Unwritten Rules

Las Vegas. 2006

It should be noted that for all of my blog entries about Las Vegas, I am not using the real the names of the characters.

I am looking around outside the dealership for one of my fellow salesmen, any of them. I need a quick answer to a question.

The first one that I see is Steve, a black man a little older than me, in his late 20s, with Jheri curls and a pencil thin mustache that sets right on top of his upper lip. He is with a customer, walking toward me.

"Hey Steve, I say, "Do we have any new four door Civics left?"

Steve does not respond or even look at me. He strides past and into the dealership with his customer, his dress pants flapping away from his fancy shoes in the desert breeze.

I am puzzled by his reaction, or rather non-reaction, to my simple question.

Eventually I get the answer from another salesman. Yes, we do, in galaxy grey only, and fortunately the customer is fine with that color and the option package.

My manager, Tony, closes the customer on the car and then hands me a credit application to fill out, based on the customer's driver's license and the conversation I had with her. Tony walks the customer back to "The Box," the office where a finance manager will speak with her about credit options.

The finance guys are the highest paid people at the dealership behind the General Manager, from what I have been told. There are only two, Huan and Feng. Both are Asian. I think Feng is from the Philippines, but I do not know where Huan comes from. The dealership makes even more money back in "The Box" if they can get the customer to accept a higher interest rate, and to purchase amenities such as warranty programs.

As I am filling out the application, I see the space for employer and income. I know from talking with the customer that she has been a black jack dealer in Vegas for years. She recently was hired to work at the Wynn, the newest casino on the strip. I am not sure how much she makes, though. I think she said about $50,000 per year, but I want to ask and be sure.

I can see through the glass walls that Feng has her sitting down and is speaking with her. I get up from the table out in the lobby and walk toward the office.

Tony intercepts me. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"I need to ask her a question."

"No, no." Tony says. "Never interrupt when they are in the box. What is it that you need to know?"

"How much her annual income is."

"Leave that part blank. Feng will fill that out."

***

Later that afternoon, I am standing outside in the Las Vegas sun, in front of an empty parking spot, waiting for another customer.

Steve casually walks up to an empty space beside me. He waits for me to look at him.

"Don't EVER speak to me when I am with a customer," he says in a rather menacing tone.

I just look at him.

"You need to learn your products, man! If you don't know how many Civics we have, maybe you should find another job."

I can not help but be amused by Steve, but I have learned a lesson. Salesmen, either in the finance department or out on the floor, do not want other salesmen coming up to them when they are with a customer. Later, I will put together that the reasons for this are two-fold. One, it could throw off their game and I could say something that screws up the deal. Two, they are worried about getting snaked out of the deal. This latter reason only applies to the regular salesmen out on the lot. Salesmen, at least here, are suspicious of each other, even me- the rookie who really has no idea what he is doing.

***

It is nightfall at the dealership. Feng and Huan are both arguing in the lobby about something.

Feng is an athletic, handsome looking guy. He and my manager, Tony are good friends. I think Feng may have gotten Tony his job at the dealership. Feng is clean cut and well spoken, but Tony tells me that he is also a real shark and very good at what he does. Tony aspires to become Feng at the dealership.

Huan, on the other hand, has not been as blessed by nature. Of all the employees at the dealership, Huan is the friendliest to me. He has an interesting look about him. His hair, jet black, is piled ridiculously high on top of his head. He is also very skinny with no muscle tone at all. His chest seems to curve inward rather than outward. Even though it is covered by his dress shirt, I can tell it has to be a dramatic example of what guys in the weight room in high school and college referred to as "a bird chest."

Huan is flustered. "I am not putting my name on that!" he yells at Feng. "YOU can sign it, and YOU can go to jail for that deal!"

Feng gives Huan a cool smile, waves at him like the whole matter is nothing, and walks out of the dealership.

"Yes, go home and think about it!" Huan yells after him.

Huan storms back to his office and shuts the door.

***

The next morning, I arrive for work and walk out onto the concrete, into the bright sunshine. Steve has already taken his place at the best parking spot to get a customer. Tony is standing outside as well, just killing time and keeping the salesmen company. As Tony is a manager, he is not required to stand a post and try to get an "Up," the dealership slang for a potential buyer.

Though Steve has his back to me (probably deliberately), I decide to attempt a conversation with him, to try and smooth things over.

"Steve Barnes," I say, pausing to contemplate the name. "I once went out with a girl whose last name was Barnes."

Steve turns and glares at me in anger.

"I ought to kick your ass right here!"

I am genuinely surprised at his response and do not know what to say.

"What kind of sh*t is that to say to a man!" he yells.

Tony starts laughing. "Hey, Steve, ease up."

