including the crackhead digging through my dumpster.
4. The sun shines every day and at night the lights are so bright it appears to be daylight.
5. There is always something to do, even at 6:00 am.
6. I haven't been cut off or thrown out yet.
7. I've had better things to do than update my weblog.
8. 99 cent breakfasts at 4:00 am.
9. There are 100 pages of "entertainer" ads in the phone book. I swear to god there is a stripper for everyone and every taste. Did you know that the wet spot a stripper leaves after a lap dance is commonly referred to as a snail trial? That's only a little gross. Yeah, and strippers in clubs also sort of prostitute themselves....blow jobs and hand jobs can be included for the right price. This whole time I just thought they took their clothes off. Fascinating.
10. Fake fur and glitter...I love dressing up.
Coming off a two day drinking binge is not easy. Dry heaving over a toilet for nine hours is even less fun. I don't understand where it went wrong. I only drank non stop for 24 consecutive hours. I didn't even know I could stay up that long. I've only done it one other time in my life...somehow I managed to stay up for 43 hours, but that was in college and I haven't done it since. This city is so great...only in Las Vegas can you walk into a night club at 9:30 in the morning and not be the only one in there and then get the bartender to give you his cell so you can call all your college roommates and chat for three hours. Going home at 2:30 in the afternoon is so much cooler than going home at 2:30 in the morning. Whoever came up with the idea of last call should be shot. It was fun while it lasted but being hungover at 7:00 on Monday evening because of your Saturday night is a little exaggerated.
So high school must really suck these days -- or at least suck enough that sitting on a porch alone is more fun than attending it. Today we met this kid named Billy. He sat on our porch for approximately three hours before we invited him in... poor kid must have been so fucking bored. He let us contribute to his delinquency. We gave him some wine and some lunch and I think by the time he left he was pretty fucked up. We also gave him an art history lesson, complete with visuals. (I have an Art minor, so I do have credentials.)
I hope he doesn't make a habit of it though. Education is really important. One day when you have had enough of it you can get a really great paying job and do everything you ever wanted to...yeah right, I'm still waiting.
Jobs are everywhere, but I came to Las Vegas to work in a casino. Cocktail waitressing is my first choice, but I've got plenty of experience in restaurant work, bartending, massage therapy, and basic ass-kissing customer service positions. My resume is great, my attitude is what I'd expect they're looking for, but for some reason, I haven't been called in for an interview. Erin either. We've been hunting and found that only three casinos in this entire city are currently hiring cocktail waitresses. Each one has between 5-10 positions available. Here's the breakdown:
Casino #1: We baked cookies for the Beverage Manager and showed up at his casino. He was not impressed. He barely looked at us, declined the cookies a half dozen times and directed us to the central hiring agency in charge of five casinos. We'd been there already... three times. We had gone in once to find out about the job, another time to see why the database ate our resumes (both of our logins became invalid), and a third time to make sure we were finally in the system. No one has banged on our door about being a cocktail waitress and we're only allowed to apply to one job in those five casinos every 30 days.
Casino #2: This casino required we fill out our applications during business hours at their employment center. We waited in line for thirty minutes to hand our drivers' licenses to the woman behind the desk. She put our information in the computer: licensen number, SSN, address, phone number, job applying for, etc. Then she sat us down at a computer. The computer asked us the same questions and a variety of new ones. The casino wanted to know everything from work history to criminal records to the names, addresses and occupations of every family member. (Isn't that line of questioning illegal?) After we finished the applications, we waited another twenty minutes for someone behind a computer to call our names. The lady who "interviewed" me, verified that my name, address, phone number, work history, etc. was correct. She didn't ask anything I hadn't already answered. Good thing the casino required me to waste an entire afternoon in their office when I could have just submitted my info online. Why do it the easy way?
Casino #3: We saw an ad in the paper about a Casino hiring on Freemont Street (the old end of town). We weren't sure where the particular casino was located, so we went to the main artery of the old town. It was deserted. We popped into what looked like it should be a hotspot and asked the host a) where the casino was and b) if there were ever any customers. He didn't know the answer to either and we never found the place.
So, that's that -- just waiting to hear back. Maybe it takes more than six business days to review our applications. I'm working on patience -- and working on the real job hunt. Might not stick out three to six months in Vegas after all....
Being a girl in Vegas is fucking great. I have never gotten so hooked up in my life. Boys here just like to give you their money. Talk to them for five minutes and your sure to get a couple of drinks out of it, maybe some money to gamble with, and if your good maybe a free meal. The best part is you can leave right after it's over and they can't really say much but bye. Here are a few examples from last night.
Free donuts from Krispy Kreme. Dude was so cool. Actually anybody can get free donuts, you just have to ask.
Some guy gave me money. I asked him for change and he just handed me the cash. I was like, "Here you go, thanks," you know trying to give him the change. He was like, "No, doll, just take it...can I buy you a drink?" I actually made a profit.
But sometimes guys can be really lame...like when they are from Austrailia, or when try to buy you, or tell you that they play major league baseball, or are Ja Rule's roadmanager. Come on, dude...does that ever actually work? And it's really fucking lame when old guys try to make younger guys look bad. We met this 25 year old last night who was out with his colleagues, they were all in their 40s and 50s. Some guy was like, "You know he's underage?" I turned around and said "Only compared to you." Yeah, that shut him up real quick.
I don't have a car. I sold my sorry excuse for transportation to my sister's friend in San Antonio. The kid paid me for it and it was supposed to sit in my driveway until he got his license. My dad saw the kid one day and gave him the spare key. But, yes, it was still supposed to sit in the driveway.
