I’m desperately asking her to let me have this job. It’s cold and rainy here in the suburbs of Seattle, but even through the pixelated haze of this Teams call, I can tell it’s sunny where she is. We’re discussing the needs of the Front of House team for a two week set up stint for Echo in California. She’s practically pleading with me to take the position because she needs the help, and I’m pleading with her to let me have it because I need the money.
It’s a very polite standoff.
I can’t possibly be off for seven weeks. I don’t want to be off for that long. I’ve never been in a situation where my workplace needs to be packed into storage containers and shipped to Asia. So, with nothing left to do until our shit gets to Hong Kong, here I am. The day before, a colleague assured me, “The world is your oyster! Go travel! You can go anywhere!!!” But I don’t share her enthusiasm. I don’t want oysters, I want somewhere to belong. I thought I’d need to play it cool in this interview, but it turns out, it’s not an interview at all, it’s just us begging each other.
It ends with, “We’ll see you in San Jose!”
***
I leave for San Jose tomorrow, but I wish I could pack everything up and leave tonight. How much would it cost to change my flight? I can pay for an extra hotel night, right? Anything to get me out of this town. During this solitary week, I’ve been contemplating just exactly why I am here. I just lost a friend, someone I thought I could trust, only to have them throw me aside without a second thought. Many other texts and phone calls from others go unanswered, and even though everything here is familiar and comfortable, I feel completely alone. I think I’m done trying to fit into a place I’ve been desperately trying to fit into. I want Las Vegas, but I don’t think she wants me back. What a volatile beast this city can be.
Who in the history of San Jose has ever wanted to get there this badly?
***
I crane my neck to see out the window of the plane. I recognize those rolling green hills from last year. Far below, I spot the swirl of a blue and white circus tent, and I smile.
***
It’s sunny, and the site is warm. It feels oddly recognizable from last year, but the faces are all different. The GEX team heads off to pick up their PPE, but already equipped with my steel toes and hardhat, I’m left alone. I can’t stay put, I start to wander through the swerving forklifts and men carrying giant pieces of canvas. I make a big loop, and even this show and kit are not mine, I feel like I know exactly where I am. I spot James from afar and skip over to wrap him in a giant bearhug, our hardhats clunking together. I’m not sure what the next two weeks will bring, but after the past week at home, I’m just so happy to be back here.
***
I have no idea what time it is, but I know I probably should’ve gone home a while ago. The beer in front of me is lukewarm at best, and I’m on my second bowl of Cheerios - nothing compared to James’ serving bowl of Lucky Charms laced with Cocoa Puffs. The festoons hanging above us provide a soft, warm haze, making this kitchen feel so familiar, like a giant metaphorical hug.
I throw my spoon down into my empty bowl. I’ve washed my hands so many times today, but dirt has sunk into the cracks, worn dry from lifting chairs (2,500 of them), pushing road cases, hopping in and out of semi-trucks. They’ve shaken a lot of other hands today, meeting the new faces on this tour, all of them so welcoming.
“THENKS YOU GUYSSS. THENKS TO KOOZA!”
I mean, it’s a drunken welcome, but that’s commonplace around here. I’m glad to know the Echo BBQ is just as debaucherous as back home. I was afraid I wouldn’t fit in, but I think it’s all working out just fine.
The marshmallows of the Lucky Charms are starting to turn a pale brown from the chocolate. “Fucking gross, James”, as I throw back the rest of my warm beer and get up to search for a string cheese.
***
“Here, we’re all just circus people, y’know?”
I’m sitting atop an empty ropack, an oversized road case blanket warming my bare legs. The Modelo in my hand is making it hard for me to remember why this Irishman is saying this to me, but I do know there’s a hint of disdain in his voice. He’s told us this is his last transfer, soon to be a regular civilian again. “Ohhh,” we sympathize, with a look of sad compassion towards him. Who would be this down about moving into a house they bought? And waking up in their own bed every day?
Circus people, that’s who.
I look around; there aren’t many of us left. The glow of the giant Big Top is casting a light shadow of the tired and unhinged who have decided to stay on site, going on 14 hours. What a bunch of lost, kooky souls. And how incredible it is that we all found our way to one another, here.
***
“Of course Ross would order the party Uber.”
This minivan is lined with flickering LED lights, flashing every which way. Our driver blissfully ignores our drunken chatter. Is it 2 a.m.? 3 a.m.? We’re the last stragglers from Premiere night; what was once a bustling 54 filled with cast and crew, is now just the four of us. My mind is refusing to leave, even though my body, tired and frail from the past 10 days, desperately needs sleep. I know my time here is coming to an end, but I don’t want it to.
I tear my eyes away from the sparkling ceiling of this minivan to look out at the dark lights of San Jose. Moments from the week keep popping up - seeing Ross for the first time, working with a bunch of strangers who would later turn into friends, James screaming my name from atop a state-of-the-art giant cube inside the Big Top, joyriding in forklifts, perfecting the art of the ratchet strap. All these small moments culminate in one giant realization: maybe Las Vegas isn’t home anymore - it’s here.
I hate the term “home.” I’ve spent the majority of my life searching for it - in Chicago, London, Nashville, Kansas City, Las Vegas - but I’ve never quite fit the mold that the word “home” creates for so many people. It’s a maddening concept I’ll probably chase for the rest of my life, but maybe I just need to change the terminology. What is home, really? A place to put your shit? Or a place where you’re comfortable, a place where you can be yourself? It’s a place where you’re happy. Whatever the word is, I know it’s here. Maybe not in this LED-charged party van (although I wouldn’t mind), but where there’s a circus tent and people who feel just as lost as I do, I am here.
***
“I love how life gives us what we need when we least expect it sometimes.”
I read this message with a sullen expression at the San Jose airport, my flight back to Las Vegas ready to board. I don’t think anyone has ever been this sad to leave San Jose. But this message from Ross rings through my head over and over. I arrived in California completely defeated. Over the past two weeks, I’ve experienced delirious laughter, new faces, and artists in white animal costumes spinning inside a giant cube. I also faced many goodbyes—saying goodbye to the followers (which sent me behind a trailer to cry), and to Fernanda, Ross, and Marie-Eve (which made me cry openly). I know these are temporary and I’ll see them all down the road at some point, such is the fickle nature of our profession.
I didn’t realize before this trip just how much I needed it. The money, sure, but more so I needed the people, the laughs, the indescribable feeling of belonging. I didn’t really know I was searching for it, but I’m happy I found it—
here.