"No!" Steve yells. "How are you going to come up to me first thing in the morning and say, 'I used to date a girl named Barnes.'? "Do you want to get your ass beat?"

I am really not scared of Steve. He is a pretty big guy and would win in a fight with me, I am sure, but this whole situation is just too puzzling for me to be frightened. I do not get his behavior.

At that moment, a customer pulls into the lot. Steve and I both turn our heads and bodies forward, like two soldiers standing at parade rest, to look good for the customer.

The car slowly drives by. All three of us smile and wave. The car keeps moving, and Steve keeps talking.

"What is your last name? Mashburn?" he asks, still keeping his head and eyes toward the car rather than me.

"Marshburn," I say.

"What if I came up to you first thing this morning and said," 'I used to f--- a girl named Marshburn'?"

"That's not what I said, Steve. I said I once went out with a girl named Barnes."

I look at Tony for help. He is quite amused by this.

"It's the same damn thing," Steve says. "It's like you're trying to take my MANHOOD or something."

At this, Tony bursts out laughing. The customer's car just circles the lot and pulls back out onto the highway, as customers often do.

Steve turns and glares at me again, now that the car is gone.

"He's crapped you out, Steve!" Tony says. "You've let him crap you out this morning."

"No, I DON'T LIKE this motherf*cker, Tony!" Steve yells, dramatically pointing at me. "He just says weird sh*t all the time, trying to start static!"

"And you let him!" Tony exclaims.

"I'm taking a break!" Steve says, and walks off.

Tony and I exchange looks.

"Take his spot," Tony says.

I slide down to the number one parking space.

"He's crapped out for the day," Tony remarks in amusement and amazement. "That is impressive. He is one of the best salesmen here, and you crapped him out first thing this morning."

I have to smile, "Well, it's not like I was trying to."

"Don't let them get inside your head," Tony says. "It's all a mind game out here. Especially in this heat when no one wants to stand outside. Don't pay attention to him. You'll be fine."

...Steve and I will have another conversation in the near future.

The Characters of Las Vegas, Continued

Las Vegas. 2006

"An agnostic believes that there is no god," Albert tells his two younger listeners.

"I don't understand that," Sam responds. "How could someone believe that there is no god?"

"I don't know," Albert says, "but there are those people out there."

"You know that movie, Ghost?" Alejandro chimes in. "That's exactly what it's like, man. That's the sh*t that happens when you die."

"Now, how do you know that?" Albert asks.

"Because, bro. It's about love. Love is forever."

We are all sitting around one of the back offices on a slow afternoon at the dealership. Sam is a young black man who was hired as a salesman after me. I have tried to teach him what little I know about how the system works, as no one talks to you much when you are new. I think he appreciates me for doing that.

At 18, Alejandro is the youngest employee at the dealership. Most of his family still lives in Mexico, and he makes regular trips to see them each month. Alejandro is sneaky but not really that slick. He exaggerates or outright lies all the time- to the point where I just stare at him when he says something completely incredulous. He does not seem to care, though. He still acts like I believe him.

Alejandro irritated me a couple of weeks ago when I sold a car to a customer, but then he claimed the sale was his. He blew up in front of my manager and threatened to quit. The manager gave him credit for the sale to keep him on board at the dealership. Everyday, now, when I see Alejandro, I stare him straight in the face first thing. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he and I both know the truth about what he did.

Albert is also a bit of a shady character, but I have more sympathy for him because he is becoming an old man and I can tell he is just struggling to get by. Someone has been stealing food from the refrigerator where all the salesmen keep their lunches, and everyone knows it is Albert.

Albert is also one of the older guys who has more difficulty standing up all day like the salesman are expected to do. He often sits in one of the display cars parked on the sidewalk outside the dealership. Albert is aware that everyone knows he is stealing. One day, I discovered that a sandwich I bought from Quiznos and put in the refrigerator for my dinner was gone. This angered me a little, and I said a few choice words to the other salesman in the break room about it, but then I let it go. Later that night, though, I needed to ask Albert a question about a car he had sold. I found him sitting in the back seat of one of the display vehicles. He saw me coming toward him, and when I opened the door so that I could speak, he looked away from me and feebly threw up his hands in defense, like he thought I was going to hit him.

At that moment, he looked like a pitiful old man, alone in this world with no one to protect him, with no one he could trust. It surprised me and hurt my feelings a bit, too, that he actually thought I would hit him.

After that incident, he and I become better friends, though I can not afford to be paying for his meals as well as mine. I stop putting my food in the refrigerator and keep it in my backpack instead, until I am ready to eat it.

Santiago comes into the room with the four of us others. He listens to Alejandro talking about the movie Ghost, the afterlife, and love.

"That's the way it is between me and my girlfriend, bro," Alejandro continues.

"Your girlfriend loves you?" Santiago asks.

