The first time I moved to Vegas was when I ran there from Massachusetts,to get out of a bad relationship and away from a crack habit that would not go away, in spite of going to another rehab, and lots of meetings. (*DOH* it never occurred to me that I could just STOP!)
As usual, I started smoking pot again (because I need it), then drank, then drove into the city of Boston over and over to score. I had been "out" (not sober in a 12-step program) for about a year before I moved. I was powerless over the "powerlessness" I had learned in the program (read all about my AA experience here: SOMEONE PLEASE PUT A WARNING LABEL ON THAT BITCH).
Every time I drank, I would get hammered, do something stupid, then go on the hunt, wasted, for crack. Although I was only doing this about once a month, something had to give.
Also, I was living with someone I abhorred because this person had the money to pay my bills. I had been selling myself out for years, since that was all I thought I would ever be capable of. It's no surprise I was out of control on drugs and alcohol.
Why wouldn't I want to be wasted all the time? When you feel so low about yourself that you are cohabiting with another person for survival because you truly doubt your own ability to take care of yourself, it's pretty fucking miserable on EVERY LEVEL, except financially.
In my mind, blowing off my internship in L.A. where I was supposed to launch the film career I had worked so hard for in college was worth it in favor of being pampered for what I expected to be the rest of my life. It was a business decision, based on my partner's generosity.
Within weeks of dating, we were talking about getting married. I was given a brand new car and an AMEX Gold Card with an allowance on it just for me. We took trips all over the world where I was bought beautiful clothes, jewelry, you name it. My haircuts cost over $250.00, without the tip. I felt like I had won the lottery when we got together.
For the first time since I started the film program at Emerson, I did not have to work two jobs to support myself while going to school. While my fellow students where skating through their last year in elective classes that they barely attended, I was taking two graduate level film theory classes (LOVE IT), a directed study where I was to edit a short film, and a business of independent production class because I wanted a challenge.
Boy did I get it!
I was living the high life, but I was miserable because I was never attracted to this person I chose to share my life with for the money, not even a little bit. Sex repulsed me, but I did what I had to do at the time, trying to convince myself that giving up my body was a small price to pay for the lifestyle I was living.
Bring it.
Too bad my new benefactor turned out to be an alcoholic who was addicted to Valium. To make a long story short, our drinking caused me to take three incomplete grades before I ran off to Vegas, after the money pot dried up (I did, eventually, graduate with my B.A. in Media Arts, but that is another story).
Within a few weeks of my arrival in my new city, I was already heavily partying. I made dates on match.com so I could eat and have someone to buy my booze and drugs, until I was finally hired in a crappy restaurant. It only took EIGHT MONTHS. Vegas is tough, I tell ya.
At least my car was paid for and I was sponging off my mom (YFR!), so the only thing I had to concern myself with was how I was gonna get myself wrecked every night.
Men where happy to oblige.
In spite of the fact that my partying was way out of control, I did not want to go back to AA (this was about five years before I figured out this program will never be the solution for me).
In order to play it safe, I would make sure I never partied while I was working. When I got the job in the fancy place right on the strip where all the employees from the dishwasher to the GM did coke, I picked up the habit of sniffing the stuff on a daily basis while I worked.
We'd smoke pot out back, drink beers in the kitchen, and I always had my twenty sack in my pocket. At this point, I was still pretty much in control of things, aside from being a bit emotional, but you might be too, if you had spent four years in college, as I did, only to leave without your degree.
I was disgusted with myself because I was very aware of the mistake I made when I gave up my dream for a false sense of financial security.
I felt like a complete failure.
Getting high on a daily basis was necessary.
When I was recruited by the owner of a place downtown to tend bar while encouraged to drink with the customers, things got really bad. I took that job to get away from the cocaine and the chef I had mistakenly started dating at the fancy place (NEVER, EVER SHIT WHERE YOU EAT!), but I always managed to find my drug of choice wherever I looked in those days.
