I’m sitting in my car, an old Honda Civic, staring at room #6 in the Starlight Motel on the Vegas Strip. The car’s clock ticked past 11 pm, and I was late. My gaze was drawn to the car’s mirror, where I saw an unfamiliar, heavily made-up face. The guy said his name was Harold, probably a fake one, and that he was in Vegas for some boring two-day convention.
I opened the car door and heard the rusted hinges squeak, panicking that someone would hear it and recognize me. I see clouds of bugs buzzing around a green-and-yellow neon sign, with bright stars shooting into the sky. The motel office screen door banged, but nobody seemed to notice. Through the streaked office window, I see the clerk, an older woman, with smoke drifting above a very large head. She didn’t pay me any attention, but I want her to shout, “Go home.” My favourite Eagles song, “Hotel California,” floats out the office window, while a soft drink machine on the nearby wall hums to the beat.
I look down at my purple dress, and it feels soft like silk. It’s tight against my skin and barely covers my ass. I pull the dress down as low as it will go, but that exposes more of my cleavage. My nails are painted red, and my shoes are a sparkling silver. Why didn’t anything match?
From a distance, I hear Hank, my latest boyfriend, yelling at me: “Monica, if you do this, I’m out of here,” but his voice fades away. Anger swells in my throat, and I punch my car’s hood, but I don’t feel any pain.
I start walking toward room #6, apprehension building inside me as beads of perspiration drip from my armpits. I need the money. I see my son Jimmy walking barefoot through a park across the street, asking for new shoes, and I remember my landlord demanding my overdue rent.
I approach room #6 and notice that the door is the only one painted red. I knock on the motel door and hear some shuffling inside.
“Who’s there?” I hear from behind the door, and I see a bulging eyeball in the little peephole.
“Hi, it’s Priscila; we made plans to get together tonight.”
The door opens, and a large man appears, silhouetted by a dim light. He is bald, easily over 300 pounds, and wearing a stained football jersey that covers his beer belly.
He burps and looks at my face in shock.
I scream, “Daddy, what are you doing here?”
A scream like nails scratching a blackboard. It is so loud it wakes little Jimmy beside me in bed.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” Jimmy asked.
“What, where am I? Oh no, I had that nightmare again.” I start to hyperventilate.
“Mom, take deep breaths; try to slow down. You were dreaming.”
I sit up in bed and reach over to turn on the bedside light, but the bulb is burned out. I silently swear and ask Jimmy to turn on the light on his side. Yes, that side where Hank used to sleep. Hank accused me of cheating on him, but he didn’t believe me when I said I had not; it was just a bad dream. After he left, I brought Jimmy into my double bed as I don’t like sleeping alone.
“Mom, are we going to be OK? I’m hungry and tired of mac n cheese dinners.”
“Jimmy, we are going to be fine. I need to find some work that pays me enough to take good care of both of us.” I know times won’t be easy on our own. Our basement apartment is a dump, but the rent is cheap, and I can’t afford anything better.
“Mom, why did Hank leave? I liked him.”
“Good question, I don’t really know. Hank is a bit of a drifter, so I think he just moved on.” I couldn’t tell Jimmy that his mother had trouble with long-term relationships.
“Go back to sleep; I will get us a nice Sunday breakfast when we wake up.”
I tried to fall asleep, but was terrified that I would have that nightmare again. It’s always the same story. I’m dressed like a hooker, going to meet a strange man in a strange motel room, and I discover that the man is my Dad. All my life, growing up, my Dad called me a loser. He said I was no good at anything and that no man would ever want to marry me.
I finally give in, get up, shower, and start prepping for breakfast.
My degree in culinary arts from the local college hangs on a wall in my apartment, but all I could find was a job as a waitress at a delicatessen on the strip. I work the late-night shift from Monday to Friday, so I serve all kinds of weirdos. Casino dancers, taxi drivers, and hotel workers, stopping for some late-night food before heading home. All of them were selling out their hopes and dreams to survive, something I vowed never to do.
One night, Betsy, a regular, told me that if I needed money, I should work at the local strip club with her. She claimed that, even with my modest looks, I could earn $500 a night, but I said no because I have a degree and I’m going to be a famous bakery chef. “Good luck, sis,” she replied.
I had snuck a few eggs and some bread from the deli after my shift, so I whipped up some scrambled eggs and toast for Jimmy.