I got a phone call from my sister a couple weeks ago. She told me the car was missing -- either her friend took it or someone stole it. Only an idiot would steal the thing, so it was only a matter of time before we found out her friend had "borrowed" it. My sister lectured him about driving without a license and insurance. Because the car is in my name, I'm responsible for it. If he would have been pulled over, I would've gotten an automatic $300 ticket. He promised never to take it again.
He took it again. This time he wrecked it. Not sure what's going to happen, but he had to go to the hospital for a stitch or two and the lady he hit has serious car damage. My dad spoke with a lawyer to find out if I'm liable. Because the kid paid me money and because he had a key, no matter what I told him I'm liable because he had my implicit permission to use the vehicle. I think I'm in a bit of trouble... waiting to find out.
Looking for a job in Vegas was getting really tough so when I saw an ad in the paper for a cashier/hostess position that paid $136 daily, I had to apply. It said to do it person, so I got myself dressed up and drove over to the shittiest looking bar in Las Vegas. The door said adult lounge and spa. Okay, sure... I can deal with that. I asked the bartender for an application, filled the fucking thing out, and applied for the hostess position. I even wrote a note on the application saying how I was really interested in the position and to please give me a call. After I was finished the bartender looked at me and said, "You know this is a swinger's club, right? You know what that means don't you?" To be fucking honest I didn't. Some guy offered me a tour and me being all naive and shit, was like "Okay, sure... sounds cool." The dude's name was Fernando. He was really excited to help.
He took me around a corner to this dark room lit only by red lights. He pointed to a back area and said "These are the private rooms. That's where the hostess gives rub downs and lap dances." What the fuck... that was the position I fucking applied for. Fuck if I knew that I would have to fucking sit on some asshole's dick and shake my ass around.
Next stop on the tour was the common room complete with a sex swing, where according to Fernando a lot of really good parties get started, and a stripper pole. Nice. I asked Fernando if he worked there since he knew so much about the place. No he didn't, which means that he was just some perv that hung out there all the time.... at all hours of the day no less.
Room two was just a fucking bed and some couches... kind of boring. Next room over was the designated orgy room. Uh, yeah. One big bed on a stage and that was it. I was just about in shock, but nothing prepared me for what happened next.
The last room was about the size of a closet. In it was some top of the line exercise equipment from 1985. I asked Fernando if that was for some sort of weird exercise fetish. He laughed at me and told me no. Since it is technically called a spa they have to have exercise equipment in order to be legitimate. Then he points me over to the hot tub. Yeah, nice... whatever. So I'm looking around and Fernando points out that he has whipped his dick out and is jerking himself off in front of me. Oh my god. Fucking wow. I couldn't believe it. He tried to tell me that it was normal to do such things. Yeah it was a swinger's club, but it was also 2:00 in the afternoon and he was giving me a tour. I asked a couple of people... apparently that is not proper swinger etiquette. I'm not one to be rude so I let him finish the tour with his dick in his hand... It lasted about thirty more seconds.
About 12:30 that night my phone rang offering me a job. Needless to say I declined. Thank god I found something else the next day, and even though the people I work with are assholes at least I don't have to touch anyone.
When you live in the ghetto, people are really friendly. Take for instance one of the many guys we met on the short walk from apartment to automobile. This guy was so friendly that he called us nearly a dozen times the next day. His friend was so friendly that he's stopped by for three consecutive days now. In fact, people are so friendly that I don't make eye contact on the streets anymore because I don't want any more goddamn friends.
One friend -- I'll call him G -- said he wanted to give us Home Depot vouchers or J.C. Pennies vouchers or anything we wanted if we just helped him with a little bit of credit card fraud. He found a flower shop that pitches batches of credit card receipts neatly in the back dumpster. G digs them out regularly and says he has a giant pile of names, telephone numbers, and credit card info. He proudly showed us Wayne Newton's digits in his little black book. All G needs us to do is go to yellowpages.com and find addresses. Why he offered to give us $600 at Office Max when he can use that $600 and buy his own computer baffles me. And there's a Kinko's right down the street as well. I wouldn't trust this kid's ability to do a second grader's homework, so you can guess my enthusiasm about laundering money with him.
Another friend came over and cut lines of speed on our kitchen counter. Someone else proudly showed me the "modem" he just "bought." I don't know what he thought he was going to do with his new modem because it was a motherboard. A third friendly soul followed me home last night -- driving real slow while I walked and occasionally looping back to do it again.
We put in our notice and we're in another apartment March 1. Hopefully none of our "friends" will find us.
Meghan and I thought we had successfully ditched our last ghetto "friend." Meghan finally got the point across to the only guy that was still calling that we weren't interested. He asked if he could hollar at us and Meghan asked if he knew our names yet... he admittedly answered no. Dumbass. He could have at least guessed. She explained we both had boyfriends so he called us some fucked up bitches and told us he wouldn't come around anymore. Damn. Are we supposed to be upset about that, because we're not. Who wants a 36 year old crackhead with no teeth hollaring at them? Not us.
That would have been the end of our guest list had some guy not gotten stabbed in front of our apartment. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. We went outside to clean my car out and this dude comes around the corner flipping out, bleeding like crazy, talking about how is going to "cap this motherfucker." He saw us and asked if we remembered him. I didn't until later...we meet a lot of people on the street, how the hell can we remember all of them? He walked into our apartment and asked us to bandage him like we are Florence fucking Nightingale or something. We aren't going to leave some dude bleeding on our carpet so we helped him out. Then he gets on the phone and starts calling people asking him to bring him some heat so he can take care of this shit that just happened. What the fuck...we can't be having shootouts in our fucking living room. I think we calmed the guy down a little. When he left he was saying how he was only going to half kill him, you know like beat him with a baseball bat. I guess it's better than shooting him. We saved a life...I feel good.