Alejandro looks at Santiago, wary of him.

"When is the last time you took her out to dinner?" Santiago asks.

"I don't need to take her out," Alejandro says. "She loves me for who I am."

Santiago laughs. "As ugly as you are, you better take her to dinner or buy her a present soon, or she won't be your girlfriend for long."

"It's not about the money, bro."

"It's always about the money," Santiago says. "You can have a girlfriend and take her for a walk in the park one day. Walks in the park are free. That is fine. You can even ask her to go for a walk with you in the park again the next day. It is still free. But if you ask her to go for a walk in the park with you for a third time, that day, you better buy her a Coke."

Alejandro does not know what to say. Santiago reaches into his pocket, mumbling something and breathing heavily. He pulls out a thick wad of bills. He takes one of the bills, a $100, licks it and sticks it to his forehead.

"Now the women will all say, 'See how handsome I am.'"

We all laugh.

Santiago points at us before he walks out, "The only love that is not about money, the only love that is unconditional, is between a parent and their child."

We look at each other after Santiago leaves.

"That old f*cker is crazy," Alejandro says.

Sam is more interested in getting back to this concept of an agnostic. I have never heard Sam swear or seen him lose his temper, and I am guessing he is deeply religious. He has lived in Las Vegas most of his life, but he has never been to a Vegas show and rarely goes to the strip. He is a gentle fellow with simple interests. The other day, he told me a great story of how last year he saw Pat Morita ("Mr. Miyagi" from The Karate Kid) in a Las Vegas grocery store. Sam went up to him and had a nice conversation. Just a few weeks later, Pat Morita died in Las Vegas at the age of 73 from kidney failure. Sam was so glad that he got to meet and speak to "Mr. Miyagi" before he passed.

"So what is the difference between an atheist and an agnostic?" he asks Albert.

"They are both the same thing," Albert says. "They both do not believe in god."

Religious issues still burn too hot inside me to stay quiet for this.

"No, no. That's not right, guys." I say. "Atheists actively believe there is no god. An agnostic just says 'I don't know.' Maybe there is a god, maybe there is not."

Albert stares at me in a curious way, like I have suddenly become the teacher.

Sam asks, "Where did you learn that?"

"I had to look it up when figuring out what to call myself," I answer. "I'm an agnostic."

The three fellows regard me in stunned silence for a moment, and I realize that I am quite possibly the first agnostic they have ever met.

Sam is the most bewildered. "Wait. Didn't you say that your father was a preacher?"

"You are correct."

"Does he know that you are an agnostic?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Whoa-ho. Man!" Sam exclaims.

Albert comes to my defense, even though I really do not mind talking about this. Perhaps Albert can now see how worked up I might get on the subject. I have been told that my face gets red sometimes, even when I think I am pretty calm.

"Guys, you are getting into deeply personal matters, now. Those are very personal questions you are asking him, Sam."

To break the way that the conversation is going, Albert stands up and walks back out on the sales floor and then outside. Alejandro and Sam, perhaps a little uncomfortable with me, now, decide to follow him out.

I stand alone in the room for a few moments, thinking about whether or not I should have told them my religious views, before I head back out myself.

The sun is setting outside. It is my favorite time of day in the desert, though I really enjoy the desert at any time of the day or night, the same as I enjoy Las Vegas at any time of the day or night.

We take our positions in front of empty parking spaces and wait for the customers to come. Sam is beside me. He looks at me for a few moments and shakes his head. He is smiling at the same time, though.

East of the Strip

Las Vegas. 2006

"My insurance more than doubled when I moved out here," I say to her. "The agent told me that this zip code, 89109, is the number two zip code in the country for stolen cars."

"That's absolutely right," the lady answers. "I've been living in these apartments for eight years now, and I have had two stolen from me. You're not considered a full resident until you come outside and find your car missing."

"Wow," I exclaim.

The lady, probably in her 50s, is thin but fast becoming frail. She wears a long brown dress made out of light material. Tiny dark sunglasses hide her eyes. She also has a small, long haired dog of some sort which looks like it could use a good grooming. The woman came up to me as I work to get a bright orange sticker off of the driver side window on my car. Evidently, I parked in someone's assigned space last night, and this sticker is the warning/punishment for it. I did not realize that my own apartment does not include an assigned space, and that I have to park my mustang out on the street. I have moved my car out onto Las Palmas Avenue, now, to work on getting this sticker off, though I dislike having to park here. The cars on this street are most susceptible to being damaged or stolen, as I have already observed after living here for less than a week. One of the first things that I did after moving in was make a trip to an auto parts store and buy "The Club" for my steering wheel.

