Running through the Las Vegas airport with my boarding pass flapping in one hand and my backpack bouncing in the crook of my elbow, I realized that my shoes were untied. I switched from full sprint to fast walk, halting the streak of neon lights from the slot machines. Taking in the cherries and crowns, I almost forgot that thirty minutes earlier I was trapped underneath Ron. Pausing to tie my shoes and put my hair in a ponytail, I continued to my gate and boarded the plane.
After fidgeting in my seat, the man next to me said, “First flight, huh? Well, don’t be nervous.” He was older, broad-shouldered with a crew cut. “I’m not,” I responded, “and this is my fourth flight.” It sounded smaller than intended. My last flight was to visit my family back east for the holidays. The memory of my father picking me up at the airport was enough to make me cry when two police officers boarded the plane. As they spoke to the flight attendant, my body sank, its core dissolving into the cushion. “This extra security is because of those Iraqis and their war,” my seatmate declared. Nodding, I watched the police head back to the jetway then fished through my bag for my journal and pen.
February 20, 1991, Vegas to San Diego
Fuck.
You’re probably wondering if this story has a happy ending, which depends on your idea of happy. So, let me back up…
In 1990, shortly after my 20th birthday, I moved to California from New Hampshire, attempting to fulfill the dream I’d recorded in my diary when I was eight:
Become a movie star. (I’m still big on journaling.)
My father’s response to my move was a callous warning, “Only psychos and homos live in California! You’ll be back.”
Our family were typical stoic New Englanders, what we called ‘blue collar’ then. Work hard, marry high school sweetheart, have children, repeat. When considering college, my parents playfully jabbed, “Well, who do you think you are?” Paying for this education on my own led to an eight-year, part-time, multiple-college journey. Everything I did in the years following my move was probably to prove to my family, and myself, that I hadn’t made the biggest mistake of my life.
Shortly before my move, I had visited my (on and off) boyfriend Julian while he attended college in San Diego. He wrote poetry, sang songs and caused me near-constant heartache with his existential quandaries. Julian believed he was smarter than everyone else, criticizing others for not being able to keep up with him. Of course, I found this fascinating. My dad said Julian gave me the ‘worst kind’ of attention. I remember wanting to be less… ordinary, and to feel everything with him. So, I held out hope that my move to California would cement our relationship once and for all.
In my absence, however, Julian had fallen in love with a mousy girl named Gina from Colorado. I would see him in our Ocean Beach neighborhood, surrounded by his mini commune of psychedelic loving hippies. We bumped into each other at The Black, our local head shop where they sold bongs, Jimi Hendrix posters, and Coppertone. Or at People’s Co-op – me shoveling rice into a plastic bag from a bulk container while he effortlessly juggled apples in the check-out line. In my loneliness, I wondered who he was with and what he was doing.
My living situation didn’t help matters as I shared a room with the two children I nannied while looking for something more permanent. Yet, even then, I often thrilled at how lucky I was. I had never considered what it meant to have my own agency, to fulfill my desires for no other reason than because I wanted. I wasn’t ready to leave California, but I needed to make new friends if I was going to stay. So, I began waiting tables at the downtown Marriott and enrolled in classes at City College.
The hotel catered mostly to business travelers, and the on-site restaurant resembled an upscale diner. My co-workers were mostly students and surfers, and quick to screw around. Our manager Joe was a recent graduate of a Hospitality program. The bartender Mike was tall and handsome, with a Magnum P.I. mustache. He was an exceptional flirt and hooked up with most of the female staff in the walk-in refrigerator, me included.
“It looks like you’re low on lemon slices,” I’d say, and he’d follow me toward the waiting chill of the fridge.
The back-of-house had its own ecosystem, where there was both order – where to find napkins, where to stack dishes – and bedlam.
“Jamie where is my cheeseburger order for table 12?!” someone would bark at our chef to which he’d reply, “It’s Jaime, and Joe took your cheeseburger out two minutes ago!” The prep cook would slide over a piece of extra cheesecake, and I’d steal bites while wiping down the countertops. Mike would make us cocktails that we’d hide next to the toaster, taking a sip when we put toast in, another when we removed it. I often worked with Emily, a student with long blond hair, a midwestern accent, and a boyfriend who died of a brain aneurysm while she slept right next to him. She needed drinks more than the rest of us. Devon was a closeted gay Filipino guy who let me borrow his VW Golf and joked about us having sex. John had curly hair, a booming voice, and told filthy jokes. He was an ex-college football player who came to San Diego from Texas to find a wife. Unfortunately, his cocaine habit kept him from finding anything.
To avoid a run-in with Joe, we were swift with our drinks and snacks, yet he found reasons to write me up.