I was bored and had a newspaper in front of me, so I flipped to the classifieds. Someone was looking for an Account Manager at a Marketing firm. I called and got an interview set up for the next day. Everyone knows the classifieds don't have real jobs, but for some reason I forgot. Erin told me I'd probably be passing out flyers. She smacked the sense into me and I grew pessimistic. For some reason I went to the interview anyway.
I dressed nicely, but no suit or anything. When I walked into the office, it was nothing but a bunch of good-looking men dressed in sleek power suits. Wow was I underdressed. My interview was quick. First, my interviewer explained he worked for the largest marketing firm in America. They've got bragging rights to Coca-Cola, Applebees and every sports team I've ever heard of. He asked a few stupid questions (ie: "Rate your leadership skills on a scale of 1-10.") and ended by asking why he should hire me. I kicked the shit out of that question. He told me that although I didn't have experience in marketing, he liked my entrepreneurial attitude and was willing to take a chance on me. He put me through to the second round and told me to clear my schedule the next day from 11:30 am until 8:00 pm. He mentioned that I shouldn't worry about being underdressed, because I wasn't. "Only one thing: no high heels. Oh, and be sure to ask a lot of questions -- like why we use different strategies for different corporations -- and you'll be fine.'
Oh wow -- a marketing company and they needed someone urgently! The next day I was introduced to Jacob, my interviewer for the day, and told I was in good hands. Jacob took me outside and told me all about himself and his unimpressive background. He was a few inches shorter than me (I'm 5.5...) and seemed like he's been snotty all his life to make up for it. He flattered me and told me what a go-getter he could tell I was. I was just like him. The company started everyone at .entry-level, but it was really management training. After working 50-60 hour work weeks, I'd be ready to manage teams of 40+ people. Was I willing to work hard? Did I want the responsibility and glory of management? He said he couldn't discuss pay with me, but he could promise it was good.
Then we walked to a jeep. Three other people appeared from nowhere and he introduced them to me. It was one guy's first day, another guy's first week and the third guy was introduced as one of the few people in the office Jacob respected. We were all going "on the field." In the car Jacob asked me a few stupid questions. The last one: "Do you know where we're going?" I thought for a second: the evasiveness about the job, the website my interviewer directed me to the night before that didn't seem connected to an advertising company, the cheesy inspiration... we were going door-to-door. They were getting work out of me and calling it an interview. Oooooh I was pissed.
I was silent, wondering how soon I could call Erin and have her come get me. Jacob asked what I was thinking and told me to be honest. I didn't want to belittle the job because three other people in the car were working. I just told him I was upset the company hadn't been straight-forward about the position. We weren't creating marketing strategies - no Coca-Cola, Applebees, or sports teams -- we were selling Direct-TV door-to-door.
After he dropped his three puppets off, he drove me back to my car. The whole ride he tried convincing me that he, just like me, was too good for the job -- but we both need to start somewhere. Any job I'm ever going to get I'll have to start entry-level and do the grunt work that no one wants to do. He did it and now manages and "manipulates the average guy to get the most work out of him." I could do that too. I'd start small, making about $300/day but soon, I'd be like the 22 year-old manager in the office, sitting at the top of the pyramid raking in $10,000 a week.
Does anyone know about a decent job opening ANYWHERE in this world? I don't even know where to look.
I figured Vegas would have at least one decent company where I could work at for a day and get to know a few people, so I applied to a temp agency. I filled out a bullshit application online and made a bullshit appointment. After spending two hours in the office I found out I wasn't even qualified to answer the phone.
"Did you answer the phone at your last job?"
"No."
"Okay, you won't be able to do reception then."
"I know how to answer the phone."
"I understand that, but our employers only want people who answered the phone at their last job."
"I've done reception work before."
"When?"
"When I was 15."
She said that didn't count. Then I suddenly remembered that I answered the phone at my last job after all she asked how many lines I dealt with. One line didn't count either. So when she asked me about my computer experience at my last job, you better believe I told her I used Microsoft Word and Excel excessively.
After five minutes of lame questions, I was directed to the testing room to prove myself. Apparently I'm not qualified to use Excel or Word. I gave up in the middle of my Excel test and scored a 40%. I got a 67% in Word. I still don't know the answers to those damn questions. How do I find comments written about a document on January 17, 1997? I tried using that "Original Showing Markup" key in the menu and it didn't work. I'm baffled. I'm also baffled why it matters.
Then there was the typing test. I've tested my speed before and I'm not slow. Last time I think I scored over 80 wpm. This test told me I typed 65 wpm. I'm not sure how that's possible. I was allowed to do a warm up before the test, so I warmed up with what I was supposed to type later. Then I hit CTRL+C and copied it. When it was time to start the test, CTRL+V worked so I cheated. I added an extra 4 lines of text to my typing and only scored 65 wpm. How is that?
Apparently I'm not qualified to be an office monkey. I'm supposed to call in the mornings I feel like working and see if there's anything available for me. I have yet to have nothing better to do, so I haven't made that morning phone call. I want to do it at least once to see if I qualify for any work. Maybe I can lift some heavy boxes or something. How sad.
P.S. If you're my brother or my sister, I miss you brats.