As I work on the sticker, I think to myself, jeeze, they did not have to make it out of this paper material, though. It is impossible just to peel off with my fingers. I have to wet it, and now I am using my Swiss army knife and my windshield scraper to get the sticker off, a little bit of wet paper at a time.

"So where did you come from?" The lady asks.

"North Carolina," I answer.

"Are you married?" She asks.

"Nope." I give a half glance back at her and force a smile.

"So you just came out here by yourself with no children, no family?"

"That's right," I say.

The lady seems nice enough, but even with my back turned to her, I can sense the loneliness pouring out of her body. She wants something from me. Most likely it is only companionship. I have just arrived in the city, though. I need to find a job. Getting to know her is not on my priority list right now.

As the days and weeks pass, I will see her quite often. She always seems to be walking her dog anytime I head out to my car, and I wonder if she is watching my apartment to see when I come outside.

***

The apartments where I live are only a couple of blocks east of the strip, or Las Vegas Boulevard. One of the bus drivers in the city told me that I should not live east of the strip, that "East of the strip is sh*t."

He is right, but east of the strip is also cheap, which is what I need until I get established here and begin to work my way up in the city.

The view off my back balcony is actually very nice. I can see a couple of the casinos- the Flamingo and the Imperial Palace. If I am home at sunset, I will go out on the balcony and watch as the sun goes down and the neon lights to the casinos turn on.

My apartment is on the third floor, the top floor of this complex. An alley runs along the back, and at night some interesting things happen down below. People rarely think to look up, and so most of the time they do not know that anyone is watching them.

Drug use is the main activity that I observe in the back alley, though on one night I also witness some sad qualities of human nature which I will not repeat here- of people living on the edge with little self esteem and nothing much to lose.

The behaviors of the night are not confined to the back alley of my apartment, and not confined to the night, either- not in Las Vegas.

"Give me my money, Bill!" I hear a woman screaming one night at around 3 a.m., almost directly in front of my door. It annoys me because she wakes me up when I have be at work in just a few hours. She does not sound like she is in danger, so I let it go and try to get back to sleep. She continues to yell, though.

"I'm not leaving until you give me my money! Give me my money, Bill! GIVE ME MY MONEY!"

I can not hear what Bill is saying to her. It is muffled. I guess he eventually gives her the money, though, as she quiets down.

On a couple of other occasions, women knock on my door in the middle of the day to ask me if I want a girlfriend. I feel pity for them rather than attraction. The first girl can not control her shaking and trembling from what I guess is withdrawal. She keeps scratching her face to the point where there are marks on her cheek.

The second woman is nearly in tears when she asks if she can stay with me, that people are after her. Her eyes are yellow, and she lifts up her shirt to show me that she is several months pregnant.

Late one night, a guy knocks on my door. He holds a box of various electronic equipment and asks if I want to buy any. I tell him no, but I watch his eyes scan my apartment for what stuff I have in here and who else might be living with me.

After his visit, I keep my blinds closed all the time, so that if someone is going to break into my apartment, they will at least have to guess if I am inside, waiting with perhaps a gun.

Despite these rough experiences, I am surprised at the number of beautiful ladies who seem to wander through the apartment complex as well.

A blond woman with one of the most incredible bodies that I have ever seen is just randomly walking down the sidewalk outside my apartment as I get into my car one day. I cannot help but stare at her, and I do not care that she sees me staring. She gives me a confident smirk, but keeps on walking... If only I could think of something to say...

The guy who lives next to me, "Bill," I suppose, though I have never met him and do not really care to, keeps me amused with the women who come and go from his apartment. Some are in the condition of the two women who knocked on my door, others are at the other end of the spectrum, virtual goddesses- only with very hard eyes.

Another time, a cute brunette is wandering around early on a Sunday morning before I go for a jog. Something is wrong with her. She walks very close to me as I do a few stretches, but I do not think she realizes I am there. Her stare is vacant, though she has a slight smile on her face. She wears a pretty white dress, but her feet are bare and bloodied.

I enjoy running in the heat, and I can feel the desert sun already beginning to beat down on me this early in the morning before I even start. The girl's dark brown hair is wet with sweat, and I know that she will soon become dehydrated. She seems oblivious to all this, though. I consider going back up to my apartment to get my cell phone and call the police about her. She is gone after a few seconds, though, disappearing down the alleys and streets of the neighborhood.

***

It has been a long day at the dealership. I need some food after we close down at 10pm on this Saturday night, and it has been a while since I treated myself to a nice meal. I drive to Old Town Las Vegas and walk around for an hour or so on Fremont Street. When the time passes midnight, I duck into the sports diner across from the Plaza Hotel and Casino. The diner has a steak and egg special for $3.99 after midnight. It is delicious. I order two plates instead of just one, putting A1 sauce on both my steak and my eggs. I am a night owl, and one of the things I love about this city is that I can do almost whatever I want, whenever I want here.