I found a better dealer, started doing more coke, and was fired by the owner of that bar for asking another employee for drugs one night when I was really hammered.
Fortunately, I had lived in Vegas long enough that I knew some people, one of my friends had connections all over the city. He juiced me into a cocktail job at the most popular strip joint in town, where I finally started making some real money.
Within a few months, my poor attitude put me on the top of the shit list of the head cocktail waitress who gave me the job. She started screwing with my shifts and sections after a stunt I pulled where I tried to get her in trouble with her manager.
Just to show her who was boss, I quit in the middle of a busy night, without a second thought, using the false courage cocaine will bring ya.
No matter, I got juiced into another club by the same guy. This time, he hooked me up with a job at a very high end place, where celebrities were regulars and the dancers made thousands upon thousands of dollars in a matter of hours. I am an exceptional server, so I was working prime shifts within a week of starting at that club.
We earned bonuses for bottle sales and I was the queen of the camp. I made more money in my bottle incentives than a lot of other waitresses would make in all four of their shifts.
Instantly, I was making about 10k a month. Not bad, if you don't mind wearing a bustier, thong, french knits and four inch heels (minimum) for a uniform. I LOVED IT. I worked out six days a week to stay in shape, dropped a bunch of cash on bling and beauty products and I looked FUCKIN' SMOKIN' HOT Wednesday through Saturday night.
A grand in one six hour shift happened at least once a week.
I took home $350 on a bad night.
*Life was good.*
I made friends with the dancers at all of the clubs I worked for because *THE GIRLS* where my bestest customers! Whenever they had a good client, they'd request me to be their waitress. I loved them! And still miss each and everyone of them.
*MWAH* for all the ladies who dance for a living!
I adore ya and look forward to seeing ya! XXX
Once I had ten grand in the bank, I didn't worry about spending money. I did what I wanted to do, went wherever I wanted to go, with whomever I wished to do it with.
One of the greatest things about being a cocktail waitress in a high end, Vegas club is that my girls and I got the VIP treatment EVERYWHERE we went.
My favorite club in Vegas is Pure at Caesar's Palace. (FAVORITE casino in Vegas, too - LOVE THAT PLACE!). I knew the guy who worked the VIP entrance from when I worked at the first strip club, so he would let us cut the line and we were escorted to BOTTLE SERVICE, baybeh! (LUVS ME A NIGHT A THE CLUB!)
I lived LARGE. I'm sure you'll agree with me that I had lost it, when I tell you about the way I royally fucked up a great gig.
After five years of REALLY livin' the life in Vegas, I was out of my frickin' skull. By this time, my brain was not functioning very well due to letting it marinate in way too much Patron and Cocaine.
Holy SHIT.
You guys, when I say I did a lot, I FUCKING DID A LOT.
I am sure I paid my dealer's rent because he would meet me whenever, wherever to deliver my eight balls, EVERY OTHER DAY!
YUP. I did not share, either.
The best was when he'd meet me in the club to deliver my shit.
I LOVED MY DEALER!
He was smokin' frickin' hot, too. (HE was also SMART. He worked the game until he had enough dough, then bounced into who knows where?)
Ahhh, the life.
It was a crazy ride.
My once curvy, sexy body shrunk to a weak 112 lbs, soaking wet, because I rarely ate. I have no idea why I never overdosed on the gargantuan amounts of blow and booze I was consuming on a daily basis. I bought five bottles of Patron Reposado a week, had a stocked wine rack, and could down up to ten beers a night, on top of nearly a fifth of tequila.
One of the guys I went out with was amazed by what I could put away. He said he'd never seen anyone ever drink as much as I did NIGHTLY, including the men he played football with. The most astonishing thing about me to everyone was that I would still be standing, in spite of being whacked out of my mind!
The beginning of my real end came when I started trouble with another cocktail waitress who, frankly, I was VERY jealous of. When I heard a rumor that she was banging one of the VIP hosts (none of my fucking business), I ran with it. She had been at the club since it opened (I think I worked there a few months, maybe).
