by Cooper, Doug
“Never mind,” she said, shaking her head and looking away. “It’s nothing.”
“No, go ahead. Ask me. It’s OK.”
Jules steadied herself with another gulp. “It’s just, you never talk about yourself.”
“What do you want to know?” Max said, spinning in a circle in his office chair. He could tell she didn’t know what to make of his boyish playfulness. He never let people see this side of him. He said, “Tonight you can ask me anything you want.”
“Where exactly are you from?” Jules said, qualifying the question with a rambling follow-up. “I know you’re not from here because I remember you telling the story in that one interview about moving here after your high school graduation because you didn’t want to go to college and take on debt and the armed forces wouldn’t accept you.”
“Yep, it was either Vegas or the circus, the two places where freaks are appreciated.”
“No, I’m serious,” Jules said.
Max leaned back in his chair holding his glass with both hands against his chest and looking at the ceiling. “I never understood that question. What does it even mean? Are you asking, Where was I born? Where did I grow up? Where have I lived the longest? Where do I identify most with? Where am I living now? We’re all a product of the places we’ve been and the people we’ve met, so if you’re asking the question to understand more about me, to fully answer it, I need to answer all of these.”
His long-winded, evasive response dampened her curiosity, and the mood. “That’s OK. Never mind.” She put her glass on the desk. “I think the armagnac made me a little loopy. It’s none of my business.”
Max didn’t mean to be a buzzkill. He just viewed people as more of a jigsaw puzzle than a mystery. He didn’t mind providing the pieces, or even occasionally showing a glimpse of the final version, but he wasn’t going to do the work for others. The truth was that Max was born to a mother he never knew in a city he never grew up in. Because he was given up for adoption at birth, Max never felt the urge to find his biological mother or any other information except that he was born in Outer Drive Hospital in the suburb of Lincoln Park in Detroit and adopted by a young couple in Monroe, a small town of around twenty thousand people forty-minutes south on I-75 in Michigan. He said, “You sure? Really, it’s OK. I don’t mind answering.”
Jules stood up and looked at her watch. “No, really. I get it. Today is about the future, not the past.” She held her hand across the desk. “Congratulations. Thanks for bringing me along for the ride.”
Max shook her hand. “It’s you I should be thanking. This is the start of a whole new journey for all of us.” Jules nodded in appreciation and turned to walk out. Max said, “Jules?” She stopped in the doorway, turning around. He said, “Monroe. I’m from Monroe, Michigan.” He attempted to bring some of the comfort they had only moments ago back into the room. “Me, General Custer, and La-Z-Boy furniture.”
Jules said, “Well, I guess now I know where you get your ‘never back down from a fight, but know when it’s time to kick back and relax’ philosophy of doing business.” She winked at him and walked toward the door, talking over her shoulder. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night,” Max said, pouring another glass of armagnac. He scooted his chair to the desk and looked down to review the press release one more time.
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
CONTACT: Iris Green, 702-555-0506
Email: [email protected]
McDonald’s and Max Doler Partner on McLapkin Giveaway
Oak Brook, IL—McDonald’s Corp. (NYSE: MCD) and Max Doler Industries have announced a partnership to produce a special edition version of Max Doler’s widely popular Lapkin. The McLapkin will be a similar version, made of the same durable water-resistant material, and also include a holster to attach to the car seat like the Lapkin available through the infomercial and website (maxdoler.com), but with McDonald’s branding.
“We recognize the time pressures our customers face,” said Jesse Cash, McDonald’s Chief Brand and Strategy Officer. “But providing a McLapkin for all drive-thru orders is more about safety than efficiency. If our customers choose to eat on the go, we want them to arrive safely and not worry about any accidental drops or spills.”
When asked about the partnership with McDonald’s, Max Doler, founder and CEO of MDI, said, “I’m loving it! Millions of customers across the world have already benefited from the Lapkin. We’re excited to extend that value through McDonald’s.”