“Christine, unroll your sleeves. Button your shirt all the way up, and where is your tie?”
I reveled in annoying Joe. If I got fired because of my stringy hair or unkept uniform, that was my choice. This power, no matter how small, felt new.
One of our crew was Ron Higgins, a blond, blue-eyed guy who wore loafers and Izod shirts when not in uniform. While we were working-class, Ron was classy. He had gone to Exeter and was studying Political Science at UCSD. I didn’t find him physically attractive. His skin was oily, he had a short torso and a perpetual, mild sweat under his pits. Stiff hair gel left a field of spikes on his head. His voice cracked when he got excited. Yet, Ron was sure of himself. He sauntered when he walked, like someone who never worried about his car being towed or bouncing a check. He loved talking politics and was voting for Bush in the upcoming election. Sharp, funny, and seemingly with no expectations of me, Ron had me feeling smarter by proximity.
After work, the crew would occasionally drive down to Mexico where the under 21s could drink legally at the clubs. One night, John was caught snorting coke in a bathroom by Federales who demanded our cash in lieu of a Tijuana jail cell.
“They’re not even real police officers,” Ron said. “I gave them $50, but we should take off. This place is lame.” We thanked Ron for bailing us out, which he pretended not to enjoy.
In the taxi back to the border, Ron suggested going to Vegas the following weekend. It was ‘classier’ than Tijuana, had free drinks, no I.D. checks, all-you-can-eat buffets and only a five-hour drive away. My Vegas reference was my dad’s love for the Rat Pack, and the Ocean’s Eleven movie. Ron assured me we could get a deal at a new hotel, sharing a room with twin beds, so I said yes.
Our drive on historic Route 66 was thrilling. I hadn’t yet understood the freedom and terror that being alone in the middle of nowhere can bring. The endless desolate roads, and the brutal dry breeze of the desert left me unsettled. Looking through Ron’s CDs, I found mostly old country music and popped in Patsy Cline.
“My mother loves this song!” I said, when “Walkin’ After Midnight” came on.
“Did you know that it went to another singer first and she turned it down? Bet she regretted that move,” Ron said.
“Patsy Cline didn’t write her own songs?” I asked.
“She co-wrote some but it’s more common for writers to write and singers to sing.” Then he said, “Plus, you know, she was a woman and all.” He winked but I couldn’t tell if he was joking. Sarcasm was my family’s love language, but this was different. I felt a wave in my stomach and assumed I was carsick.
The Excalibur, a new massive castle on the strip, had blue and orange turrets lit up, welcoming us to the the largest hotel in the world. Inside the lobby were men in herald’s costumes holding trumpets and a woman in a golden gown playing the harp.
We checked in, dropped our luggage in the room and went gambling. I stuck to the slot machines, lulled by the repetitive nature and consistent outcome. After a few wasted dollars, I watched Ron play poker. He coolly surveilled the scene while taking sips of whisky from a plastic cup. I could never be that relaxed in the face of losing my money. He kept winning, though and said we should celebrate by skipping the free buffet and going out to dinner. I was feeling the Vegas high, but I still had no romantic feelings for Ron, only friendship. He paid attention to me, and that’s all I needed back then. Acknowledgement, the lowest of bars.
Back in the room, I pulled out the dress I’d brought. It was spaghetti strapped, dark floral, hung at my mid-thigh, and flounced as I walked. I’d been a tomboy as a child, yet at 20, I began exploring my femininity. Holding the dress out by its straps to admire it, I turned around to find Ron standing in front of me, close enough that I could feel his damp breath on my face. Giggling awkwardly, I pushed him away, but he didn’t move. A thud of adrenaline hit my stomach as I turned to lay the dress on the bed. I felt him inch closer so I stood still and held my breath. If I didn’t react, he would know that I didn’t want this. From behind, he put his hands on my breasts. I spun around to get free, but he grabbed my forearms and threw me on the bed.
“Ron, stop. Let me go!”
He was smiling. I remember that he didn’t stop smiling the entire time.
“What are you doing?!”
His grip on my wrists did not loosen. I wrestled to free myself. Every sensation was heightened: the breeze from the air conditioner on my arms; the rough texture of his jeans on my skin. His full body weight. How could someone be so heavy? I continued to struggle while he continued to crush me, jamming one of his legs between my knees so he had leverage to force my legs open.
“This what you wanted,” he panted into my ear. “You’ve been waiting for it.”
I should have known what it meant, taking this trip, sharing a room. I thought of my father – both wishing he could protect me but also wondering if he’d be ashamed. The afternoon sunlight crept in through the blinds and made a chain of stripes along the wall. Ron was hard against my thigh, his oily face buried in my neck, one hand grabbing my wrists above my head, the other pulling down my shorts. My heart was beating in my throat and behind my eyes. I screamed but no sound escaped. Maybe I deserved this.