First, I'd like to comment on Erin's entry about the dude who got stabbed in front of our apartment in the middle of the afternoon. He decided he wanted to be our new best friend because we bandaged him with paper towels and pink ribbons in our apartment (which he invited himself into). After we finished, he told us to come back to his place and put real bandages on. Who is going to say no to a guy who's making arrangements to blow some other guy's head off? We walked back to his apartment and bandaged him properly. We did tell him no when he asked for our phone number and we told him not to be an idiot and go shooting up people. Erin thinks we talked some sense into him; I don't think we did. Later that night we heard a single gun shot. No cops have been around, so I'm not sure what happened. What I do know is that the guy we bandaged has been stalking us. Friday night I was afraid to leave my place. He came to my door at least five times in a short period. He knocked and knocked and knocked -- I mean he didn't stop. He beat the hell out of my door for two minutes straight each time. If all he wanted to do was hang out, he was pretty psycho about it.
Next, I'd like to comment on how much fun it is getting kicked out of clubs. Erin's always talking about how great it is, but I never believed her until last night. There were a group of us the Beach. It was packed and there were all sorts of games happening on the bar. People licked whipped cream off one another and funneled beer on the bar tops. Everyone was so busy paying attention to the hoopla, that no one noticed me stealing beer. I just laid on the floor and told Erin to dance over top of me all sexy. Then I'd reach down (The stage we were dancing on was right above the bar.) and grab a bottle from the cooler. I wasn't even drinking the beers, I kept passing them out. It was fun just to take them.
The first time I stole two. I gave one to Erin and one to some older lady who had been dancing with me and told me to "shake what I had because they [boys] all had the same package." I thought the pathetic whore would appreciate my kind gesture, but she didn't. She wagged her finger at me and put the beer back. Everyone else dancing near me appreciated it the other four times I did it. Then I got busted.
Some security guy came up to me and said: "Where is it?" I just smiled and kept dancing. He grabbed the beer from Abbie's hand and it wasn't even the one I stole. Then he left. He came back a couple minutes later and told me to follow him. I waved bye to my friends (The guy wouldn't let them come.) and followed. Then he told me I'd be kicked out for the night, and I could come back tomorrow.
Erin and Abbie met me at the front door and I told Erin to bring my ID so I could just pop back into the VIP line. The guard at the door took her beer and threw it away when she stepped outside for a second and she wasn't happy. She caused a big scene. Then some MTV guy tried to get us into a limo for some show about two pimps and a dwarf. It was sponsored by the Beach. No thanks.
We had to get back inside to tell our other friends I was kicked out or else we just wanted to hang some more -- I don't remember our logic. The security guard who Erin yelled at walked around to all the doors and pointed to us. I assume he told them all not to let us in. Erin said there was another VIP line on the second floor of the parking garage. We started walking into the garage and security yelled at us to stop. How did they know we weren't just going to our car? Anyway, we went to the third floor and hid behind some cars. We figured they'd go away after they saw we weren't in the VIP line.
Abbie kept saying, "Shhhh." and Erin was laughing so hard she had to eat her purse to muffle the noise. Then two guys with walkie talkies and flashlights busted us. I've never seen The Sound of Music but from what the girls said, we were just like the Jews in Nazi Germany at the end of the movie. So we told every person we passed on our way out of the club not to go in. "They kicked us out because we're Jewish!"
One security guy was super cool. (He was the one who busted me in the first place.) The other sucked a lot. (He was the one who pitched Erin's beer.) I don't have any pressing desire to go back to the Beach, but if I did, I wonder if they'd let me in. The cool security guy told me he'd see me tomorrow but the other one told me I was 86ed for life.
On Wednesday I went to an auto auction to find a piece of shit within my price range. The auction was a little crazy and probably not the brightest idea. It began at 6pm and people were allowed to inspect the cars all day. However, no one was allowed to look under the hoods or open the car doors. When the cars were being auctioned, someone drove the current car being bid on up to the front while the commentator yelled numbers in Spanglish. We weren't allowed to see how they got it started or to know any of the vehicle's history.
The first cars to go were ones that the auction admitted didn't run anymore. One car had been rolled and the frame was unusable. A tire sat underneath it and the windshield was too smashed up to write a number on it. This car went for $250. I was ready to walk out. An undrivable car went for $250 and $250 was more than I wanted to pay for one that worked. Then I watched this beautifully ugly white thing that had bullet holes all over the passenger's side go for $400. It was a car I had been drooling over. A few cars later came an '89 Ford Escort in decent condition. I jumped on it. I won the auction at $200. Hell yeah!
I went to pick up the car around midnight. It wouldn't start. They'd had it working a few hours earlier, so I was a little perplexed. When I came back the next day, I got a jump and was able to drive the car off the lot.
I drove it directly to a mechanic. I knew it needed an oil change, a tune up, a power steering pump, and possibly a new battery and new brakes. When the mechanic called to tell me what was wrong with my car, he said he had good news and bad news. The good news was that my brakes worked. The bad news was that nothing else did. He couldn't replace the power steering pump because they stopped making them. He said he probably wouldn't replace it even if he had one because in the process he'd probably break everything else. He was so afraid of messing with my car that he didn't even change the oil. He didn't charge me anything and suggested I research Nevada's Lemon Laws.
No thanks. I'm happy with my $200 car. The previous owner did his own tinting job and it's bubbling up, not letting me see a damn thing out the windows, but I'm still happy. It runs for the time being and that's all I care about. I have to pass some sort of a smog test in order to register it in the state of NV. There's no way my baby is going to pass, so I guess I'll drive her around some cop yells at me (or until I find someone to bribe). I have insurance and my sales receipt, so hopefully that's enough for them to wave me on my way. Until then, I'm working up to some serious forearms and biceps. Driving a car that's supposed to have power steering but doesn't is quite a challenge.