About Max Doler Inc.: Max Doler Industries (MDI), founded in 2008 by entrepreneur Max Doler, is the creator and producer of the Lapkin, the napkin designed for your lap, which has shipped to over 10 million customers worldwide. Based in Las Vegas, NV, MDI is a developer and owner of patents, inventions, and real estate holdings. To learn more about MDI, please visit www.maxdoler.com and follow on Facebook www.facebook.com/maxdoler and Twitter @MaxDoler.
About McDonald’s : McDonald’s is the world’s leading global food service retailer with more than thirty five thousand locations serving approximately 70 million customers in more than one hundred countries each day. More than 80 percent of McDonald’s restaurants worldwide are owned and operated by independent local business women and men. To learn more about the company, please visit: www.mcdonalds.com/us/en/home.html and follow us on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/mcdonaldscorp) and Twitter @McDonaldsCorp.
Dow Jones Close: 16,025.53
Chapter Seven
Date: Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Dow Jones Open: 15,840.84
Crystal rolled down Fourth Street on her rusted beach cruiser, her purse nested in the front basket. Her first bicycle had been nicer, but it got stolen a week after she got it, from OGs of all places. If it had happened at Siegel Suites or outside the El Cortez, she could’ve understood that. But at a strip club? Who leaves the club and decides to steal a bike? A person can afford twenty-dollar lap dances but not a cab ride? Maybe the thief needed to dry the wet spot on the front of his pants before he got home. Maybe she had made that wet spot. If she had, at least she got paid.
Regardless, she refused to pay more than fifty bucks for a new bike again. The way she figured it, that was less than three lap dances. Even if the person left the club and stole her bike, she would still be ten dollars to the good. She had found this used bike at an EZ Pawn for forty. That was eight months ago. No matter what happened now, it was paid for, and she was playing on house money.
Crystal churned the pedals, picking up speed down Fourth Street. The hot evening air blasted her in the face. The tall buildings on each side of the long one-way connecting Charleston and Fremont Streets caused the wind to swirl, offering little relief other than keeping the dust off. The fronds on the Mexican fan palms lining the street waved above. The hot part of the day had passed, and everything was in transition. While many downtowns at this time of day prepared for the evening commute and rolled up the sidewalks, Vegas, like her, was just waking up.
In a few hours this now-barren street would be buzzing with cabs shuffling tourists, eager to escape the mega resorts on the strip, downtown to explore old Vegas. But for now she was alone, and she was happy. She couldn’t say that too often anymore. That’s probably why she started every day with a bike ride. While she might end her days being unhealthy, snorting pills, she never planned it that way. It just happened. At some point something or someone would alter her course and send her to negative town. First stop usually involved alcohol, then drugs. After that, the bad decisions seemed to come fast and furious. They were like storm clouds, never happening in isolation, just rolling in one after the other, each bringing their own inclement circumstances.
Crystal, like most downtown visitors wanting to step back in time, didn’t realize the trip itself was a history lesson, with the cross streets named after early Western visionaries: Gass, Garces, Bonneville, Clark, and Lewis.
She turned right on Carson, crossed Las Vegas Boulevard past the post office, and angled toward the Carson Hotel sign still perched on the mid-century modern building that was for its first fifty years a hotel, then a flophouse, but recently had been refurbished for office, retail, and restaurant space as part of the ongoing urban revitalization.
Crystal leaned her bike against the front of the building and went inside to one of the new tenants, Grass Roots, a superfood-based juice and smoothie bar. Healthy choices weren’t the easiest to find in Vegas, but she had learned—when she was singing and dancing in the show at the Wynn and cared about her body—they were around. She just had to look and be willing to bypass all the $0.99 margaritas, $1 hot dogs, and $4.99 prime rib specials strategically positioned to entice people, hoping that if they indulged on one thing it would lead to others and eventually land them at the tables. She didn’t need any help there. She knew that route just fine.