It goes without saying that she got all the really exceptional clients who had private parties. I was so frickin' greedy. GAWD. It's embarrassing, almost, to tell this story, but I will press on.
Gossip. Gossip and MORE FUCKING GOSSIP about that poor girl who was just trying to make a buck like me. I waged war on her and I talked shit to anyone who would listen. It got so bad that my friends did not want my co-workers to see them talking to me.
I was so out of control that the General Manager pulled me into his office one night to ask me to stop being so jealous.
He said, with a smug look on his face, "DON'T BE JEALOUS."
I was fuming. I had no idea that I was jealous at the time - THAT IS HOW CRAZY I WAS!!! I spent the rest of that shift, like I did every shift, working what my momma gave me, while remaining as high as possible. I carried a vial in my bra filled to the brim with the white powder that was taking over my life.
I could not stop.
When I got home in the morning, I stayed up until around noon, just like I usually did by myself most of the time. I would be doing lines, taking straight up shots of Patron, and drinking my favorite brew ha-ha, Miller Lite, until my eyes where crossed. I've always loved being up 'till the sun begins to rise, so it has never bothered me to be up through the night.
I would raise my shot glass to my dead grandmother's picture with a toast to her memory in response to what she used to say to me, when she was in my life. "Always remember, you are my grand daughter." (if you want to read more about my "family" click here).
With resentment, I would mutter the words: look at your granddaughter now!
Do I make you proud, grammy?
Aren't you glad you split?
Since I reported to work at 10 pm, being on time for my shift was never a problem. I used to love my ride in through the busy Vegas streets to work, while I'd smoke some weed and rock out to the music in my car. I couldn't wait to get to there.
I loved the way I got to dress, look and act working in the club.
The night after my manager scolded me, I decided I never wanted to work there again. I know now that I was too embarrassed by my catty behavior to show my face, but at the time I thought I was just pissed.
What a dumb-ass. I no-called no-showed my Saturday night shift, with the idea that I would become a stripper.
WHAT THE FUCK?
That's all good, but why would I wanna burn the best bridge to making loads of money while having fun dancing in the nicest clubs in Vegas?
As usual, I reacted to my feelings and took a very stupid action as a result. (Talk about tsk tsk!)
My stripping career was short lived and unsuccessful. Since I had fucked over the two best strip clubs by being an idiot, I had to settle with working for one of the places that caters to the not so wealthy young and military crowd.
The most expensive VIP room was 100 bucks an hour, which was a far cry from the club I left where it was $500 an hour, plus a bottle purchase requirement of a minimum of $350.
I started stripping because I wanted to make loads of money... In the six weeks or so I partied (err worked) as a stripper, I never made anywhere near what I was making as a cocktail waitress. I believe the most I ever made was a little under two hundred after my door fee. PFFT.
I just didn't get it.
When guys asked me what we were gonna do in the VIP Room, I was brutally honest with them (because I was pissed).
With exasperation, I'd say I was gonna dance fore them, and that was it. I somehow thought it was a good idea to tell them to go to Pahrump if they wanted a whore (in case you don't know, prostitution is legal there). Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Interesting to note here that I figured out where I was going wrong AFTER I got sober the last time.
Another reason I sucked at being a stripper is because I was wasted off my ass ALL THE TIME. As I said, I started back to hardcore partying (minus the crack) the minute I relocated to Vegas. In the beginning, I'd only indulge when I was off work, but my consumption increased over the years.
My routine was always the same: get up, take care of Tolstoy, clean my house, run errands. Getting ready for work consisted of an hour long work-out, followed by a long shower, I'd put on my make-up, then do a couple of rails.
By the time I left at 9:15 pm I was feeling *awesome.*
Eventually, I started getting high earlier and earlier.
Partying at work had become the norm, but I was bummed when I started getting high right after my work out.
When I started blowing off exercise because I got high, I knew I was trouble.