When I finally pull into my apartment complex, it is nearly 2 a.m. I still have on my dress clothes from work as I head up the three flights of stairs to my apartment.

As I start to climb, I see a woman at the very top of the stairs beginning to come down. She has poofy blond hair and impressive curves. I think that she must be another one of "Bill's" visitors.

Though I am tired from the day, I am also a bit lonely, so I look forward to at least speaking to her.

She keeps her eyes lowered as we pass on the second flight, so I take the initiative.

"Hello, how are you doing?" I say in the friendliest voice that I can manage.

She stops and looks at me with inviting interest.

"Hi, I'm fabulous. How are you?" she answers in a somewhat deeper voice than I expected. Then I see it. The five o'clock shadow on the face and the prominent adam's apple. Though wearing very high heels, her legs have hair on them.

Good god.

Shocked into acting on instinct now, I answer with a terse, "Pretty good." I look away from him/her and keep moving up the stairs.

Once I have locked myself in my apartment. I take off my dress shirt, pants and socks and collapse on my bed.

Looking up at the ceiling, I can not help but laugh. I wish I had more money to enjoy this city and perhaps even help some of these people out, but that is everyone's constant complaint. I fully appreciate that life is more interesting and wild for me now than it has ever been, and I am glad to be living in Las Vegas.

The Characters of Las Vegas

It is the winter of 2006, and I find myself standing in the darkness of the Nevada desert, looking up at the neon illuminated tower of the Stratosphere Casino. It looms over the car dealership where I am employed as a salesman.

In January, on a whim I moved to Las Vegas from North Carolina, getting a cheap apartment sight unseen in a high crime area of the city. The nearest friend or family member is in Tennessee, and I am truly all alone out here. I do not feel alone, though, and aside from my worries about making enough money to pay my bills, I am pretty happy.

There is a vibe to Las Vegas, an excitement and energy, that gives me comfort. It is like no other place that I have lived. The characters, the people I meet, fascinate me as I enter this new chapter in my life.

The night is cold, and I have been at work since this morning. The salesmen stand outside, but the managers get chairs at a counter inside the heated dealership. There are no benches provided for the salesmen. Some of the older guys actually sit in the cars that are on display immediately outside the showroom, a habit which management has warned them about. The warning has no effect, though. A couple of the old guys are physically incapable of standing for the 8 to 12 hour days that we work.

The game we play is to for each salesman to stand in front of a specific parking space and wait for a customer to drive in. The salesman has that individual space until he abandons it or a car pulls in and he greets the customer. There are a couple of good parking spaces where customers always go first. I have one of these slots now. The rest of the salesmen form a line going down the sidewalk. The night is cold, and I notice that we are all wearing black- black leather coats or trench coats. We look like mafia hit men, and I think that a customer will be quite intimidated to park in front of any of us. It is so obvious that we are sharks with dollar signs in our eyes.

Having no friends or family in Vegas, I am glad to meet new people. To my left, manning the number one parking space, is Santiago. Originally from Mexico, he is a mustachioed man whom I presume him to be in his late 50s or early 60s. When I first started working at the dealership, Santiago did not speak to me that much and "snaked" me on one occasion (To snake someone in the car business, I learned, is to steal their customer).

As a few weeks have passed, though, Santiago has taken a liking to me. After we close the dealership tonight, he will go to the Venetian casino. Santiago is a professional poker player and enters tournaments every week. If what he tells me is true, he makes quite a bit of money from poker playing. He only works as a salesman because his family would worry about him if he just played poker all day.

Santiago is retired from the restaurant business where he also claims to have made a lot of money. Again, if what he tells me is true, as a young man in his 20s, he played on the Mexican National Soccer Team.

Santiago is a ladies' man, and about this I have no doubt. Despite being old, he has long wavy dark hair, and he is always carefully groomed. There is a polish to his way with people, a smoothness about him that female customers just go for. He is one of the best salesmen at the store, when he wants to be. In the middle of a deal, he will sometimes walk over to me and whisper. "Watch this. I'm gonna chop off his head like a Samurai." Sure enough, a few minutes later that customer is smiling and driving a new car away from the dealership. Santiago is smiling as well, but more from the satisfaction of closing the customer than from the money he just made.

Much of his time at the dealership, though, is spent in the back smoking cigarettes and talking to Rose,a pretty young woman from Nicaragua who works in the warranty office.

To all the salesmen, he brags regularly about his wife at home and his mistress in San Diego.
"My wife drops me off at the airport in Las Vegas," he says in his thick Spanish accent, "and Katarina picks me up in San Diego. Then when it is time for me to leave, Katarina drops me off at the airport in San Diego, and my wife picks me in Las Vegas."

