American Skin

I got married.

Oh.

And

lost Tommy’s book of writing.

That’s where the booze took me.

Britney Spears preceeded me down the aisle a year before in the same church and it would last about the same length of time. She of course went global with the news, my impact was less resounding though equally stupid.

How it went.

Standing in my room at La Concha, I’d taken that long pull of vodka and consciously decided to ride the wind. Perhaps Tommy’s death, the bank heist, departing Ireland, betraying Siobhan with Sherry, gut shooting Juan, perhaps they were the cause or... I simply figured enough already... go for it.

Did I ever.

You take an anal-retentive, big on control, remove the brakes and stand way back, it ain’t going to be pretty.

It wasn’t.

Fuelled on that one drink, I hit the Strip like a banshee, wailing and wild. Circus Circus was advertising margaritas at a buck a throw, sounded good.

I sunk a line of them, those suckers, they slide on easy, each one whispering more. I answered the call. Played some blackjack and you need to focus, lost a bundle. The only game I really know, have played with intent, is poker. The Sands had a game going nonstop but I decided to leave it till I got straight, splurged money on roulette, shots, waitresses.

The Peppermill Diner, open 24/7, had waitresses with legs that don’t quit. Ever. You go in early morning, bleary eyed, guys with cowboy hats everywhere, and the waitress, before you say a word, asks,

“Bloody Mary?”

Christ, yes.

I thought it was just me. Looked round, the cowboys all got one, came with a mess of reen sticking out, like a mini Vietnam, the waitress named Donna, went,

“Lose the vegetation, right?”

I nodded, my head on fire.

Brought it back, sans garden, goes,

“Fix you right up.”

The future Mrs. Blake.

Got the drink down and miracle, felt healed, had me a full breakfast. A few more mornings, Donna and me were old friends. She had a face like a young Mary Tyler Moore, I’m a sucker for that, the mix of pain and vulnerability. Clearing away the debris of my breakfast, she said,

“I finish at noon.”

I didn’t know what day it was, had it been a week, a month in Las Vegas, worse, I didn’t care. I asked,

“Wanna hang out?”

Like what... at the mall?

Jesus, talk about lame.

She gave me a radiant smile, said,

“I love your accent.”

The booze said,

“I love you.”

I’d forgotten my resolve to work on my accent, had forgotten a whole heap of things, call Siobhan, the moment of shooting Juan, bedding Sherry, but no, not Tommy, his spirit was in every drink, every glass raised, I could see his smile.

1:30, I met her at the Venetian. She’d changed into a tight black top, faded jeans, Reeboks. Looked like gorgeous. We had a meal, as if we were in Italy, the whole of that country reproduced in the Venetian, even gondolas on a canal, I’m praying we didn’t go on one. What I most recall is she was from Dayton, Ohio, and she liked to gamble, well, she was with me, perhaps the biggest gamble. I was having the time of my life and in some casino, asked,

“Want to get married?”

Next thing, we’re in a limo, going for a licence, down the bad side of town. Gangbangers on the pavement, giving the dead eye. I was drunk enough to seem sober, you don’t get a licence if you display evidnce of intoxication.

Next day, we’re at the Little White Chapel and Elvis is marrying us. He looked more like George Bush but at least had the moves.

I woke up the next morning, hangover kicked in.

Mercilessly.

I looked round at an opulent room, clothes scattered everywhere, champagne bottles lined up along the wall.

Empty.

I crawled out of bed, got a peek at the hotel stationery... Excalibur... serious bucks. Heard a groan, saw I hadn’t been alone in the bed. My finger itched and I saw a gold band. Stared back at the bed.

My wife.

A song uncoiling in my head, like a snake of dementia. “Methamphetamine Blues,” by Mark Lanegan Band, gritty and noir.

Later, in Tucson, when so much blood had flowed, at reception in the Lazy 8, I’d be given a package. Opened it to find a CD by Patty Griffin and a note saying

    Because

          I

          Loved

                You

    Donna

Yeah.

Noir that.

That afternoon, in Tucson I’d a few Sam Adams, no vodka, not no more, I waited till I’d sank the third beer, played Patty Griffin.

Fuck.