The female rawmixologist with a fifties poodle-cut and a tattoo of Betty Boop on one arm and a naked Brigitte Bardot covering her body with a guitar on the other rang in Crystal’s order. “Holy Grail of Greens, yeah?”
Crystal smiled. “I’m so predictable, right?” She placed a ten on the bar, waved off any change and slid down the counter to collect her drink.
The other tenants of the building included a gourmet doughnut shop, a contemporary American restaurant, a flower shop, a tattoo parlor, and a sushi bar. All were connected on the inside by a central landscaped courtyard with fire pits and other communal areas to encourage intermingling of the guests. This was the new old Vegas. While the sign outside still displayed John E. Carson Hotel, with such an eclectic mix of tenants and communal aspirations, it might as well be flashing “Hipster Hang” in neon.
A group of people spilled in from the hallway leading to the courtyard. Based on their clothes and overheated state, Crystal guessed the hot yoga class in the studio upstairs had just finished. She pulled her hat low and drifted toward the wall. For someone who used to audition in front of total strangers critiquing every move, and who now stripped for a living, she had become extremely shy and antisocial, almost as if taking off her clothes had added layers between her and the outside world rather than peeling them away. It wasn’t that she knew a lot of people or was trying to avoid anyone in particular. She just didn’t like people too much in general anymore. They always seemed to disappoint her. It was a pretty simple equation. The less interaction there was, the less chance to let her down.
By moving into the Siegel Suites, she had reduced her world to about thirteen blocks: the five south of Charleston to OGs, and eight north to the El Cortez. All in all, her life stretched across a total of about a mile and a half. Everything she needed was in between. She rarely had to or wanted to venture outside this urban cocoon she had created to protect herself or, probably more accurately, imprison herself. Outside of her time playing blackjack at the El Cortez, picking up a to-go order somewhere, or dancing in the club, she really didn’t interact with anyone, and she was completely fine with that.
Waiting for her juice amid the wailing blenders, she felt eyes on her, scanning up and down. She moved closer toward the wall. Her gaze remained fixed on the floor. No eye contact was one of the first rules of remaining anonymous, she had learned.
A woman’s voice mixed with the yowl of the juicer. “Didn’t we play blackjack together the other night?”
Crystal held her position and pretended not to hear, skimming her hand across the blades of wheatgrass in a pot on the counter.
The woman followed her voice, stopping right next to Crystal. “Hey there. I think we played blackjack together the other night.”
Crystal realized she couldn’t avoid the woman any longer. She glanced at the person making her juice, who was still adding ingredients to the blender. It would be a few more minutes before she could snag her drink and escape. Crystal looked over at the woman. It was Nip-Tuck Barbie. Crystal released a reluctant smile. “I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”
“Sure was. I recognized your hat. We played blackjack together at the El Cortez. Remember there was that drama with that midget splitting tens. He thought he knew you. I think he said your name was Faith.” She held out her hand. “I’m Penny.”
Crystal reluctantly reciprocated the handshake. “Actually, my name’s Crystal.”
“Boy, he wasn’t even close,” Penny said.
“No, he was right. Faith is my stage name.” She eyed the person snapping the lid on her juice, ready to make a quick getaway. Unfortunately Penny was directly in her path. There was no easy egress without going through her, and Penny didn’t seem willing to relent.
“I know that game, honey. I hated using my real name on air. Too many weirdos out there.” Penny apparently noticed her sweaty, disheveled appearance in the plexiglass counterguard. She took the hairband out of her limp ponytail, pulled her hair tight, and refastened the band. “Geez, I look a fright. I love the hot yoga class upstairs, but I wish I could shower after.” She studied her reflection, tucking a few stray strands behind her ears. “Ugh, what a mess.”
Crystal smiled and made a move for her juice, which was finished and waiting on the edge of the counter, unfortunately right next to Penny’s. When Crystal grabbed hers, Penny picked up the one for her and walked alongside Crystal toward the door.
