2017-10-24T18:39:00.003-07:00

Chapter 1

Welcome To Fabulous Las Vegas

The young lady at cashier counter is another employee Troy did not introduce me

to on our walk through the store after conversation with Chad at Mr. Vegas fashion boutique where I’m applying for sales position. She avoids eye contact listening to me talk in foreground of setting alive with sound of radio as background audio.

“He’s here,” she announces picking up telephone after listening to last word of my introduction.

I’m lucky Earth Child is not doing the hiring. If she is less impressed with me only conscience stops her from showing it. On island of space next to cashier counter, I wait for job interview while she looks past me looking over--around--behind--and above me--committed to ignoring my presence.

“David?” Mr. V walks out from back office of store.

He extends hand in greeting--hand met by mine in reciprocal grip.

“Yes. I’m here for interview.”

“I’m Rob. Come with me.

“I’ve talked to Troy and Chad about you. So how long have you been in Las Vegas,” as he speaks I listen while sizing him up. Family resemblance suggests Rob and Chad Johnson are brothers from Caucasian mix of ethnicity as American male (same pride in maleness evident). Rob about 6-feet tall--younger brother Chad maybe two inches taller. Both are representative of 50’s age with Rob the oldest version of Johnson brothers.

Mr. V is wearing open collar Polo dress shirt with slacks. A gold bracelet not watch and diamond nugget ring on left pinky are jewelry worn. Face is distinguished by eyeglasses in Wayfarer Polaroid frame. His head of hair is too curly brown for natural--most likely salon styled look. Mr. V is more studious in appearance and demeanor than casino culture stereotype of Las Vegas male.

We talk mostly about Downtown--gambling in Las Vegas--his fondness for betting the horse--until sudden shift in conversation is signaled by inquisitive question. “Air Force guy?

“What made you join?”

“To get away from home.”

“Good reason. It’s why I left New York.”

“Talked to recruiter Career Day as Junior. Passed Air Force entrance examine that year.”

“Why the Air Force?”

“A friend of mine from street I grew-up on--three years older joined--both him and his best friend. Wanted to be like them. No one in my circle had a clue about the times.”

“The war had nothing to do with it?”

“It did and didn’t. Didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life other than be a man. Had always heard old folks say, join the Army--Army make a man out of you. And I didn’t want to get drafted--high school to the jungle--had seen it happen.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“With two years of R.O.T.C.--you’re watching yourself turn 18 to get drafted.”

“Did joining the Air Force make you a man?” asked Mr. V, leaning back in chair raising feet to rest on desktop.

“I’m still trying to be one. The Big Airman in the sky made me appreciate what it means to be American--not just a transplanted Southerner.”

“I didn’t join the service--didn’t get drafted. Am I less American? Stand a chance of being a man?” he questions.

“My father didn’t either. He’s a man in my eyes.”

“How did the Air Force workout for you?” Mr. V pushes chair back away from desk--

lower his legs from desktop to floor.

“I was crew chief for F-4 Phantom as First Termer--Staff Sergeant Taylor--the pretty pig was my baby,” momentary pause overcomes me. “Military bearing--job competence--that’s the Airman. Soldier psyche is not instilled--patriotism is.”

“Were you stationed at Nellis?”

“No. My last duty station was Luke AFB Arizona.”

I’m facing him seated on other side of desk--dressed for occasion in jeans, Eagles T-shirt with leather vest--bare feet in deck shoes--two hours into celebrating birthday drinking at the Horseshoe before following Troy back to work to apply for job.

“Why did you move to Las Vegas?” interview continues.

“Air Force Homie left Phoenix to move here. He’s a crap dealer--told me he likes it. I came to check-it-out.”

Looking at my application on desk Mr. V chuckles at comment. “The spirit of youth,” he says with smile as if thinking out loud.

“Where do you know Troy from?”

“We met hanging-out Downtown.”

“Here at Mr. Vegas you won’t be working with tools. What makes you think you can make a living selling clothes? Have to handle people.”

“To stay in Las Vegas I need a job. I want to come in from the flightline--the mechanic. This is my chance to do something else. Troy does alright selling clothes. In high school I worked part-time at clothing store on Beale Street in downtown Memphis. ”

“Troy is Big Book here--has been for the last three years. Has a decent life with what he makes at Mr. Vegas. His own place--drives a nice car. Sharp dresser--money in his pocket. Crap dealers on The Strip can do $500 and up on weekends in tips. But you need juice to get out there. “Yeah. Homie works Downtown at Union Plaza.”