Killer.

A track, highlit in gold, went to that first, the beers riding point, I could take it_; almost, titled, “Nobody’s Cryin’.” A line there, about when you wake in the morning, may the voice of anxiety become the voice of angels... fast-forwarded to a Bruce song, “Stolen Car,” figured that was safe.

Figured wrong.

Opening line... we got married and drifted apart. Ripped off the headphones, got out of there. In the motel corridor, I realised I was carrying the CD, let it drop to the floor, the carpet ensured it didn’t make as much as a murmur.

But Vegas, staring at Donna, her asleep, I near shouted,

“The fuck I’ve done?”

Stumbled through the day, Donna all lit up, and come evening, safe-ish side of some margaritas, I said,

“I want a divorce.”

Her face crumbling, I launched into a drunken rap about what a class act she was, great lady but she didn’t need to be hitched to a ne’er-do-well, I actually used that term, a measure of my panic.

As I fumbled on, tripping over the clichés, spilling mediocrity upon garbage, she toyed with the shiny new band on her wedding finger, interrupted me with,

“You told me about Tucson, about some dude ranch with the name... Lazy 8?”

I held my breath, Jesus, did I mention Siobhan, she said,

“I want to go to Ireland.”

“What?”

Her ring was off now, sitting in the middle of the table, like recrimination with a dull sheen; she added,

“You can have the divorce but I want a trip to Ireland.”

My face betrayed me as she said,

“On my own, I guess.”

Took two days and a shitpile of cash to get the marriage... gone. A lawyer, smooth talker, offered my drinking problem as grounds. I was continually half in the bag, so it wasn’t difficult to pass. The deal done, Donna and I were standing outside the Bellagio, my eye further down the Strip, past the store that sold Western gear to a sign flicking Liquor. I handed her a fat envelope, said,

“You’ll love Ireland.”

She stared at me, then reached out her hand, I flinched, anticipating a slap. No, she touched my face with her fingers, said,

“I’d have been real good to you.”

I had no answer. She turned, walked towards the Riviera, I waited a few rapid beats of my heart, then headed for the off-licence. A priest or chaplain was standing in the midday heat, had a box, asking for donations for the homeless, I dropped my wedding ring in there.

Another week to pull out of the spiral, lie in bed for two days, puking, sweating, hallucinating, swallowing aspirin. The room was like a slaughterhouse. Fourth day, I sipped a Bud Light which is as hellish as it gets, and began the crawl back. My psyche had taken a ferocious beating and I tried to get some food in. Rationed a six of the Light over some more confused days till, finally, food was staying put and the snakes were hissing less in my head. Got out on the Strip, legs shaky and into the shopping mall, to Macy’s, bought a mess of new gear but couldn’t buy off the recent past.

By the Friday, my hands had stopped shaking and I could almost function, I attempted an accounting of my financial situation. Had blown a blitzkrieg in my credit. I dreaded to think what Siobhan would make of it, kept postponing the call, knew she’d hear the actual tremor in my voice.

No more gambling or vodka. I went to the movies, saw the wondrous Lost in Translation, walked the Strip a thousand times, get my energy back.

Restore, restore, restore.

The commando exercises I’d learned in the army were notable for their gruelling, harsh requirements, went at those like a demon. The sheer punishment helped the guilt, not a whole lot but when you’re hurting physically, the mental stuff moves back a notch. By Tuesday, I was able to relish a shower.

An afternoon, walking the Strip, getting my wind back, the heat was beating down, felt it was a good way to sweat out them toxins, and man, did I have a whole truck of those babies.

I decided on a pit stop at the Mirage, keeping my eyes averted from the simulated volcano, I’d had all the explosions I could handle.

Watched the craps table for a bit, they say it’s the glamour point of the gaming floor, but then, they say all kinds of shit in Vegas. There seemed to be lot of hollering and shouting, I headed for the bar, asked for a large Coke, laced with ice. A guy on the stool next to me, extended his hand, said,

“Reed, from out of Long Island.”

Looked like a hardass, trucker’s hands but had a warmth. I shook and he said,

“What about the Sox?”

He laughed at my blank look, went,

“You’re Irish, huh?”