Recently, he claims to have a new mistress in Las Vegas. As we talk in the cold air, he laughs in a raspy voice that comes from years of smoking, "You're gonna meet her tonight. She's younger than my daughter."

I ask him about his daughter, but he shakes his head and looks away for a moment. "She hasn't spoken to me in years," he says. I decide not to push him on the subject.

Santiago stands to my left. To my right is Rob, a young black man who just turned 20 years old. Rob thinks Santiago is full of hot air, whereas I tend to believe most of what Santiago tells me. Rob does not like Santiago, I think because he senses that Santiago is prejudiced against black people. From some of the things that Santiago has said to me, Rob's perception is spot on.

Rob enjoys talking with me because I am the only one of the salesman to have gone to college. He asks me lots of questions about what college is like and what living in North Carolina is like. Rob has a curious mind and his own fascinating life experiences, despite his young age.

Santiago, in addition to being a salesman, is a professional poker player. Rob, in addition to being a salesman, is a pimp.

I mean that literally. Rob has a number of prostitutes who go out on the streets of Las Vegas and make money for him.

To me, Rob is a nice guy and I just can not see him doing that sort of work. When I first learned this about him I asked, "How does one become a pimp?"

He answered me in detail, and it made perfect sense. From this we went on to have a number of conversations which would not be appropriate to repeat in polite company. Suffice it to say, I learned all about the prostitution industry in Las Vegas from a pimp's perspective, from how to handle a girl who is holding out on the money, to rivalries and turf wars, to protecting the girls from Johns who turn out to be dangerous.

Rob and I work well together in closing deals, and we often will split the commission on a sale. Our styles are totally different. He speaks a sort of street dialect to the customer, and I am the clean cut college boy. When one of us has stalled out in closing the deal, we switch off. The difference in approaches can startle the customer, but it is often effective in saving the sale.

A car pulls into the lot. The salesmen think it is a customer and we smile and wave.

"That's Viviana," Santiago says.

"That's who?" I ask.

"That's my girlfriend. You can have my spot."

Santiago steps off the concrete and walks toward the car. I move to the place where Santiago was standing, the best location to get a customer on the whole lot. Rob slides down to my number two position.

The driver of the car rolls down her window, but I can't get a good look at her. Santiago leans in and speaks to her for a few moments, then gets in on the passenger side. They ride to the back of the dealership.

A few minutes go by. I look in through the windows of the brightly lit dealership to the counter where the managers sit. This late, there is only one manager on duty. It is Rick, the manager who hired me. Rick is a tall, bald man with a beard. He is about the same age as Santiago or perhaps a little younger. Rick told me when I first interviewed with him that he is retired from the CIA. Rick is probably the most intelligent man at the entire dealership. I will talk more about him later.

Right now, I am actually more curious about Santiago's girlfriend than making a sale. Santiago has not come out to the front of the dealership, so I decide to walk around back to the smokers' corner where he spends most of his time.

Sure enough he is there, talking with some of the other salesmen. A woman with raven black hair has her back to me.

Santiago sees me. "Nathan, I'd like for you to meet Viviana."

Viviana turns around and smiles at me.

It is one of those rare moments in my life when I am really stricken. Viviana is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. Her face is like a precious jewel, her smile warm and inviting, her body full and voluptuous.

I have to look away from her. My senses began to tighten up and close off, but before they do, I see an expression on Santiago's face that immediately tells me he is my friend.

He sees my reaction to Viviana, and looks down in a mixture of awkward embarrassment and sympathy for me. To him, Viviana is an enjoyable but temporary toy. He is an old man and she is so very young. To me, she is the kind of woman who could make me happy for the rest of my life. She is one of a handful of women whom I have met and that I would propose to on the spot- if I could manage to say anything, that is.

Santiago can see this flood of emotions on my face.

I really do not know much of what occurs after that, as always happens when I encounter a beautiful woman face to face. I think Viviana can tell that I like her a lot, but I am not sure. At any rate, she and Santiago do not stick around for much longer. They go off together somewhere- the Venetian, I guess, and I am left in a fog for the rest of the evening as we close down the dealership on another Las Vegas night...

To be continued

Tennis

As a boy, I was not the greatest of athletes. I lettered for the cross country team in high school, but that was the height of my accomplishments in organized sports.

My two favorite sports have always been baseball and tennis. Dad taught me baseball as soon as I was old enough to swing a bat and throw a ball.

It was Mom, though, who taught the game of tennis to both my brother and me during the summer vacations in between school years.

My brother, Adam, learned the game fast, but it took me a while. When I first started playing, I literally could not keep the ball inside the court. Almost every time I swung, I launched the ball over the fence. Mom was very patient with me, though. We actually learned to play using her and Dad's old wooden rackets. Eventually, I was able to keep the ball inside the fence and inside the lines, but it was a couple of years before I began putting topspin into my swings.

