Farewell to Las Vegas
EDITOR’S NOTE: This article was originally published on September 1st but the site was hacked and this article was deleted. It is reinstated here.
It wasn't supposed to go this way but the universe giggles when we make plans.
When we came here, I was full of excitement over the possibilities. I was finished with Chicago, tired of the grind of the city, weary of the winters, and bitterly disappointed in the reality that, without regard for the thirty years of art and nonsense I'd helped create there, I was wholly disposable. Unnecessary. In hindsight, Chicago did me the favor of knocking me down a few pegs as I was riding pretty high on myself at the time. My sense of self was too arrogant, too centered on the idea that I was a big deal in a big city, and shocked that folks I'd worked with and for refused to see it. I needed some humility and, once I got it, wanted out.
We decided to move to the Entertainment Capitol. Las Vegas, Nevada.
Known for the famous marketing slogan What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas, after living here for three and a half years I would change it to Vegas Giveth and Vegas Taketh Away. The place felt like Mayberry with neon. Less a city than a street with a town surrounding it, much of the hype around the place is justified. The brilliant Las Vegas Strip, while not quite as cool as the vintage days of Sinatra, Elvis, and the Mob rule of the gambling capitol, is still amazing. There is enough history (ghost towns, amazing outdoor art spectacles, and the glitz of casinos jutting out of the desert) to make it incredibly bizarre and wonderful.
Vegas immediately doubled down on the feeling that I simply didn't matter. No one cared about my experiences in Chicago. Few had even listened to NPR once. The theater scene was minuscule and insular. The public school system was a mess. The idea that perhaps I was seen as too old to start over became prevalent. This was a town for young hustlers, retirees, and tourists swinging in for a party.
At the time, I considered myself lucky that, while I didn't quite fit in here, my wife did. She seemed to thrive in the sun, in the atmosphere of the party. My job in the relationship was to pay the bills so finding employment in a city that ignored my resume was the challenge. She wasn't so enthused about a job and preferred to ride her bike around, pick up modeling gigs via Craigslist, and sneak into pools on the Strip. She was the keeper of our savings, of our copper umbrella, but was loathe to part with a penny of it.
I landed a gig at a locals casino as a manager and learned on the job. On call at all hours. Onsite from 2:00pm to 10:30pm six days a week. It was remarkable. I was suddenly on the inside of the largest industry in the state. I loved it. Like a seedy casino/hotel version of Cheers, the place was filled with regulars and a fun staff. I fit right in even though my General Manager found himself rolling his eyes at my unbridled enthusiasm for the daily tasks.
On my days off, my wife and I wandered the Strip, took weekend trips to Nevada ghost towns, hiked Red Rock National Park, hung out at pools and day drank. At least once a week, we'd look at each other and declare our love for the place. The sunshine, the neon (like a city my mom decorated for Christmas), the mountains. We both had essays published in a Las Vegas writers anthology. I had an essay published in the local NPR magazine. Once a month, we hosted performances of BUGHOUSE! at the iconic Bunkhouse Saloon. First Fridays. Fremont Street. The Neon Boneyard. The Springs Preserve. AREA 15. Rhyolite.
For our sixth anniversary, we took a weekend trip to Reno and had a ball exploring.
Then COVID took over. Things shut down. Again, feeling lucky that we weren't trapped in Chicago, with millions of people ready to breathe on us, we were in Las Vegas and could walk outside in the sun and not see more than fifteen people in an hour. The casino shut down (like all of Vegas) but kept me employed.
Vegas gave. The flip side of my slogan was coming, gang.
Things opened back up but it was different at the casino. People were angry about masks and social distancing. My job became less ambassador to gambling fun and more babysitter for entitled Libertarians. I lobbied for more money and was denied. I got another job, a Remote Senior Copywriter. I was making better money, worked from our apartment. I wrote a book about my casino experience (which is slated for publication in the Spring).
I noticed that something was off in the marital bliss department. I was in her way. She had always been a bit overcritical but whose wife isn't? Now, it seemed that I was constantly a thorn in her side. She spent a lot of time out and about. I noticed that she had a lot of male friends, few I had met. We pretty much stopped having sex. She spent more time on her phone. I wrote it off as adjustments to my now constant presence. I was wrong.
Still, every month on the 12th, we celebrated month-a-versary. We'd been doing this since we first got married. A regular check-in. A date night loaded with the inevitable question "How's married life?" The point was to relax and get into the weeds of any issues we might be having, to be honest and communicative in order to keep things level and solid. She began resenting the question. When I'd ask, she'd focus more on finances and day-to-day living and wouldn't talk at all about the lack of sex or the distance I was observing.
I noticed she had an envelope full of cash. Hundreds and twenties. It got so full, she found a case with a zipper. When I asked her where all this cash was coming from, she explained that her Craigslist gigs (modeling, a number of local clients for whom she'd clean their houses each week, and random odd jobs) all paid in cash. I pushed her to keep records because eventually the IRS was going to come knocking on the door. She promised she would keep better records but never did and got pissy when I brought it up so I stopped mentioning it.