He told me the Boston Red Sox, back in 1920, had sold the legendary Babe Ruth, the bambino.

Prior to that, the Sox had won five World Series. After the Babe left, they won no more for the rest of the century. He waited for my response, I said,

“Bummer.”

I was afraid to ask if we were talking about baseball, I was Irish but did I want to appear totally pig ignorant?

No.

He sighed, continued, the team always lost in game seven. Now he was talking my language, superstition, omens, jinx, curse, we wrote the book on that gig. He took a deep breath, said,

“Then the mothers, they stage the greatest comeback in history by beating the Yankees and taking the title.”

A silence followed and finally I said,

“Nice one, eh.”

He was disgusted, near spat,

“I’m a New Yorker, do the goddamn math.”

What I did was, I got the hell out of there.

The next evening, feeling stronger, dressed in fresh white shirt, new Calvin jeans, mocs, headed for the Sahara. Checked out the celebrity poker, word was that Ben Affleck, David Schwimmer were in attendance.

Nursing an iced coffee, heard,

“Yo... buddy?”

Turned, to see the fat man, couldn’t get his name, from the plane, dressed in a Western shirt, pearl buttons, and I hope not, but alas, Bermuda shorts, real bad idea. Despite the freezing air conditioning, he had a line of perspiration on his brow, he extended a huge hand, said,

“Bob Milovitz.”

And I added,

“Outta Chicago.”

He lit up, said,

“You remember, but am I surprised?... As those British say... not a jot.”

He did a passable accent, like a guy who’d watched a lot of Masterpiece Theatre, then he went,

“But not an accent you’re wanting to hear, am I right? Don’t tell me... lemme see if I got it... Steve... yeah, that’s it.”

I nodded and he stared at my coffee, asked,

“That... like... a coffee... in Vegas, in a casino?”

I put it on the tray of a cruising waitress, she was a looker and legs... oh, god. Bob asked,

“Wanna grab a beer, bring me up to speed?”

I remembered I liked him from the off, he had that innate decency. The thinking goes, Fat people are jolly and there’s an inclination in there, like, They fucking better be and it’s a crock. Some of the meanest fuckers to come down the pike were carrying weight in every sense.

Really wanted to ask,

“The Sox, baseball right?”

But went the safety route, remarked he was still here?

I didn’t ask him how long that was, lest he tell me. I’d paid my bill at La Concha a few days back, and managed to block out the actual length of time of my stay; the receptionist said,

“You must like it here.”

That was confirmation enough and the security guard now went,

“Yo, Steve.”

Anytime I had the misfortune to run into him.

One evening he’d sneered,

“Got a load on there, pal.”

Being a juice head himself, I’d obviously risen in his estimation. Bob said,

“I’ve been back and forth, maybe three times since we met.”

Shit.

He continued,

“The cards, Steve, I do love to play poker, last night, with a pair of Kings, I cleaned out a couple of good ol’ Texas boys. What’d you say, we grab a couple of cold ones? The bar guy here, he was in the service, like you.”

I noted he’d remembered that, said,

“Sure.”

Propped at the bar, we were welcomed warmly by the tender, got some long necks, clinked bottles, Bill going,

“Gimme the good word.”

The best I had was Irish, so,

“Slainte.”

You say it like you were German with a lisp; he answered,

“Back at you.”

He near drained his in one, ordered more. The beer was good, cold, refreshing, beads of moisture creasing the label, the sound of the casino as point, I let my muscles relax. Had been a while, Bob was assessing me, said,

“You lost some weight there, buddy.”

Got that right.

He asked,

“How’d you manage that, I could shed a few pounds... what’s the secret?”

“Marriage.”

He laughed out loud.

I didn’t.

Fat people, like people with adopted kids, always tell you up front, get it out in the open and if there’s a connection, it escapes me, Bill asked,

“You like Vegas?”

I didn’t know, said,

“I don’t know.”

He enjoyed that, then gave me a rundown on his poker hands. Interesting for all of two minutes, then my eyes began to roam the shelves, seeing brands I’d never heard of... what the hell was ultra dynamite... besides trouble? Then Bill, louder,

“You want a job?”