“Mom, do I have to go to school today? Asked Jimmy as I set out his food on the folding table.
“Yes, you need an education to get a good job when you get older,” I replied.
“But you got a degree, and you aren’t a cook.”
“I’m just paying my dues, my dear, and waiting for my big break.” Maybe my Dad was right, and I’m a loser. No, don’t go there; don’t let him get in my head. I will be successful, I tell myself over and over. I had been a star student at culinary school, and my teachers thought I had a special gift, especially when it came to baking.
With Jimmy off to school, I brew some coffee from a jar Hank left and open the newspaper to read the job classifieds. I am discouraged by the lack of new openings for a bakery chef, but I noticed a small ad for a new baking television show. They were looking for contestants.
I cut the ad out of the newspaper, put it in my pocket, and went to the local library to use a computer to learn more about the show. It is a contest to find the next bakery chef for one of Las Vegas’s most popular restaurants, owned by a British celebrity chef. The TV show’s website said auditions were being held next week, and interested bakers needed to submit a resume and a video of themselves making their favourite recipe.
My initial excitement fades. I don’t have any actual restaurant baking experience to put on a resume, and I don’t know how to make a video. My kitchen is too small and has seen better days, and I don’t have money for ingredients. Walking home, I have a brilliant idea. I can contact my professor at the culinary school and ask about using their kitchen facilities. Someone in the communications program could take the video; all I would need is the ingredients for my Chocolate Raspberry Avalanche Cake. Next stop: Trader Joe’s for a bit of sticky-figure shopping.
A month goes by, and I still haven’t heard a thing from the TV producers. I had to cancel my cell phone, so the only way they can contact me is by mail. I put in some overtime at the deli, baking apple pies, to make some extra money so Jimmy and I can eat better. Hank came back last week and gave me some cash. He said he felt bad about leaving me with all the bills.
I open my mailbox for the second time today and see a letter from a Los Angeles address. I tear it open and read the words so fast the message hardly registers. They have selected me as a contestant on this new baking contest that starts in two weeks, right here in Vegas.
That was five years ago. I placed second in the baking contest, which caught the eye of some Hollywood bigwigs. I now have my own baking TV show, broadcast around the world; I’ve written two cookbooks that have sold over a million copies, and I am regularly invited onto talk shows. Jimmy and I moved to LA, and we now live in a Malibu house by the ocean.
I also don’t have nightmares anymore. Gone are the days when my Dad’s cruel treatment of me defined my life. I have proven to myself that I have gifts that have enabled me to succeed as a mother and chef. I still have trouble with relationships, so I stopped dating a few years ago, which reduced a lot of stress in my life.
“Mom, are you going to come to my high school graduation ceremony?” Asked Jimmy as he ate his breakfast.
“Of course, I know I’m very busy these days, but I have left that day completely open.”
“I’m going to miss you when I go off to university in the fall,” he said. Jimmy had been accepted into the Culinary Institute of America in New York, the top school in the country. He has been cooking with me ever since we moved to LA, and he wants to start his own restaurant after he graduates. I agreed to be his first investor.
“I will miss you too. I have been approached about making a movie to be filmed in New York to help us stay connected. And there are also summer breaks when you can come back to LA.”
The front doorbell rings, breaking our conversation. I walk to the front of the house and check the security camera screen. I notice a beat-up truck in the driveway and an older man dressed like a hobo. I wasn’t expecting anyone, certainly not someone looking for a handout.
I pressed the intercom button and said, “Yes, who is it?”
“Monica, it’s your Dad. I’ve come to mend fences, and I want us to be father and daughter again,” he replied.
I opened the door and pointed my little pistol at his chest.
“Make my day, you little mother fucker.”
He stumbled backward and almost fell on the front lawn. “Monica, I need your help. I always knew you would become a star.”
I fired once, hitting the passenger window of his truck.
“Get lost,” I said as I slammed the front door shut.
I walked back into the kitchen, feeling no remorse for turning him away. He was cruel to me as a child, but I proved him wrong and had absolutely no desire to be anywhere near him again, either in a dream or in real life.
Jimmy asked who was at the front door and what those loud sounds were.
“It was just some jerk looking for money, and his old truck backfired. Now, let’s make some plans for our summer vacation. Are we going to Nantucket again this year?”
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