I tend to write quite a bit that I never publish. Call it journaling or simply a sane way of dealing with my feelings that doesn't require therapy. I wrote the following a year ago. She needed to get out of town and her friend in Los Angeles needed someone to cat-sit for a couple of weeks. We decided she'd fly down and I'd drive there for her final few days and drive us both back. A mini vacation from each other. I arrived and the distance between us had grown in just a week and a half. While she slept, I sat on the porch and wrote this:
How Disappointing, Your Disappointment
“Am I a good wife?” you asked.
Of course, I said you were.
I suspect you asked because you were not happy to see me. You were enjoying your time alone, your days of untethered autonomy, your days without the burden of having to be a wife at all.
I suspect that you ask because I am a good husband but not really the husband ordered who comes with issues.
“You called a lot.” you said.
My enthusiasm for a podcast becomes a ‘hose of information’ followed by an explanation that to talk to me, you have to combat my loud mouth and inattentive listening skills. I snore—apparently, a lot. Enough that you suggest I get a breathing machine to mitigate it without the consideration that those machines are about my health, not your convenience.
Gosh, I’m thrilled to be here now.
Funny that I had no twitchiness at home but as soon as I get here and try to sleep, my self consciousness kicks in and I wake up at 4 a.m. because I think I was snoring and my leg wants to kick.
I wake up at 4 a.m. and think that maybe I’d prefer to go back to Vegas tomorrow and you could fly back at your leisure rather than have you put up with me invading your space and me being made to feel that way—
—but I’ll stay and endeavor to call you out on your bullshit AS YOU DO IT. Perhaps, in the moment interrogation will reveal that you ask the question because you don’t really want to be a wife but are committed to it so why not ask?
I heard on the podcast I was so enthusiastic about about lifestyle design (I think) and I’m looking at my life and how it’s designed. Am I living my best life? No. I can definitely say no.
I’ve found myself feeling listless, procrastinating more than I used to, and gaining weight when I shouldn’t be.
We talked about the Seven Year Itch and I suspect this itch has more to do with disappointment in oneself than in the marriage. I suspect people look for the company of some trim to have someone outside of themselves validate them because their partners no longer want to or can.
You randomly declare your love for my mother because she is so overwhelmingly supportive of me, a fount of affirmation and support. I don’t feel that from you because underneath any voice of love from you there is a deep sense of disappointment.
I assume it is a longing for someone else or the absence of someone else but I suspect it has little to do with me and that is what I’m often left with. A sense that I am alone in this thing and you are listlessly looking out and wondering what life would be without the disappointing husband you are currently saddled with.
Or maybe I’m overthinking it.
Nonetheless, I’m going to design my life a bit more for me and about me and you do the same. Maybe we stay on the same tracks, going in tandem direction. Maybe not. But I’m older than I thought I’d be and don’t really have the time for this shit.
Later that day, I read it out loud to her. Her response was to go for a walk.
Christmas that year was pretty bad. We went to Kansas as we always did. She was distracted and detached. My mother had always done her best to include her in the presents and had finally relaxed into the purchase of only gifts she asked for. Mom would also include a few things she thought might be fun. What I didn't know was that for seven Christmases, my wife would take those extra gifts, re-box them, and leave them in my parents' basement. This particular Christmas she left some of my presents in a box she hid down there. My mom lost it. She was hurt. She was embarrassed.
2022 came with increased confrontations initiated by me to try to course-correct things. My birthday was a drag. She was inconvenienced. We ate at the Gordon Ramsey Pub in Caesar's Palace but she hates the expense. At lunch, I confessed that I felt like I was navigating the relationship by myself. She had no answers but I had a sinking feeling that this marriage had shit the bed.
April 17th. Easter Sunday. We had plans to go out but I was beat. She gets a call from her friend, a bass player in a local metal band whom she'd hung out with for at least the past two years. She assures me he has a girlfriend and they're just music buddies but something feels strange as she decides to go grab a drink with him.
She splits and takes the Prius. I stew for a bit and then decide I should join them for that drink. I text her. No response. I wait fifteen minutes and text her again. Nothing. I do that thing I've never done before because I'm just not that jealous husband type—I check to see where my car is on my iPhone. It is not at a bar. It's parked in an apartment complex. I text her the address and ask where she is. Immediate response. Claiming she snuck into an apartment pool area and was enjoying the hot tub but was headed home.
She walks in. Her clothes are bone dry. I'm not buying the story. "Are you fucking this guy?"
She sits. "Yes."
"For how long?"
"What does it matter. I want an open relationship."
"You know that's not how open relationships work, right? You don't fuck around, get caught, and then decide on open status. I'm not down for that. At all."
"I'm going to keep seeing him."
"Then we're getting divorced I guess."
Mutual tears. An agreement to keep the affair private and simply tell people that she wanted an open relationship, I didn't. Irreconcilable differences.
The next day, as we're talking through her moving out and the specifics of a quickie no-fault divorce in Vegas, I tell her how surprised I am with her choice to shatter our marriage over this guy.