On a flight returning to Vegas, I got to talking with a very nice lady in her 50s or 60s. She spoke very loudly and very slowly. With every word that came from her mouth, I tried to tell if she was handicapped. Later I learned she wasn't handicapped, but had recently been in a coma and had a stroke. She told me one of the craziest stories I've ever heard. I want to try to write it exactly as it was told to me.
"You're a very nice girl. You remind me of someone. There was this lady I knew. I met her in San Antonio . I think it was in October. I told her if she was ever in LA she had to come and see me. Then in November -- it was on Thanksgiving actually -- she showed up. I opened my door and there she was. She had a little girl. The little girl was so adorable. They lived with me for a year. I had a friend who had a nephew and they got married. Or maybe they were almost married -- I don't remember. She lived with him. Then one day someone knocked on my door and told me they saw her on America's Most Wanted. I didn't believe them. They said yes, but I didn't believe. I didn't tell where she was.
Then there was a long pause as the woman looked out the window at the Las Vegas lights. I wanted to hear more. She spoke with such matter-of-factness, as if she were describing what she'd eaten for lunch. She didn't act like she was sharing a juicy bit of gossip.
"Did they catch her?" I asked.
"Yes. They did. She had to go to jail for two years. She ran away with that baby girl -- her husband was a bad man. She was a nice woman. The nephew, though, he visited all of the time. He used to bring money -- and jewelry. He brought her a nice gold necklace and earrings. Then, after she got out of jail, she didn't want nothing to do with him. She wouldn't talk to him. I would do it all over again. They turned her in for the money. Someone saw the show and they wanted the money."
She wanted to take me home with her. I wanted to go.
I'm not big on famous people. I don't watch much TV and aside from the super famous actors, I can't tell one Hollywood person from the next. Friday night I was at a lounge and saw a bunch of famous people. They were pointed out to me (the guy Angel from Buffy, Vince somebody from Swingers, and other people I'd never heard of) and some I recognized on my own (Blink 182 and that cheerleader from American Beauty). I never thought I was the type of person who would give a shit, but I found myself giving a shit. I scanned the crowd for familiar faces.
It upset me that I got caught up in the whole thing, but I think I figured it out. I wasn't star struck; I was excited to see a familiar face. It's like when I bumped into two girls from my college on the street in Amsterdam. I didn't particularly care for either of them, but I happily stopped and swapped stories. It was the same thing with the famous people, only the conversation was one-sided and didn't leave my head. I got to think, "Hey, I know you -- you're the one who seduced Kevin Spacey."
It's fun to realize how small the world is.
Saturday I had a job and Sunday I quit. I got hired at what I thought was a cozy little Mexican restaurant. The deal was: six days of training then lots of shifts where I'd pull at least $100/night. Not the greatest pay, but better than the negative $60 I was making every day. There were five of us in training. Two college freshman. They seemed nice. A guy in his late thirties. Also nice. Some chick who looked like Madonna. She was self-absorbed, but still nice. Everyone who worked there seemed nice too. Obnoxiously perky, but nice.
The first training video lasted twenty minutes and reiterated everything I had already read in the packet in front of me. The restaurant was really pushing their ridiculously expensive health care plan. In the next video, I learned about "customer obsession." I thought it was a fucking joke but then we had a quick Q&A about what customer obsession was and why it should be our number one priority. Next I found out my company was owned by Chili's and there were 17 of them in the nation. My trainer said he was going to open number 18 in Austin next week. He'd opened five restaurants by himself and with his sixth he was training other people how to open as well. When he later commented that he was paid hourly, I was floored. This guy was a company pawn. A nice guy, just like the rest, and they'd convinced him to open six restaurants while still paying him by the hour. The guys at the top are loaded and the ones doing all the work are making $5.15.
All that sucks, yes, but it didn't directly affect me. There were two things that caused me to hand in my resignation. One, I was supposed to be an asshole. Here's what the do and don't list looked like:
DON'T Ask: "How is everything?"
DO Ask: "How delicious is your tender, juicy, slightly spicy order of chick chick chicken fajitas? And you, ma.am, how are those ultra yummy nachos with beans, beef, and chicken hold the onions?"
I was also to approach every table with a suggestion: "What can I get you to drink?" was unacceptable. "Would you like to try one of our world famous glasses of coca-cola classic?" was the proper way.
I've waitresesed before and I loved it, but back then I had a lot of freedom. I could say "Good afternoon" if I wanted. And if someone ordered chicken fajitas, in my notebook (that no one other than me ever saw because I typed my order in the computer) I could write "chick faj" or "C FAJ" or "fat, bald dude = CF." But at this factory, I had to write "CHX Fajitas." Like my old restaurant, this new one has computers so no one other than me was ever going to look at my notebook, but there was still a standard to follow. I would be tested to make sure I knew all the abbreviations. I felt like a cog in a machine. When they handed me my first piece of flair, I knew I had to bounce.
The second reason I handed in my resignation was Erin. She started cocktail waitressing at a major casino last week and told me I had a job if I wanted it. (Long story, but they're going through a re-org.) I saw her little outfit and thought of the cellulite on my ass, so I passed. But while I was sitting in corporate pawn training, she was working two hours at the casino making $137 (after tipping out the bartenders). I decided to reevaluate my standards. Today I go to the casino for uniform fitting and papers to take the drug test. The woman in HR said I'd be on the floor by Thursday or Friday. I don't have to be all perky and nice; I can be a slutty bitch if I want. I appreciate the freedom and I'm looking forward to it.