Finally, I started getting and staying high all the time.
Instead of doing errands, working out, or taking care of my dog, I would put the glass rod I used to snort lines up my nostril the minute my eyes where open.
This is what a person does when they hate themselves for every single mistake of their entire lives like, I used to.
Naturally, I burned though my savings in no time. It got so bad that I could not afford the 65 bucks I had to pay to work (yeah, strippers pay to work).
I was fucked, so I continued to get high for as long as I could while I made an unsuccessful attempt at getting ANY job.
It just was NOT HAPPENING (give shit, get it!).
That's when I made the stupid mistake of letting a guy I had worked with convince me to move to Cleveland, Ohio, to stay rent free in his apartment, work with him at his job, and FINALLY get off drugs for GOOD.
He said I could leave whenever I wanted to, but he wanted to help me get my shit together.
Sounded good to me, but I had no money left. That is when we came up with the brilliant idea to sell my PAID FOR Toyota Corolla that was in exceptional condition.
Within three minutes of publishing the ad for this *AWESOME* car, I was getting phone calls. KNOW WHY? I was selling it for about half of what I should of received! I did not even bother to check! OMFG.
The first person to hand me 2,100 bucks was the proud owner of a really nice car. I sold it to a Latin family with a young baby. They needed to get a car with AC for the wicked hot Vegas weather.
Of course, I made it clear to my new knight in shining armor that I was bringing Tolstoy. He had no problem with my beloved pet moving in with us, until he got around to checking his lease, THE NIGHT BEFORE I was to get on the plane (talk, talk talk.)!
When this dude delivered the news that I would not be able to have my dog and live in his place, I told him I would just move to Boston, instead (I have no idea how I planned to make it in Boston, except I do know people there).
First, he tried to convince me to give my little man away. NOT GONNA happen. Then, he said he'd call me in the morning when he figured something out. I hung up the phone and called my girlfriend, who always had the drugs, to come over.
My no share rule evaporated when I ran out of money (NICE, EH?).
Dude called in the morning with Plan B: I was moving to a different part of town. His friend had a place for rent that he said he'd seen. The apartment was supposed to be nice, I could move in as soon as I got off the plane, and I could have Tolstoy. Great.
I continued on with this foolishness.
The movers picked up my belongings and $1,200, half of what I agreed to pay them for picking up, then delivering my things to me on the East Coast. I was supposed to pay the rest when it was dropped off. (F.Y.I. Never use New Planet Movers & Storage - they are scumbags who stole my expensive art, broke most of my furniture, AND they added a ton of money onto our contracted price.)
I grabbed the one bag I packed, then my party pal drove my pugger and I to the airport. I was stoked when I boarded the plane for Cleveland.
I'd never been there before, but what the hell? Why not take off? VEGAS WAS GONNA KILL ME.
My "friend" picked me up at the airport in his run down convertible. He brought an air mattress, his work uniform, sheets and a pillow with him because his plan was to drop me off at my new place, then head to work for his four o'clock serving shift.
Ohio grossed me out as soon as I got off the plane. It was June, hot, humid and buggy. Coming from the desert, I was not used to the overwhelming moisture in the air, and neither was my dog. We were both sweating our asses off. Tolstoy was huffing and puffing so badly that I was afraid he was going to die.
I tried to be happy that I was about to start a new beginning, but I had a very bad feeling in my gut.
The guy who was supposed to take care of me was starting to really annoy me because I did not like him very much to begin with. We where stuck waiting around for two and a half hours because he was not able to get in touch with my new landlord right away.
He bought me breakfast at McDonald's (ew), then took us to a park, where we hung out until we finally heard from the guy with the apartment, who was ready to meet us in a half an hour at the place I was planning to call "home." *PHEW*
Before we entered the run down Victorian apartment home, I knew I would never live there. The steps where falling off the place, which is not a sign of a responsible landlord, nor anywhere I would live. My friend convinced me to look at it.