"You don't want to know all of it."
"Of course I do. I mean, what could you tell me that's worse than you'd rather divorce me than give up your side piece?"
"If you really want to know..."
"Give it your best shot."
"Okay. In February 2020, I was out riding my bike. A guy offered me $100 to have sex with him in his van. I did. I liked it. I've been working as a sex worker ever since."
Sex worker? I know she thinks that makes it sound legit or noble or something but $100 in the back of a van? WTF?
"You fuck in vans?"
"No. Hotels on the Strip."
"Which ones?"
"All of them."
The confession was so huge and unprepared for, my brain went into immediate freeze. She seemed eager to share more now that the cork had popped. An alternate phone number app. Thirty-five regular clients. No pimp but a guy on Craigslist who she messages before and after her business to ensure safety. She wears her wedding ring because being married makes the job safer. And, yes, she is going to continue this line of work.
A week later, we were divorced. A few days after, she moved to an apartment twenty-five feet from mine.
My conundrum is that I genuinely have no issue with prostitution. If it were legal it would be safer. I've said it before, we're all basically prostitutes. Gotta make that coin and in an environment where young women can make hundreds of thousands of dollars a year with an OnlyFans account, actually getting sweaty with strangers isn't much of a leap. At the casino, the prostitutes who came into the place referred to me as The Nice Manager because I treated them with respect and kindness. On the other hand, it isn't like she was moonlighting as a secret plumber and, regardless of the fact that prostitution is legal in much of the state, it is illegal in Vegas. It's also incredibly dangerous and she engaged in this during a global pandemic.
It's the two and a half years of lies that throw me off. It's the lack of any sense of remorse for the casual destruction of the marriage that I can't quite fathom. It's the rapid decay of my own ability to trust anyone. It's the humiliation of enthusiastically grinding out a living and a life with her, blind to the fact that she was intimate with strangers (and a boyfriend) for years. It's not just infidelity (which is sadly common), it's the sheer magnitude of it in this case. I mean, thirty months equals a lot of cocks. It's the lies told to me, to my family, to her family, to everyone in our lives for nearly the entire time we've been in Nevada.
I can't blame Las Vegas for this circumstance but I can't stay. I forgive her for it all (I really do because otherwise I risk becoming a brittle, bitter old man) but I can't forget. No ill will, no anger. I don't believe she lied out of malice but out of self interest. As she said that night, "I wanted my cake and eat it, too." So I gotta head out. I just need to be as far away from her as I can. Like I suddenly discovered my soulmate was, in fact, a giant chunk of highly radioactive plutonium, gotta get some distance or my hair is gonna fall out.
I don't publish this sordid tale out of malice or for revenge. I need to be done with the story and the only way I know how to be done is to write it, put it in a bottle, and toss it out there. I mean, never marry a writer because writers write about things and I think I've been incredibly chill about the whole situation. The news is overcrowded with people turning violent against their cheating spouses so writing about it is the outlier in benign reactions. As I've said for years, I'm the best ex-husband you'll ever have.
She checked out of the marriage years ago while I'm still coming to grips with it all. I'm still deeply in love with someone who turns out to be a fictional character. There's an absurdity to still loving a wife who hasn't existed since we came to Vegas but there it is. When I see her now, my brain can't square the fact that she looks like the woman I came here with, with whom I experienced everything in Vegas together, who I laughed and loved for seven and a half years yet isn't that woman at all.
I'm tired of walking around the answer to the question "What happened? You seemed so happy, so solid. You were that bizarre, wonderful married couple with the terribly romantic story. Why couldn't you work it out?" I'm tired of lying about it. I'm weary of feeling like perhaps the dumbest motherfucker in the history of marriage.
Vegas took something from me I will never get back.
Like the guy who comes to this city with high hopes of hitting a jackpot who ends up bankrupt Monday morning, I'm going home broke and embarrassed. To the people who knew me before Vegas and even Chicago. I really don't know who I am after all of this, who I can trust, what I'm supposed to be doing. I'll figure it all out in time. I'll muscle through it. But not here. Not twenty-five feet away from her, seeing her blithely go about her days with no regard for the discarded idiot next door. Accidentally catching the sight of her making out with a guy in the pool and feeling like running into traffic because a bus squashing me on Sahara would feel better than this.
The last time I spoke to her for longer than thirty seconds, I was returning her grandfather's huge area rug. She happily came into the apartment. Hers is not the behavior of someone who dropped a nuclear warhead on our lives. She started looking around and asking if she could have a lamp and a chair and, of course, the parking sticker for her new car. All smiles and self interest. Just like Las Vegas, a town that will tell you how amazing you are while picking your pocket.
So, farewell Vegas. I'll miss your possibilities. I'll miss the few friends I've made here. I'll miss going into a massive casino, dropping $20 and walking out with $50. I'll miss the sunshine so hot it feels like strolling through a toaster oven. I'll miss your fresh, weird history.
Like my ex-wife, I'm sure you won't miss me, either.
