PARKING GARAGE

It’s hot. Refreshing after three months in the cold rain. But the tears streaming down my face are making my already damp skin even stickier than it needs to be. It’s only been a few days, but the culmination of everything has finally hit me, and I just happen to be in the parking garage at this pivotal moment. There’s no way I can walk through the Rio, a Las Vegas staple since 1990, with these red, puffy eyes. Against my better judgment, sunglasses inside it is.

The beautiful thing about Las Vegas is that I can do this, and no one will bat an eye. Really, I could walk through the casino floor crying and no one would care. Honestly, I could probably walk through the Rio—crying, in my underwear, with a parrot on my shoulder—and no one would even look up from those slot machines. This is why it’s so hard to quit this place.

1 HOUR EARLIER

I’m carrying three cans of beans. They’re for my ex-boyfriend and his date tonight. That’s right—a can of kidney beans, black beans, and pinto beans, just for the girl going out with my ex-boyfriend. I’ve been gone for three months, and I come home to do this, help this man with his grocery shopping. I think he calls it cowboy dip. He’s made it for me before, just before the exact same date he’s taking her on tonight. I’m only slightly humiliated.

But do I repeatedly tell myself I’m the bigger person? Of course. Do I constantly remind myself of the same night, the same date, where he got mad, started screaming in his truck, and I sat there silently because I was too scared to say anything, thinking it would only make him angrier? Absolutely. I wonder if there was another girl that night who carried the beans for him, too.

I hate to spoil it for you, but he’s the reason I left Las Vegas.

24 HOURS EARLIER

My leg is being pummeled with incredibly uncomfortable needles. I’m sitting through a four-and-a-half-hour tattoo, and I’m trying to be a big girl, but it’s tough. I knew it was going to hurt, but… My God. My artist is trying to talk me through the pain. She’s genuinely interested in this little circus life of mine and has a lot of questions that I don’t mind answering. Some answers are fun:

“Yes, meals are provided for us. The sous chefs travel, too!”

“It’s such a cultural hodgepodge. We represent 35 different countries!”

Some answers are not fun:

“Oh, I gave up my apartment. I’m never home. All my shit is in storage.”

“Yes, it’s always weird coming back.”

I say that last one as lightheartedly as possible, but it’s hard. It is weird coming back. Everything changes. I have no safe space to call my own, so I have to depend on the mercy of others. Which, as it turns out, aren’t exactly thrilled to host me. Who can blame them? Who wants a freeloader hanging around, complaining about existential issues like not having a home while living an extravagant lifestyle on the road? At the very least, they’d want to hang out, right? I mean, I already had one plan canceled as I sat there in physical pain during this tattoo session—might as well add a little emotional pain into the mix, too.

2 DAYS EARLIER

I’m already 20 minutes deep into this line at check-in, and we’ve barely moved. How many times did I walk past these check-in lines and think, “Poor souls, wasting away to check into a second-rate Las Vegas hotel. Pathetic.” And here I am. Wasting away at the Rio, as the sound of buzzing slot machines and cigarette smoke swirls around me.

“Did you drive in?”

The guy behind me is now bored and needs to pass the time.

“Yes. Well, sort of. I drove my car here,” I reply.

I drove my car here? I know you’ve been alone all week, but girl, what kind of response is that?

“Erm, well, did you park in self-park?”

“Yes, well, I’m a local,” I boast. “It’s all I know.”

“If you’re a local, why are you checking in at the Rio?”

I start to explain, but I think he lost interest almost immediately. I always say I’m from Las Vegas, but I’m not. I wasn’t born in the hazy desert, nor did I grow up surrounded by glittering casinos. But what else am I supposed to say? It’s the only home I feel like I have, yet I have no home in my home. I’m a fraud.

3 DAYS EARLIER

I’m sitting in Yreka, California with a busted tired, half-way to Reno. I arrive in Vegas tomorrow, where the fuck am I going to stay? What’s the cheapest hotel I can find?

1 WEEK EARLIER

I reluctantly pack my bags. Work ended yesterday, but I’m not exactly thrilled about a seven-week vacation, much like everyone else. I really want to go home to Vegas, but I also, you know, don’t. I don’t want to face the changes that have inevitably happened—the favorite spots that have closed, the new places I don’t know anything about. I don’t want to face the friendships that have shifted since my departure, probably never returning to what they once were. I don’t want to fall back into the same shitty patterns, which I always do. But I’m also looking at not returning until next year—a whole year without the glitz and glamour, the shows, the crazy people-watching, the endless rays of sunshine. I feel like I’ve lost every aspect of home, but I don’t want to lose Vegas, too.

10 MINUTES AFTER THE PARKING GARAGE INCIDENT

I remove my sunglasses once I get to the empty, mirrored elevator and realize my eyes weren’t really all that bad—but the mascara had run all the way down to my chin. So, I suppose the sunglasses did nothing, but no one seemed to care. I return to my room and plop down by the window, fresh tears gathering in my eyes. I have an amazing view of the shipping and receiving dock, but beyond that are the northside mountains, now starting to turn a pinkish hue from the setting sun. They’re the same mountains I passed through when I left Vegas the last time, driving to Seattle. I have a memory of crying then, too (seems to be a great strength of mine). And in this moment, I’m reminded that there’s no other place I’d rather come home to—shitty men with their beans and all.