ST3.1 | "Tempting Destiny"
PROMPT: The holidays are over, and it's time to get back on the straight and narrow. Easier said than done, though. This month, we want stories about overindulgence. Opulence. Living beyond your means. Whether that's money, drugs, generosity, or viciousness, we want stories about people who overdo it, and what happens when they realize they’re in a hole they can’t hope to fill.
TEMPTING DESTINY
by LIsa Robertson
When I got on the Greyhound to Las Vegas, my grandpa sent me off with $825 and three unbreakable rules:
Make your own destiny.
Pay for everything in cash.
Never trust a southpaw.
The money didn’t last long, but the advice stuck with me, and—for the most part—it’s served me well. That doesn’t mean I don’t slip up sometimes. I’ve learned that when you break one or even two of Grandpa’s rules, it’s not a big deal. But when you manage to complete the trifecta, you might find yourself in one jackpot of a crisis.
Grandpa didn’t need to tell me to make my own destiny—that’s something I’ve done naturally all my life. It’s right there in my name. You have to be a self-starter with a name like Destineé.
I always thought my destiny was to be a showgirl at one of the big casinos—the classy kind with feathered headdresses and sequined pasties. I’ve been working towards this dream my whole life. I started taking classes at Miss Althea’s School of Dance at two. I was captain of the varsity kick line all four years of high school. That’s unprecedented.
But in Vegas it doesn’t matter how fast you pick up choreography or how flexible you are. To be in a fancy show, you gotta be at least a hundred feet tall, have huge tits and an ass you can bounce a quarter off of.
Fail. Fail. And fail.
At my sixth audition, a choreographer told me the only way I would ever dance on the Strip was if I was spinning around a pole.
I didn’t leave Oklahoma to become a stripper. I could’ve done that back in Tahlequah. But if you want to control your own destiny, you don’t tuck your tail beneath what that choreographer called “a truly colossal ass” and get on a bus headed home. No, you suck up your pride, get hired on the day shift at Boobapalooza and start saving all those rolled up twenties.
Boobapalooza is like the Denny’s of titty bars: super-focused on volume, less concerned with quality. We’ve got a $7.77 surf-and-turf lunch special and $20 lap dances from 2-4. Customers won’t needle you too much if they’re getting a ribeye and lobster tail for under ten bucks and the opportunity to motorboat a stripper for twenty. We are straight-up packed around the clock.
Of course, to make real money on the day shift, you gotta hustle. Smile a lot. Throw your hair around. Act halfway in love with every guy that even thinks about looking your way.
The best part is that the fruit of all that labor gets delivered in cash—that’s a bonus when it comes to rule number two. I paid for my boob job in cash. These full Cs got me promptly promoted to the twilight shift where the real magic happens.
In most titty bars, the best strategy is having regulars. But in Vegas, it’s mostly tourists. Finding a regular here is like finding a unicorn. And when you do find one, you better lock that horn down.
My unicorn’s name? Mr. Louie.
Every girl in Vegas—stripper or not—knows some version of Mr. Louie. An older guy with a shiny suit, gold nugget jewelry and a very sketchy employment history. They tend to brand themselves as entrepreneurs. It’s no coincidence that entrepreneur rhymes with manure—these guys are mostly full of shit.
What makes Mr. Louie different is that even though he looks and acts like a million other Guy Fieri wannabes, he has the cash to back up his play. Plus, he’s got a fully exploitable soft spot for ambitious girls from Oklahoma.
Mr. Louie hands out hundreds the way you would give a puppy a treat when it finally pees outside. He’s had three heart attacks, so he avoids lap dances like the plague. Mostly he just likes to talk: about the people he knows and the stuff he owns. I spend a lot of time listening, asking questions, and looking fascinated.
To be honest, Mr. Louie is kind of fascinating. Because for someone without a job, he has a lot of cash. When I first met him, he claimed to be a boxing coach, but I knew that was a lie. After a couple of months, Mr. Louie asked me if I wanted to know how he really made his money.
Yes. Yes, I did.
Turns out, he was involved in boxing, but not as a coach. He fixed fights. And he started telling me which ones to bet on. Betting on a fight—even a fixed one—is not for the faint of heart. Sometimes boxers get squirrely. Or word gets out, too much money gets bet and the whole thing gets called off. According to Mr. Louie, the trick is to not bet more than you can afford to lose. Start small. Build a bankroll. Keep it to yourself. Always play the long game.
It's good advice, but it sure is hard to follow. There’s a lot of temptation in this town. I’m not stupid. I know stripping is not a job I can retire from—there’s no 401(k). So, it’s been a relief to find a side hustle that doesn’t involve gyrating in a thong. I’ve been looking for the right fight with the right odds for a long time. When I finally found it, I decided to go all in.
***
Mr. Louie liked to bring the guys he worked with into the club. He was always introducing me to some promoter or manager or fighter, asking me to show them a good time. To me, they were just guys to grind on. I didn’t think too much about them until heavyweight contender and all-around hottie Benji “Get Some Action” Jackson sauntered into Boobapalooza.