I didn’t know how to stop the momentum of where this was headed but some instinct made me butthead him – hard – and he came up for air. I looked at his face, both of us breathless – him from arousal, me from fear. Gritting my teeth together, I smiled. Leaning into this impulse, I laughed out loud, a force rising from my gut. It caught him off guard and he loosened his grip long enough for me to roll off the bed. Laughing maniacally then, I keeled over into a fetal position, holding both arms around my knees. Then he started laughing too.
“You’re so weird,” he said, standing up. “I’m going to take a shower, then let’s order room service.” He stripped off his clothes as he walked to the bathroom, while I stayed in a ball on the floor.
As soon as he turned on the shower, my self-preservation returned. Grabbing my backpack and shoes, I ran out the door, down the hallway and three flights of stairs, across the lobby to the bell station. I wasn’t crying but I thought somehow the bellman understood the look on my face. He escorted me outside, blew a whistle, and helped me into a taxi.
“Airport,” I said.
Upon arrival, I approached the first counter and asked how fast I could get to San Diego. There was a flight in 45 minutes, so I took out my wallet and gave the ticketing agent everything, including coins from the slot machines.
Hustling through security, I looked behind me, first paranoid, then relieved. Yet, as I was crossing the atrium, I heard my name shouted.
“Christine! Hey, Christine!”
I turned around to see Ron, outside of security, red faced and waving his arms. He continued to yell while I pretended not to know him. I picked up my pace and ran toward the gate, wondering if he was buying a ticket just because he could. Once the plane took off, I finally slowed my breath.
Once home, I quit the Marriott and started working at a beach café. I felt older after that night in Vegas, and needed to protect myself if I was going to survive in California. Emily later told me Ron boasted that I was his lucky charm. “What a shame she got food poisoning and had to leave,” the fucking liar said. I hated how casually he forgot something that kept a secure seat in the back of my mind. His delusion was almost enviable.
I wish I could say that I never saw Ron again.
A couple months later, Julian and I reconnected at a bonfire on the beach. He’d broken up with Gina and brought me love letters at work.
Sleeping and waking, I think of you. And sometimes it makes me so blue.
We quickly got back together. I had grown tired of sharing a room with children, so I moved into his apartment at the beach. Nothing had changed between us, but the predictability was reassuring.
Julian and his friends were now expanding their minds by ingesting only Mother Nature’s medicine vs tried-and-true LSD. One time, they bought psilocybin mushrooms for tea from a random acquaintance and Julian tried the first pot. Non-stop vomiting ensued so I brought him to the ER. The poisonous tea was causing his kidneys to fail. Things moved rapidly around us at first, then the wait was interminable. They hooked him up to an IV and a dialysis machine, while I waited for his parents to arrive from New Hampshire. He slept, which left me alone with my thoughts, anxious and confused. We were young. How could someone I knew be hospitalized, maybe even dying? I didn’t understand what it meant but I knew that I wanted out of that room. When his parents got there, I went home and started drinking. First beer, then gin. The apartment was small, and I became acutely aware of my loneliness. So, I pulled out my address book and called Ron.
Why can’t I remember what I was thinking before I dialed his number? Why, when I should have been at my boyfriend’s side while he fought for his life, did I want to be with someone who’d made me fight for my body? I felt insignificant as if I was disappearing, and I needed to remember that I existed. Maybe I wanted the worst kind of attention, like my dad said.
When Ron arrived, he was the same — relaxed and self-assured. He asked me why I hadn’t been in touch, but I put my hand over his mouth, emboldened by the gin.
“No,” I said. “Take off your clothes.”
He cocked his head to the side, let out a short snicker, and did as he was told. I felt something in my gut, but this time it didn’t scare me. I remember wanting to close the blinds, to stop the light of sunset from revealing us. Ron came in close and kissed my neck. I stopped him when he moved toward my mouth.
“No,” I said again.
There was a tingling inside my head as if I might pass out but instead, I took his hands and put them on my hips, squeezing them to grip me. I closed my eyes, the room swayed. When he kissed my stomach, I methodically pushed his head down. He paused, not looking up, his face an inch from my belly. I wonder how he felt in that moment, did he think he had a choice? He did as I instructed while I let myself feel desired, invincible in the haze of adrenaline and alcohol. I had power. I was going to make it in California. On my own terms, not as anyone’s victim. At least not today.
The phone rang, snapping me out of contemplation. The answering machine picked up and I heard the nurse’s voice say, “Julian is out of the woods and should return home tomorrow.”
I opened my eyes and watched the last bit of twilight make its way across the wall.