Adam, after Mom bought us our own metal rackets, used Mom's wooden racket to hit rocks from our driveway out into the corn fields surrounding our house. He played whole imaginary baseball games hitting those rocks, the New York Mets versus the Baltimore Orioles in the World Series, sometimes. The rocks gradually busted the strings and chewed up the wood. He later said that he hated he messed up Mom's racket, as it really was a nice vintage wooden piece.

Adam and I played a lot against each other while growing up. He beat me most of the time, but my peak came when I was 19 years old. That was my freshman year of college, and I was in perhaps the best shape of my whole life. I took tennis as an elective course at Western Carolina University. The instructor was one of the football coaches, an old man.

He really did not teach us that much. I remember him telling jokes to the class like, "Do you know what the students cheer at Furman University games?...FU!"

Or "Do you know what the students cheer at Austin Peay University?... Let's go Peay!"

He gave us written instructions on how the game is played and how to keep score, but the only teaching of how to play was when he told us and demonstrated, "Remember, bend your knees when you swing, bend your knees."

For our final grade, he started a tournament pitting everyone in the class against each other. I easily won my first two matches. The coach stopped the tournament after that, as it was pretty clear that I was the best player in the class. I'm not sure that he liked me that much, as I think I acted pretty cocky on the court. He challenged me to game of ping pong, and it was closely contested. The old ball coach eventually won, though, and he seemed to take a good deal of satisfaction in that.

My freshman year, I met a guy named Thomas who was also a very good tennis player for someone who never played it in an organized setting. We spent many evenings competing against each other. It was about 50/50, who would win. My strength, he said, was that I could run everything down and get every shot back across the net.

Thomas was a nice guy. He and I were both from the eastern part of the state, and he gave me a ride home during the Christmas break of my freshman year- over six hours of driving. I was pretty naive during college, and it took me all year to realize that Thomas was gay. This sort of blew my mind, given my conservative Christian upbringing. I immediately cut off all contact with him. It is one of the regrets that I have from my life that I was such a homophobe in those years and that I cruelly abandoned a friend who had done nothing wrong.

My brother joined me at Western during my sophomore year, and we continued our matches against each other on the courts beside Reid Gym (courts that now no longer exist due to building expansion on campus). I remember that these courts played slower, and the ball bounced higher than on the courts beside the high school where Adam and I attended. The slower court helped my game against him, and I went on a long winning streak. Eventually, he stopped playing against me because I was trash talking too much.

One night we were playing against each other and got into a heated argument over whether a ball was in or out. Some guys playing on the court beside us stopped to watch in awkward silence.

Finally, I yelled at Adam, "I'm going to beat your butt! I'm going to beat your butt tonight!"

At that exact instant, the lights went out.

I think it was probably someone from campus security who was watching and was able to shut the lights down before things escalated even further. I never knew the lights to just suddenly cut off like that at any time before or after when I played tennis at night.

When Adam stopped playing against me, I would go to those same courts and hit a ball against a brick wall until I got blisters on my hand.

During my sophomore year, I took racquetball as an elective course. The course was fun and was taught by the quarterbacks coach of the football team. He would later become the head coach. He also started a tournament in the class matching the students against each other. I finished second.

Taking the course was a mistake, though, as it completely ruined my tennis swing. In racquetball, you break your wrist when you swing. In tennis, you should keep the wrist stiff.

Adam eventually started playing tennis with me again, but it was a pathetic show. I began launching the ball over the fence once more. It was like I had forgotten how to play, like I was picking up a racket for the first time. It was not enjoyable for either of us, and he could not understand what had happened to me.

In college, I had a pretty strong crush on a girl, and I remember her walking by the court one night and seeing me play. I hated that I looked so pitiful out there as she went by- if only she could have seen me before I took that darn racquetball course, maybe things would things would have turned out differently between us. But probably not. In my head, it was a very important thing at that time, though.

I never did get my swing back. Instead, I developed a method of basically just punching the ball flatly back across the net, without topspin, and using the other player's velocity. Adam said it was very frustrating to play against me and that he could not get better himself with me playing in that style. I never was able to get back to the level when I was 19 and playing almost every day against Thomas, taking full swings and hitting with topspin.

Now, in my 30s, I have not played in years.

On the professional level, tennis has arguably changed more than any other major sport in the past 30 years. This is due to the rapid increase in racquet technology, the change from wooden racquets to graphite composites to whatever material is used today.

It is really a power game, now. No one serves and volleys any more, and you do not see the strategy in building points like you used to. I quit keeping up with all the changes, but I remember when Goran Ivanisevic won Wimbledon in 2001, that was a turning point. Ivanisevic, 6'4", had a big serve, but that was about it. Since his win, tennis has increased the size of the ball by 6% and changed the type of grass grown at Wimbledon to try and slow the game down. The real solution is to just go back to wooden rackets, but that will probably never happen.

