Humanity Underneath it All

Thank you to Neil Strauss for writing "The Truth" and inspiring me to write this true story.

Friday afternoon, Las Vegas was waking from its afternoon nap, prepping and bolstering for a night of shenanigans. Britney Spears was singing, the penny slots were chirping, gamblers were ripe for ego-filled wins met with casino locals and their dastardly deeds. Wails, cheers, and applause wafted from blackjack to poker to craps as drunk bachelor parties swayed to the motion of hot cocktail waitresses, beckoning for drinks and quick chats in trade with dog-like glances.

Away from impetuous greed and the “yolo” mindset, I found a small nook where I could sit by myself in peace. I swiveled in my stool to get a grip on where I was but all I could feel was the cigarette in my hand and pressure between my eyes. Here I was, at the end of a bar, manhattan in hand, finishing up my camel and puffing away at my thoughts in pure stoic, retrospect.

It must be a sign, I thought, as my mind kept spinning out of control.

I’m embarrassed but I don’t… I don’t know where to go. How did I end up in Vegas? I don’t care. This fucking sucks. I need my brother - he won’t answer my calls. People are fucking fake, why can’t they be like… I don’t know… I just don’t know anymore… why…

“Another manhattan?” asked the sweet bartender. His perky bow-tie matched his welcoming smile.

“Yes, please.” I returned his cheer politely. Anything to get me out of my head…

Assent with a desire for human connection, I took out another cigarette and pulled strongly. Avoiding eye-contact at first, I stared at the bar-top, took a pause and asked him with curiosity and reverence…

“So, I heard if you look like me, you can make three figures as a cocktail waitress out here.” Struck with awe, he gave me a strong glance and then the words began to flood out of his mouth like water from a broken dam.

“Well, yeah! Girls like you can make a good 90k as a cocktail waitress. As a regular waitress you can make about 150k. Not saying you are anything from regular. Ha ha...”

I laughed. “Interesting.”

Never in my lifetime did I think I’d be in a place like this. In fact, I always thought that I was normal, that I was lucky to be born in the United States, that I had no use or time for the party scene, that maybe I was just old for my age, that I was the observer of other people’s problems, not that I had any problems worth mentioning.

Swelling with a lack of hope, I peered into the bleak possibility of my future at the bottom of my glass and sank into my stool.

“As a bartender for the hotel, I make close to 100k plus full benefits.” He went on while mixing my drink.

“How long have you been here?” I commended curiously.

“About 15 years. Never thought I would stay here, but the city treats me well.”

His eyes started to dim with melancholy as memories popped into his head. Quick to stop him from his nightmares, I jumped into his thoughts.

“That’s awesome.”

His tight lip-line softened, “Yeah, it really is something.”

With a warm smile, I gave him a high-five out of my tipsiness.

“Can I get a high-five too?” Interrupted a boisterous voice with a southern drawl.

I looked to my left and a loud wiley man sporting a gray mustache approached the bar with a woman in her mid-forties. I looked at the bartender with an annoyed gaze and riled up some drunken enthusiasm.

“Sure!” Hick-up. “Why not?”

I threw out my arm sloppily to allow for his high-five. Mind you, I was on manhattan number 3 and ready to empty my pocket for number 4.

Nothing is flirtatious about a high-five. If anything, it’s a motion to make things as platonic as possible. It’s something you do as a coach to five-year-olds.

“Babe,” interrupted the woman. “I wanna go play slots. Can I get some cash?”

“Fine.” The man lost his fun. He whipped out some bills and handed them to her. Then he dismissed her with a sour face. “Let me get a drink and I’ll join you.”

After she left, I could sense his eyes on me and I felt my stomach harden. At times like this, I’m already on guard waiting for the pick-up line.

Dismissing his attention, I took a strong sip of my drink and put out my cigarette in the perfectly accessible plastic tray placed in front of me, squaring my shoulders at the bartender and away from mustache-man. In my head, I envisioned an invisible wall between us and braced myself for whatever he was going to throw at me.

“Hey...” he whispered. I turned with a sloppy swerve. Welp, there goes my barrier.

He kept his voice low and ducked his head to keep our conversation private amongst the mid-day party seen. “I have to ask... Are you a hooker?”

Wait...huh?

Now, most people would get angry right? Who in the world would be so rude to ask such a bold question?

When you are the youngest sister in a family of Filipino immigrants and you’ve worked on shows like SNL, Nightly News, and E!’s Fashion Police as an NBC Page or as a Hollywood Assistant, you really don’t know how to take offense to anything anymore. Instead, when something doesn’t make sense, I’m trained to stay calm, take a step back, and make sense of the situation... even if I’m drunk.

I paused and looked down at my outfit… I could not hate the guy!

While coddling myself in hopelessness, I had no idea how much attention I was getting! Check this out - I dressed for a pool party, using the clothes my cousin gave me as a gift from her Caribbean cruise, wearing a skin-tight tankini top with a flaming, hot pink and orange swimwear cover.