If you want to work at a casino in Vegas, you need to be tested for drugs. This is not an inexpensive, quick little piss in the cup -- it's a hair test. And they don't just pull out a strand or two; they take four major chunks out of your hair. The woman told me she had to collect 150-200 strands, but I shouldn't worry because that's how much hair I'd loose in a normal day. Yeah, not very comforting since I know I don't loose them all from the same place. When I run my fingers through my hair I feel patches of stubble where hair once was. The woman told me if I was a good girl, it'd grow back within three to four years.
I asked all sorts of questions about the test: what were they looking for, how far back did it go, do mushrooms show up? The woman told me that they tell people the test goes back three months, but since they don't cut the hair at the root, they're really looking at three months four to five months ago. Any drugs that are found are itemized and given to the casino. So, if valium shows up in my hair, the casino wouldn't let me work there until I showed them my prescription for valium. I was also told they never let anything slide. What if I smoked marijuana once in the past six months -- couldn't they overlook it? No. The miracle drug is mushrooms. It's like food and it's completely out of your system in 48 hours -- no sticking around until a hair cut.
I think drug testing is ridiculous. The whole theory behind it is that people who use drugs are more likely to steal, so they shouldn't be hired. If you can't tell a thieving crackhead when they're standing right in front of you, then you need to refine your interviewing process. It's ridiculous that someone who tried E once at a party wouldn't be allowed to work in a casino. Same with the harmless little hippie who smokes every day. Or what about the girl who got her drink drugged at the bar? I think even the heroine addict is fine, as long as the addiction doesn't affect their work.
So, yeah it's been a month since I posted. What can I say? I've been busy as hell and I'm lazy as shit. I can't remember the last time I went out and a good night's sleep is a figment of my imagination at this point.
I was working two jobs. Okay not really. I had two jobs when I went in to work one night and left with zero. I got fired for the first time in my life. Job number one was at a Brazilian steakhouse. I was serving cocktails for the biggest assholes I have ever worked for in my life... a nazi bitch and some chick from Bulgaria. I didn't have a chance. Everything I did was wrong and when I did what they told me it was still wrong. What the fuck? They called me stupid and worthless, cheated me on my tips, and bitched about me to the other workers. It took me so long to find that job that I couldn't leave until I had another one lined up, which fucking really sucked because the job was terrible.
When I had a chance to cocktail, I jumped on it. I got hired there provided I passed my drug test. That was an ordeal in itself. I had 24 hours notice to erase any evidence of my past experiences. I needed to get my roots done anyway, so I had Meghan call into the Brazilian place for me. She told them I was in the hospital. Their response was less than sympathetic. I believe they said "Yeah, good, good bye," and hung up on her. When I showed up the next day, they told me not to come back until I brought a hospital note. Since I didn't have one I never went back. That was how I lost job number one. That same day I got a call from the Rio telling me that they didn't get my drug test results back so not to bother coming in for orientation. Fuck was the first word that came to my mind. Everyone told me that bleaching my hair wouldn't make me pass the drug test and I was pretty much not going to get hired. I prayed for a miracle and got it. I started the next week.
The job kicks ass. I love it so much. I have so much fun it's like I'm not even working and I make more money in one night than I did in two weeks at the Brazilian shithole. I got drunk one night and went in and told them that. I felt like an asshole the next morning, but in hindsight it was something that I really wanted to do. Everyone thinks cocktails would be an easy job. Don't get me wrong, it's not hard, but it is hard work. Carrying around a 15 pound tray while wearing two inch heals for eight plus hours makes you tired. I've lost all the feeling in one finger. It's like someone shot it with novocain. It's felt this way for four days now. I've got blisters on my feet that are filling with blood and a toenail that is so bruised I think it might fall off. At least now I could afford to see a doctor.
Today is my one week anniversary of being a cocktail waitress. They're incredibly short staffed, so I haven't had a day off. Erin was there for three weeks before she got a day off. The money is good but the job sucks. You wouldn't think serving drinks would be hard, but it's killer. I'm terrible with faces, so I can't remember who ordered what. I have to write really descriptive statements if I have any hope of serving people in a timely fashion (ie; fat bitch, green shirt, obnoxious husband). The trays are heavy and walking around for eight hours in high heels is nearly impossible. By the end of the day, I have to take off my nametag because I've morphed into a megabitch and I don't need people knowing who to tell on.
Let me tell you about a couple of my favorite customers...
Two punk looking kids who had to be 19 or 20 were sitting at the slots. They ordered drinks and I asked to see their IDs. Now, I don't give a fuck how old they are, I just need the eye in the sky to know that I carded them. They had some bad fakes, but I'm not an ID expert, so what do I know. I served them and to show their gratitude, one kid didn't tip me and the other asked for change for his $10. I asked how much he needed and he said ten singles. Then the little bastard handed me a dollar and started putting the nine ones and the ten back in his wallet. What a deal -- serve two underage kids and lose $9 in the process. I got my ten back but what I should have done was ID them again and tell them I needed to take their IDs to the Security Desk so they could verify if they were real. The kids would've bolted and then spent the rest of their spring break in Vegas without fakes. I wasn't quick on my toes though and all I did was flag security to check their IDs. They were gone before Security got there.