Boxers are not attractive dudes. They’ve got those awful cauliflower ears, and getting punched in the head all the time doesn’t do a whole lot for their intellect either. But Benji? 205 pounds of solid muscle with high cheekbones and skin the color of coffee with just one splash of cream. Nevada doesn’t get a whole lot of earthquakes, but the ground surely moved when that man walked into my life.
When Mr. Louie introduced us, Benji took my hand and said, “Destineé? With a name like that, I should make you part of mine.” Guys say stupid shit like that to me all the time. But when Benji said it with his slow Georgia drawl, I was done. I didn’t even care that it was his left hand that he extended.
Benji and I didn’t slow roll it, and we didn’t try to hide it either. If it bothered Mr. Louie, he didn’t say anything. He had a lot invested in Benji, and he said it was in both our best interests to keep Benji happy. So, I did.
Being left-handed is a big advantage for boxers. Benji was legit—ranked eighth in the world and due for a title fight. But last week, Mr. Louie told Benji he had to throw his next fight.
The fight in question . . . not a good one to lose. It was against a straight-up chump from an Eastern European country with hardly any vowels. He’s fat. He’s slow. His training regimen consists of vodka and Eurotrash hookers named Katarzyna. The guy hasn’t won a fight in two years. If Benji lost to him, he’d lose his shot at the belt, too.
And while this was bad news for Benji, it was great news for me. I didn’t want to piss Benji off by betting against him, but I figured a $300K payday to take a dive in the fifth ought to be enough to soften any blow to his pride.
When Mr. Louie tells you to lose, you lose, and since Benji couldn’t say no, I saw no reason not to say yes.
The only problem was with my bankroll. Or lack thereof. I had recently “invested” in some pretty dumb shit. Mostly designer handbags, bottle service and a quarter partnership in a hydroponic marijuana grow house on the north side. The good news was I paid cash for everything. The bad news? I didn’t have any cash left—just some weak weed and a couple cute purses.
This fight was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Usually, the odds are like three to two, maybe five to one if you’re lucky. Benji was favored 40 to 1. Forty to one—that’s Tyson-Douglas odds.
When opportunity knocks, smart girls answer the door.
I went all in. Maxed out every credit card I had with the biggest cash advances I could get. And I put every cent of it on the chump. Benji said he understood. Between what he’d make from throwing the fight and how much I stood to win from betting on it, we’d be set.
Mr. Louie and I sat right down front on fight night as Benji’s special guests. When Benji came to the ring in his gold lamé robe with black leather trim and “Get Some Action” embroidered on the back, he looked like a biracial Elvis.
His opponent looked like a beachball with legs. Benji was supposed to dance around the guy until the fifth, let him get in one good punch then take a dive.
This should have been the big score we’d been waiting for, but destiny had a mind of its own that night. I guess, technically, it was Benji with the mind of his own. Because right at the opening bell, the love of my life jogged right over to the chump, yelled “always bet on black” and clocked the guy with an uppercut from that big old left hand of his.
Talk about a sucker punch.
Fifty thousand dollars in 15 seconds. That’s what I lost. I can’t imagine what Benji was thinking. And it’s not like I can ask him, cause in all the commotion, he hightailed it back to the dressing room and right out the backdoor. Rumor has it he’s waiting for things to blow over in Mexico. I sure hope Montezuma’s isn’t the only revenge he’s getting served down there.
I still got off a lot easier than poor Mr. Louie. He tried to rush the ring, got caught up in the ropes and had a fatal heart attack right next to the catatonic chump.
Two suckers down for the count.
One southpaw headed down to the border.
And me left holding a cute little designer bag and a whole lot of high-interest debt.
***
My grandpa told me that in the Middle Ages, folks thought left-handed people were possessed by the devil. There may be some truth to that. One thing’s for certain—nothing good ever comes from trusting a southpaw, especially Benji Jackson.
It’s got me thinking that maybe it’s time I stop looking for reasons to break Grandpa’s rules and start living them instead.
Make my own destiny.
Be my own damn unicorn.
Mr. Louie was a good talker, but I’m a better listener. He taught me everything there is to know about fixing fights, and he introduced me to every major player in Vegas, too—including a right-handed heavyweight with two felony convictions and one serious crush on me named Ricky “The Mexicutioner” Ramirez.
It wasn’t hard to get Ricky on board for a little road trip to Ensenada. One way or the other, I’m getting my $50K back. One way is simply appealing to Benji’s sense of fairness. The other? Well, that’s why The Mexicutioner is along for the ride. It’d be a shame if Ricky had to shatter Benji’s high cheekbones. But Benji made his choice, And I’ve made mine.
After that, I figure I’ll pick up where Mr. Louie left off—start calling the shots for a change. I’m done leaving things to fate. Or men. From now on, my primary investment will be in Destineé.
Lisa Robertson is a magazine editor and features writer living in the middle of nowhere, Texas. You can find more stories from Lisa at Writer's Playground and Next Tribe. When she's not writing, Lisa is usually baking or spoiling her grandson (often with things she bakes).