Now, the men's game is two guys standing at the baseline and just hitting the ball as hard as they can. The best players are over six feet tall, whereas before shorter guys had a chance. To me, the game is not that interesting to watch anymore.

Enough about how things used to be, though.

Tennis, like baseball, has given me a lot of joy. I can write more blog entries about individual matches that I watched or played. I can write about specific shots, even. Perhaps in the future I will do so.

"Angeles," a Water Gun, and a Rainbow

This evening in Miami, I walked from my apartment to the grocery store across the street. My apartment is on the third floor, the top level. As I made my way down the stairs, I saw that I have some new neighbors on the ground level. A young man and woman with a newborn baby stood in their fenced in courtyard. The woman held a bottle to the baby's mouth, watching the man spread bags of reddish brown mulch on the ground. They looked up at me as I came down the stairs, and I nodded to them.

I decided not to try and start a conversation, or to tell them that their apartment is in a bad location. The man was spreading mulch most likely because there was no grass in their courtyard, only dirt. There is no grass because I have noticed that every time it rains, water funnels off the roof and pours into that yard in buckets. Any vegetation is drowned out.

I felt some sympathy for them, new parents in a new home, trying to make a go of it in this world. I imagine that it was probably much the same for my own parents when they were getting started with me in a small apartment on Christa Drive in Wilmington, NC.

My first and some of my best memories come from this time- the early 1980s.

One day, I remember playing in the front yard with mom. I heard talking coming from the apartment next to ours. The window was just low enough that I was able to see over the edge, and out of curiosity I walked over and looked in through the window at the people inside. The woman sitting in her living room saw me and said hello.

Mom corrected me, though, and told me it was not polite to look in through windows at other people in their homes.

The woman who lived next to us was named Angela. My favorite TV show at the time was CHiPs, a show about two motorcycle cops for the California Highway Patrol in Los Angeles. Here is a video clip of how it came on each week:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z6hzt9RA_VQ



Watching the show come on again with the music, the way the cars and the film look, reminds me that my childhood is truly a different era, now.

Anyway, I had picked up on the name of the city as a boy watching the show, and I identified it with the name of our neighbor. When I saw her, I said, "Hey, Angeles" instead of Angela. I remember her with thick glasses and a blue bandana in her hair.

The first rainbow that I ever saw was in the back yard there in Wilmington, too. I remember looking at it really hard, trying to discern where one color stopped and another one began. As I recall, it was not quite a complete rainbow. I've seen a perfect rainbow only a couple of times in my whole life.



Perhaps I am mixing the two memories, but it seems that the same day that I saw my first rainbow, I was also introduced to my first water gun. It was a small plastic pistol that Dad filled for me. Another one of our neighbors, a man with a dark mustache, was playing with his child in a kiddy pool in the back yard. I ran up to him and squirted him in the chest with the water gun. Dad told me to stop, that what I was doing might be fun for me but that the man probably did not want to play.

The man said it was okay, though...

Now, back to the present, where I sit in my apartment in Miami, typing this blog entry. It is almost midnight.

Earlier this week, I received the news that Mom has been diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease. The diagnosis explains some of the things that I observed last summer with her when we went on a family vacation out west. As I am learning, it remains to be seen how fast her symptoms will progress and how severe they will be. We are watching for how she responds to the medication she started this week.

Her condition has me thinking about a lot of things.

I value my early memories of my parents, and writing this blog serves an important function for me. My parents will not be around year after year. I finally began to grasp some of what that meant when I was a student in law school. The bad news from this week only confirms it.

Mom and Dad both have been pretty brave and cheerful about it, though, and there is hope that she can live with the disease for a long time without a major impact on her lifestyle. I am lucky that they have lived long enough for me to come to this new appreciation of them.

The Happiest Year of My Life

My job has been especially exhausting in recent days. I also have to work quite a bit this weekend to get ready for a slate of activities in the upcoming week.

I really do not have the energy to write a new entry just now. In the future, I hope to write about my many great experiences when I was a student at Western Carolina University.

For today, though, I will just briefly note what has been the happiest year of my life so far.

It was the summer of 2007 through the summer of 2008. During this time, I returned to Western Carolina as a graduate student.

My friend, Melissa, who was also President of the Graduate Student Association at WCU, asked me to take over writing a blog for them. She is the one who first showed me to how to do that on the internet, and it has been an enjoyable exercise ever since.

Here is a link to the blog that I wrote during that year:

http://wcugradstudentblog.blogspot.com/

I hope next weekend to feel rested and relaxed enough to write something original.