Penny said, “What are you doing now? Want to go for a walk?” Penny must’ve sensed Crystal’s answer was going to be no, because she never gave her a chance to respond. Penny just kept talking. “Sorry to be so forward. You’re probably like, ‘Why is this scary girl stalking me?’ The truth is I’m pretty new to Vegas and don’t know a lot of people.” Penny opened the door for Crystal. “So how ‘bout it? I was going to walk over to the Container Park and check it out.”
Crystal reached for her bike. “Sorry, I rode here.”
“Bring it along,” Penny said, putting a hand on the opposite side of the handlebar. “Friends don’t let friends juice and ride.”
Crystal was used to dealing with pushy people—mostly men, of course. She could’ve instantly shut Penny down if she wanted to. She thought for a moment, looking at Penny’s hand on her bike. “You’re not really giving me much of a choice, are you?”
Penny said, “Come on, it’s only a few blocks. What can it hurt?”
“OK, but I’m really not much of a conversationalist.” She walked on the opposite side of the bike, mirroring Penny, her right hand resting on the handlebar, left hand on the juice, the bike a protective barrier in the middle. She felt safe with the bike between them, like at any time she could just hop on and ride away if she felt uncomfortable. After all, it wasn’t like there was any real physical danger from Penny. She knew, if it came to that, she could easily take Penny, treating those surgically enhanced lips and breasts like speed bags. Her main reservation was that she just didn’t trust Penny. People in Vegas weren’t this friendly unless they wanted something. The question was, what exactly did Penny want?
They walked down Sixth Street in silence, the awkwardness mounting with each step. At Fremont they turned right, across from the El Cortez. Penny took a long pull from her juice. “I probably wouldn’t have to be such a freak about my health if I didn’t drink so much. I spend all this time and money on yoga, skin care, and organic juices, then wash it all away with vodka.” She released an uncomfortable laugh.
Crystal wished she could just stop at vodka. She said, “Whatever gets you through the day, right?”
Penny motioned toward the El Cortez. “That was a crazy night, huh? Is that guy always such a dick?”
“Pretty much,” Crystal said. “He acts like the world owes him something for making him short.”
“From what I hear, he’s doing pretty well. More like he owes the world. Did you and your girlfriend really take him for five grand?”
Still unsure how open she was willing to be, Crystal hes
itated, considering the question as they crossed Seventh Street toward the entrance to the Downtown Container Park, an outdoor shopping, dining, and entertainment center made from pseudo–shipping containers stacked on top of each other with a children’s playground in the center. At the entrance a thirty-five-foot green, metallic praying mantis transplanted from Burning Man blasted smoke and fire, startling both of them.
Crystal said, “We didn’t take anything from that asshole that night. These fucking guys want to come into a place with naked women willing to rub up against them, have unlimited access to alcohol and whatever else they want, the option to go to a private room to do whatever they choose, and then vehemently object and play the victim when they lose their heads. Fuck that. They get exactly what they deserve. If they lose control, that’s on them.”
Penny, apparently sensing she struck a nerve, backed off. She looked around at the three levels of stacked containers. “Well, this is an interesting place.” They strolled along the edge of the playground. Children screamed, twisting down the thirty-foot slide. “Where do you think all these kids come from? I didn’t realize so many families were living downtown.”
“They don’t. They drive in from surrounding areas on a safari to witness us weirdos in our natural habitat.” She pointed at a table next to the playground. “Want to sit down?”
Penny bristled, looking at the children. “Let’s get out of the splash zone. I’m not that into kids.” She angled toward the table farthest away from the playground on the edge of the lawn in front of the stage where live bands play on the weekends. Crystal rested her bike in the grass and joined Penny at the table. “You from Vegas?” Penny asked.
“God, no,” Crystal said. “Is anyone? I moved here from LA to launch a show at the Wynn.”
Penny continued her seemingly unending stream of questions, firing one after another. “What happened?” “Why’d you stop performing?” “How’d you end up stripping?”