“Plaza is step up from break-in house. To get there with year of experience--he must be sharp. Tips go $50 up week days. Weekend $100 plus.”

“Casino work doesn’t appeal to me. Too much like military. Being a dealer is not my gig.”

“Are you done moving around? What do you think of Las Vegas?”

“Haven’t thought about leaving. More about making-it to stay. Get my own apartment.” I tell him holding eye contact with Mr. V from my side of desk

“Enough of that. You’re a smart guy. You’ll make-it. We’ll talk more later,” he opens desk drawer--drops application inside--closes it.

“Are you a basketball fan, David?”

“Big time. Jocks are celebrities to me--high school--college--pro--big sports fan.”

“Chad and I are Rebel Boosters. Players came around a lot more when Sweet Pea was at

American Princess Meets Homeboy

2017-09-27T06:29:00.000-07:00

Chapter 2: American Princess Meets Homeboy

Transition To Mainstream

jRosser

Back from lunch spent in Keno Parlor at El Cortez casino my third day at Mr. Vegas, after sorting dress shirts, I move on past merchandise along the wall checking arrangement on my way to cashier counter where Boss Daughter is standing out front in observation post. She still hasn’t spoken to me or in any way acknowledged my presence in the store.

“So do you think I’ll commission my first week?” I ask without introduction.

“Some have,” she answers--unflinching straight ahead focus on boutique and customer activity.

“Depends,” she tells me.

“On what?”

“Just depends.

“Summer or winter--makes a difference--tourist town.”

Nodding head as reaction to her store related comment, I say to Boss Daughter, “So what do you do away from work?”

She pauses before responding--making eye contact.

“Ex-cuse me--I’m never away from work.

“Thanks for the concern though.”

“No problem,” I’m laughing inside at her dismissing my playful probing.

“Don’t just stand around waiting to take orders from customers,” she continues, “Look busy--arranging merchandise keeps you close to customer. Notice what they’re looking at--show something similar or totally different--you’re taking control without them realizing it.”

“You’re good.”

“It’s the job,” she tells me.

“So are you--aren’t you?”

Boss Daughter blinks without answer.

“You have two days off. Take two--or work six--that extra day makes a big difference in weekly count.”

“Do you work six days?”

“I do what job requires. That’s a good starting point for you,” she answers question with less business more femininity in tone.

“So do you pamper your toes with pedicure--the way you do your hands--sexy hands--can’t help noticing.”

She looks at me with raised brow--without comment

“You do realize this conversation is about the job--and not me--right?”

“I do.”

Boss Daughter reflective gaze follows my 2-word response--without reply.

“Just curious. When being ignored by you--is there a safe distance to keep between us?”

“Maybe. Maybe not at all,” she says, guarding grin.

“Cool. I take orders from you--right?”

“……..lets just say--you do. Do you have a problem with that?” she answers question with question.

“No. Not unless you plan on being mean and impossible to impress.”

She looks directly at me--marble eyes blinking green without verbal response.

“My problem is anyone other than you.

“Telling me what to do.”

Captive eyes have been on me for last five minutes of conversation--same eyes ignoring me since interview encounter two days ago. “You work for yourself here.” I’m told. “And by the way, I don’t plan on being one or the other, David,” she says on verge of smiling.

“Well Hope. I’m looking forward to us working together.”

“Same here. And yes--I’ll be working six days,” she tells me. The day ends with us talking back and forth between customers.

There are six full-time people on the floor at Mr. Vegas. One of them is salesman from Los Angeles named Mike who plays in local 20-something rock band. As good looking longhair guys go, his is top of shoulder in length--kind of conservative. Cali Mike is my connection to rock music--so we talk bands a lot. We were never introduced either. First time the two of us met in store there was mutual head nod without words as acknowledgement of each other. The next day Mike introduced himself. Troy informed me he is one of the top producers as salesman at Mr. Vegas. Troy is not friendly with Mike. Military service conditioned me to notice commonality more than difference in people. Troy’s us against them mentality as defensive pride is lost on me.

Millennium Muse

American Princess Meets Homeboy