I took another second to acknowledge where I placed myself - I was sitting at this elevated bar where I was basically on a stage. I was so focused on my drink and completely engrossed in my sullen bubble that I didn’t notice people gawking at me with my back turned to the rest of the Bellagio. I might as well have had a giant blinking arrow pointed at me scribed with “Exotic Dancer”. It did not help that I had this very warm tan from the Nevada sun in March. If you really think about it, I looked like the classic Asian prostitute most men tell tales about in the city of sin, propped at an open location, seeking her hungry, rich clients to -

“I am not, sir,” I met his question with rosy cheeks and a laugh. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

“Whoa, you’re smart.” His drunken posture changed. “You remind me of my daughters!”

My mouth dropped. Of all the things to say, I did not expect that one. He leaned in closer with the pleasant aroma of whiskey and beer. Opening to the plastic sleeves of his wallet, his tone flipped from “creepy man” to “proud father” as he described his three girls to me.

“This one is my oldest, she’s a nurse.” He flipped the page to the second picture. “This one’s my youngest. She’s doing good, has a boyfriend that treats her nicely, I guess. She lives close by us, kinda near Kansas City. And this one… this is… this is my second daughter.”

Weird. Who describes their daughters out of age order?

“She’s dead.”

Like a switch, his upright excitement lost power. I focused in and for a brief moment, my faculty sharpened. I could hear the clacking and chiming from machines in the background. I could clearly notice the chatter from each individual at the bar. I could feel the alcohol burning through my cheeks and I could feel the pain in this man’s face. A wave of sympathy washed over me as he fully exhaled and I dared to take a breath.

“My apologies, sir. If you don’t mind me asking, how did it happen?”

“We don’t know.” His eyes started to well.

Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was me connecting to my own abyss but I felt this bellowing pain under my chest rising and before I knew it…

“I’m so sorry... I remember watching my parents after they lost a daughter and I-I can’t imagine how you feel. My deepest condolences.”

All of a sudden, both of us burst out crying at this bar. I took a quick glance at the bartender, his face had “what-the-fuck” riddled all over it. Strangely, it didn’t matter. In our drunken miasma, this mid-west, middle-aged man and I let out all our tears on something that we had been waiting to cry about for years.

After we wiped our sadness away and pulled ourselves together, we both took a breath and looked at each other again. He didn’t look like a threat anymore, all he looked like was a man; an old man with life experience. Not sure if he saw me as a potential hooker anymore, but I knew his vision of me had changed. After one hell of an icebreaker, I finally felt like I wasn’t being poached and we were just two humans sharing time over a drink in the same world.

“What the hell are you doing here alone at a bar?” he asked.

“My friends are at the buffet over there.” I gestured towards an ostentatious opening with a daunting archway. “I really didn’t feel like paying 70 bucks when I know I’m not going to eat that much.”

“That’s one way to fill you up. Must be good food...”

I spewed, “ I can’t spend that! I just got let go from a job. All because I wouldn’t sleep with my boss. The girl willing to was right there - Right at my heels and is about to start working on Monday.”

The man said nothing as I shrunk. He looked at me as his eyebrows started to furrow. “Look you’re smart and you are beautiful. That’s intimidating but something else must’ve happened.”

“Well, you’re right I am smart.” I sighed in relief. Finally someone on the west coast who sees it! I’m really tired of hiding this. “I created their staffing database without a tech background, while being able to do my job and do the job of everyone around me. They thought it would take me a year to create it. It took me…maybe a month? I don’t get why it was so mind-boggling. I just, you know, asked questions...”

“See and there it is. How old are you?”

“I’m 23, I know I’m young…”

“No wonder! Look little lady, you are threatening. You are young, beautiful, intelligent… where did you say you worked?”

“I worked at a TV studio in Los Angeles. I guess Hollywood terrors are real.”

“Look, stop taking these small-time jobs. They’re not going to see you as a good thing no matter how much you try to tell’em and it’s not because it’s your fault. You said you can do all their jobs - good for you to know not for them to see. Nobody likes to know that you can take their job.”

“I, uh…” For once, I let go and I nodded. Finally! Advice that makes sense!

“I’m guessing you worked in places like this before.”

He nodded.

OMG - someone who’s been here!

“Thank goodness! Any advice you can give me? My parents don’t really get what I’m doing and just want me to go back home to New Jersey. My siblings basically told me to give up and get out of the environment - they definitely don’t get it. I can’t really trust anyone in LA because it seems like there’s always some type of ulterior, selfish motive. Except for like, one friend…”

“I’m going to tell you something, kid.”

I paused then my cheeks went red.What the fuck!

“You just said I’m smart, can you maybe talk to me like an adult? I can’t really see you as a good thing coming from a guy who calls me ‘kid’.”

“We’re all kids young lady. The best of us stay that way and keep a good heart.”

I think I heard something like this from some cheesy line in the “Mighty Ducks” but whatever - I’ll take advice from a guy who recognizes I’m intelligent instead of a slab of meat.

He gave me a hard look and pointed right at my face. “This is my advice for you. Take a good look in the mirror and believe there are good people out there. You have to. You gotta believe it or…”

His voice faded with the return of his woman. We never exchanged names or contact information. Instead mustache-man recommended reading a book called “As a man Thinketh” and left me at the bar with a best of luck and an uncommon yet familial goodbye.