Then there were the old men cognac drinkers. I brought them their drinks and one guy stood up to get his wallet out of his back pocket. I stood there while he flipped through his bills. I saw $10 after $10 after $100 after $100. Then he looked up at me standing there and said (very annoyed), "Did you need something?" I was confused. Most people who grab their wallet after I serve them are getting out a tip. He turned to his buddy and said, "Oh, yeah, it's your turn." His friend put his hand into his pocket and I heard jingle jingle jingle. Then he pulled out a handful of pennies. I gave him my nastiest glare and told him to keep it.
Most of my favorite customers are along the same lines. They'll feed the slots $80 every 20 minutes but can't give me a buck for the drink they're getting for free. They'll throw some change into my cup (Once I got 13 cents for three drinks.) or they'll quickly take their drink and avoid eye contact. Unfortunately, most of the cheap bastards move to another section as soon as they get their drink. They know they can only stiff a cocktail waitress once so they move into some other girl's section who doesn't know any better. Those three drinks I served for 13 cents -- well, I didn't know the guy had thrown me 13 cents until I finished my round. I tried looking for him later, to thank him profusely. I wanted to tell him that I'm a little shaky on math, but I believe he gave me 4.333 cents per drink. He should let me know as soon as he wanted another because I'd be right on top of it. The ones who stiff me that are bitches about it -- when they ask for another drink, I don't even write it down. I give them a fake smile and say, "Anything for you." Then I serve everyone around them and if they ask for their drink, I say, "Oh, sorry, I forgot."
I sound like a bitch -- my own brother told me I need to chill the fuck out -- but I'm selectively mean. I'm not going to tell off some grandma playing the nickel slots and counting every penny. I'm rude to the ones who know better. Surprisingly, it's the people who tell me they'll hook me up or they'll take care of me that are the biggest dicks. The posh looking couple I had yesterday: one ordered a bud and the other a crazy fancy coffee drink. (Coffee drinks are the worst because there's no ice to weigh them down and they're wide mouthed, so I spill them all over myself.) I happened to have a bud on me, so I gave it to the guy. They told me they'd take care of me when I came back with the coffee. I was gone five minutes and they bolted. Oooooh, I was ready to hunt the entire casino so I could throw it on them. It sucks that I have no visual memory -- I couldn't have picked them out of a crowd if I wanted to. If you order a fucking drink, stick around to take it. I'd rather be stiffed than have someone leave -- especially with coffee. That means I had to carry it around, sloshing and spilling all over my arm.
So, whine whine whine!
The man (It must have been a man.) who designed our cocktail outfits decided we needed to wear high heels. I don't understand his logic. We're walking around in things skimpier than bathing suits -- ass hanging out of the back and tits hanging out of the front -- and customers are going to notice our shoes? Isn't being able to walk properly and getting customers wasted enough to gamble more, more, more deemed important?
High heels are comfortable for all of twenty minutes. By the end of the night, I can't even walk; I'm worse than a snail. A customer saw me at the end of my eight hour shift told me I needed wheels. I would've laughed, but I wasn't in the mood. Yeah, high heels are an excellent idea for my customer service skills. Piss me off by hurting my feet. Slow me down too, giving all customers a reason to bitch me out. Great thinking, Idiot.
I decided to rebel against the heels and bought some flats. If anyone from management asks, I'm going to say I have foot problems because if I wear those shoes long enough, I will. Another girl wore bright white tennis shoes to work one day. I guess she wanted to prove a point. She'd been working there for thirteen years when she decided to make her point. I would've gone for the tennis shoes too, but as I'd been working there three days, I didn't think I had quite the same pull.
I'm not sure how my rebellion is going over with the rest of the cocktail waitresses. I didn't expect anyone to notice, but I think at least one girl did. We have our own fitting room. Instead of lockers, we have garment bags with locks. The other day, I found a pair of black high heels over the shoulders of my garment bag. Someone could have thought they were mine and put them there by mistake, but there's a lost and found bin in the room, so that doesn't make much sense. Maybe she was telling me to go to hell and follow the rules. Whatever the reasoning, the heels definitely made me think. It made me think this chick is an idiot if she's wearing heels to work every day when she obviously doesn't need to.
I've been out of town for the past week and last night I received a voice mail from Erin: "Yo, call me back. We got robbed."
When I called her back the cops were at our apartment taking her statement. They couldn't stay long, however, because ten minutes into it there were crazy gunshots outside and they were called to the scene. Apparently it was the second batch of people shot in our neighborhood that night, bringing the total injured/killed to six. When Erin and I got a chance to talk, here's what I learned about the robbery:
She was counting her tips on the floor of our living room when someone knocked on our door. She's a nicer person than I am and she actually answers when she hears a knock. It was Malcolm with some random guy. Malcolm is this fat ass who's missing some teeth, has caps on a few others, and certainly can't take a hint. He lives in the apartment complex across the street and happened to meet us when we were getting into our car about two months ago. Somehow he figured out where we live and got our phone number. He comes over sporadically and every time we answer the door, we just "happen" to be going to bed or leaving. Anyway, Malcolm saw Erin's pile of bills on the living room floor and asked why she had so much money. They were her tips. She told them she was running late for work and had to go. Then she dropped Malcolm and his friend off at his apartment complex (one block away, the lazy bastards).
Going to work was just an excuse; Erin came home an hour later. When she walked into the house, she noticed the blinds on our balcony rattling in the wind. Also, the pile of money (dollar bills, casino chips, and a mess of quarters and nickels) were missing. She ran out of the apartment and went to the bar to call the cops. When she returned, she saw that someone had ransacked every cabinet and drawer in the kitchen, but didn't find anything worthy of stealing. The only thing missing was the $300 on the living room floor.