Turns out the place was a fifth floor walk-up studio with no bath tub and no closets. I glared at one more asshole who lied to me. If he had looked at the place, as he said he did, he would have known it was not going to work for me because I told him a full bath is a requirement in order for me to move into anywhere.
The owner of the building nearly laughed at me when I inquired about what looked like a ballet bar in the middle of the living room. I thought I'd use it to work-out, but I was supposed to use it instead of a closet to hang my clothing. YEAH RIGHT! I politely declined, to which my "rescuer" replied that he had no idea what I was going to do, since he had to go to work and I could not be at his place.
When I told him I would like to go to a hotel, he said "that's going to cost you a lot of money." (Thanks, asshole.)
With less than one thousand dollars to my name, I checked into the motel six and proceeded to find a place to live. I was determined I was going to be alright. The second night I was at the hotel, asshole showed up with a case of beer.
Three was enough to give him a buzz and he started trying to get into my pants. When I said "NO", he announced, "well, you are on your own, then!"
Seriously?
I told him not to let the door hit him in the ass when he made his exit.
What a fucking dick, right?
He couldn't find a girlfriend in Ohio, so he dragged my dog and I across the country to get laid!
*NOT!*
Again, I refused to believe I was fucked . Eventually, I found an apartment, and a job where I made tons of money at a fancy place in the Warehouse district.
One thing about Cleveland is there are the have nothings and have lots.
There really is no in-between.
Fortunately, with my skills, I was able to land a job at a place that only catered to the have lots. I made Vegas money there, but I was living in an empty apartment in a city I'd never been to, without a car and not a soul to count on. I started drinking again, which eventually led me to crack, and it was all downhill from there.
It's expensive to drink in Ohio. I'd make my money at the restaurant, then spend it all at the bar across the street. I was angry before.
Now I was 100% full of seething RAGE.
My neighbor introduced me to a friend of hers and we started dating, until my out of control fits of rage, fueled by tequila pissed him off. We still went out, but he would avoid me for days because he said my situation was just too painful for him.
I met another neighbor who was a decent guy with a crack habit, too, so I found someone else to buy my drugs pretty quickly.
By this time, I was over sleeping with people to get what I needed. I'd just party with men until they grew bored with waiting. I was getting good at the game.
My manager at the restaurant had a crush on me. He began abusing his power when he found out I was dating other people. He would change my schedule at the last minute, make me work endless doubles, and do whatever possible to make my job a living hell.
My anger fueled the fire and my career at that restaurant ended when I made him so furious one night that he drug me by the arm to an outside eating area and shook his fist in my face. I was scared he was going to hit me, and pulled myself away.
When I told the owner what happened, he said we'd talk about it after my shift, but left long before I was finished. The manager let me go, saying "it wasn't working out." I spent a few more weeks partying on coke and tequila, until I woke from a blackout in the middle of the train tracks with some homeless guy I guess I'd been getting high with.
I had all of my clothes on, but he was jerking off in front of me. I felt suicidal after this because I had no idea what happened that night and I knew I was in big trouble.
I tried going back to AA again, but it wasn't going to work.
After several weeks of hysterically crying on the phone to the guy I was dating, he finally asked me if I have a family and encouraged me to call them. My Mom had no choice but to cut me out of her life after I had fucked her over one too many times with my selfish, irrational behavior (wake up, Rach!).
Reluctantly, I called my little brother in Ocean Beach and begged him to let me come to live with him because I was about to be homeless. I knew if I did not get help soon, I was going to die on the streets.
With the approval of his wife, my brother said that I could come stay with them, temporarily, until I figured out a way to fix my life.
Twenty eight days after I landed in Cleveland, I was on another plane, headed to San Diego to begin another match in the pinball machine that was my life.
Twenty eight days of hell, prior to another run with the LIVING DEATH, that is life in A.A.
That's What's UP!
Live Like You Mean It!
XXX
Go-Go Rach