I think the robber(s) were still in the apartment when Erin came home. If they were thorough enough to pick up every single coin on the living room floor and thorough enough to paw through every drawer and cabinet in the kitchen (including our trashcan and pile of recycling), they probably intended to do a full sweep of the apartment. Also, the front door was still locked. The robber(s) climbed in through the balcony window, but there's no reason to leave through the balcony. They couldn't have locked the door from the outside.
I'm pretty sure there was only one robber and it was Malcolm's friend. Three reasons: 1) The only room that was ransacked was the kitchen. I think Malcolm would've wanted to jack a pair of Erin's underwear, so he'd start the ransacking process in her bedroom. 2) Erin left three credit cards on the kitchen counter and the thief didn't touch them. We know for a fact Malcolm steals credit cards -- he wouldn't have passed them up. 3) Malcolm is too much of a fat ass to climb our balcony.
I'm not sure how I feel about sleeping in the apartment right now. Malcolm mentioned to Erin a while ago that there's a warrant out for him for assault. Erin told the police the car he drives and where he lives, so they probably paid him a visit this afternoon. His family (or whoever he lives with) will surely cover for him and he'll know who told on him. He's probably not going to be happy. This is a neighborhood where six people were shot last night. Helicopter search lights and megaphones have woken me more than once. It's not the most rational place.
If I don't post ever again, it's because I'm dead... or because someone jacked my laptop.
Traditionally for Lent, Catholics give up something they really enjoy in order to better themselves as human beings and God's children. It's been a long time since I participated in such a thing, but this year I decided to give up gambling. I never win and having a stipulation like God condemning me to hell made me think that giving it up for 40 days would be pretty easy. Uh no.
I cut corners here and there, justifying it as paying for my drinks. I would play a little video poker on Sundays since Sundays aren't included in the 40 days of Lent. That was the extent of my Lental sins until this week. I kind of threw it all to shit and started playing table games... knowing damn well that I am a shit gambler and make stupid bets that always lose. The first night I did okay at the little shit casino down the street. Since I was up I decided to go play at my friend's table at the Venetian. I could afford about three hands which I lost. I didn't care about losing $200. I rationalized it as being one day's work. No big deal. Then we got fucking robbed. That was another two night's wages down the drain.
I was kind of pissed off and thought that since I had been stolen from I now deserved to win. Apparently it doesn't work like that. I lost another $300 in the past two days. That makes a grand total of $800 I now no longer have. I'm going to quit gambling now for the rest of my life. I'm not going to have my "gambling extravaganza" on Easter Sunday, I'm not going to win my money back, and I'm not going to hold on to the chips that are in my bedroom (they are getting cashed in and taken to the bank). So this is it, the only money I am going to get out of the casino from now on is going to be in the form of tips and paychecks... but isn't that how it always was?
It looks like our robber is fond of Sundays. Maybe it's a coincidence or maybe he realized Sunday is a great day for a robbery because we might have Friday, Saturday, and Sunday tips strewn all over the apartment. Whatever his reason, last night was his second Sunday at our apartment.
Erin was asleep and someone banged on the door real loud. After a while she opened it and saw Malcolm's "friend" standing there. He stammered a bit, surprised to see her. When he spoke, he yelled.
"Yo, where Leroy?"
"Who?"
"LEEEROY."
Erin was confused.
"You know -- Roy!"
She didn't have her contacts in and she was half awake, but she recognized him. "Oh, you mean Malcolm?"
"Yeah. Where he be?"
Erin said she didn't know then slammed the door. I don't think she was on her toes or she would've kicked him or screamed as loud as she could. I was out of town again, so I didn't get the privilege of meeting this asshole. I'll be ready next Sunday. I dreamt I lined our balcony with barbed wire and put mace on the door handle. I'm going to watch Home Alone and get some fresh ideas.
I don't miss being robbed, but I kinda miss the ghetto. It was a much more social neighborhood than where we're living now. I've been back a few times to check the mail (We kept a key because we knew the incompetent bastards at our complex wouldn't forward anything.) and to give beer cans to one of the dudes who digs through the dumpster. (Our new roommate races through cases.) I like visiting, but since we're on the complete opposite side of town now, it doesn't happen too much.
I've got some pictures I've been meaning to post. And just a quick note: If you think the neighborhood looks nice and unghetto, you're making the same mistake we did. Just because the apartments are decent, doesn't mean the ones across the street (or the people living in them) are stable.
What Erin and I have been up to... We're blackjack dealers at a successful casino. [It's unnamed because I don't want searches for it directing people to my page.] We were extremely lucky. If you'll remember, when we moved to Vegas we had a hell of a time finding a job. We filled out applications at most casinos but they were buried in the masses. We even hunted down the big bosses and tried to schmooze. Two bubbly girls carrying a tray full of homemade cookies with "Hire Us" written in icing and no one blinked. Apparently this city is all about knowing the right people, not trying to meet them.
Then we got our lucky break. Erin met this fat cat rich guy at the Hilton. The next night she and I met up with him in the hotel lounge for over-hyped bottles of Dom P and strawberries and he droned on and on about how successful he was. In between hitting on us and our 55 year old waitress, he said he'd help us find jobs. I couldn't stand the guy and didn't believe a word that fell from his mouth, so I spent most of the night in the bathroom on the phone with my boyfriend.
Thank god Erin's a trooper because fat cat came through and put her in touch with his casino host. The casino host told Erin to go to the | | |
