Writer's Debate

But again, that’s all spoiler material, as much as I hate to sound like a broken record. Anyway. Don’t worry, Dr. Bruce. I’ll keep it short. In the summer of 1979, I went to Las Vegas with my parents to celebrate my birthday. Sure, I wasn’t allowed to drink yet, but I was determined, and begged - or really, ordered - my parents to take me. And they did. We drove there, all the way from Beverly Hills. My parents still had a bizarre fetish for driving themselves everywhere in their prized convertible, bought at the behest of my mother. I didn’t mind, of course. I loved the feeling of riding in that car, the wind from driving whipping hair around my face, the sun reflecting off my larger-than-life sunglasses and perfect tan on my teenage skin. Hey, what’s that one song that came out, oh...eight years ago or so? I heard it so much on the radio here. You know, the one that goes, Beverly Hills, that’s where I want to be! Yeah, if that song was around back then, I’d be blaring it from the radio of that car. It would have been my anthem. Not anymore, of course. But where was I? Yes, yes, I know you, Doctor. You’re probably chuckling softly to yourself in your La-Z Boy chair, or on your couch (do psychologists see the irony in having couches to lay on in there own homes?), or wherever. You know I’m a rambler, and I can go off on tangents easily. I remember asking you about that. I said, “Dr. Bruce, you’re a psychologist. Do you have the faintest clue about why I go off on tangents so much?” Do you remember what you said? You looked at me with the cleverest little smirk on your face, and said jokingly, “Haven’t a clue. It’s one of the greatest mysteries of psychology.” I remember you looked a little bit sad though when you said it; even with my age, I noticed it. Maybe you did have a clue, I don’t know. Maybe you’d say, “It’s because you don’t want to get to the point. Because the point hurts too much.” I don’t know. But whether it hurts or not, that’s what this tape is all about. The point. So, let’s get to it. Like I said, I drove with my parents all the way to Las Vegas: just me and them. And Zech, who, being the love of my life then, rode with me in the backseat of the convertible. I still remember his smile whenever he or I would make a joke, how the white of his teeth would stand out against his thin, but chiseled, tanned face, and how his sea-blue eyes would shine with delight, as though they were laughing along with him. Of course, it wasn’t just me and my parents and Zech, but I also had a whole limo-full of friends - most of them from the Hills like me, some the children of the old white folks in Century City, all of them rich - following close behind our car as we grand-marshalled Persephone’s Birthday Parade across the Mojave. If only things could’ve stayed that way. But of course, as all things go in life, something always comes along to screw it all up, and the same was true in the fall of ‘79. Now, I could describe all the wild escapades that happened in the good ol’ LV, I could. But, a man of your education and expertise in the inner workings of the human psyche can probably take a guess at what a bunch of spoiled, naive, and stupid late teens like us would be doing in a city so full of sin and glamor like Las Vegas. The short, couth answer? Foolishness. The long, crude answer? I won’t even bother. Let’s leave the details to your beautifully imaginative mind, Doctor. However, there was one detail that I can’t leave to your imagination. One that I’ve gone over with you, and one that I need to tell if I’m ever going to actually finish telling you why I’m leaving New York. Late into the trip, literally the day before we were all to pack up and leave, I found myself in need of funds to gamble some more at Caesar’s Palace, our hotel. After a few minutes of badgering my father for money, he finally caved in and we both made our way down to the lobby to withdraw the maximum - only the best for Princess Persephone - from the ATM. While dad was working the machine, my captors burst through the door and into the lobby. There were three - two younger men with guns, and an old, large fellow with nothing but a cigar - and they all wore suits. Being the naive little child of the Hills that I was, I had no inclination that these men were mafiosi. The whole idea of the mafia to me was just something that existed solely within movies, within the dreamland of Hollywood. But regardless of what I thought, these men were the genuine article, real live mafia men. And they were here to take what they could from the Palace as they yelled “All right, everybody, you know the drill. Get down!” My father, looking like a deer caught in the headlights, complied, and ushered me to do so too. Seeing the guns, I really didn’t have a choice, and I followed his lead. A couple of security guards emerged, pistols in hand, as though just having the guns wouldn’t require them to actually fire. This mistake was fatal as I, with my face to the ground, heard the loud pops from the mafiosi’s guns. I gasped audibly. After a few moments, and hearing the men’s shoes clack on the marble floor with a purpose, I dared to look up. The two guards lay on the ground, one sprawled on the ground like a ragdoll, clearly dead. The other was curled up in the fetal position, gripping his stomach, as blood cascaded between his fingers. He’d soon be joining his brother-in-arms at the Pearly Gates, I knew that too. Then, noticing one of the men’s heads turning toward me, I quickly put my own back down. The wait was agonizing, even though it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes as one man robbed the ATMs by smashing them, stepping right over us in the process, another took cash from the nearest chip exchange window in the casino area, and the last stood guard. I wondered to myself why they were doing this, when I realized: this was about sending a message to the right people, not about getting money. Money was cheap. And it was at about this time that I quickly felt a cold hand grip the scruff of my neck and pull me up to a kneeling position. Turning my eyes upward, I saw that it was one of the younger men with a hold on me, who had slicked back hair. The older man stood in front of me, smoking that awful smelling cigar. As I felt something like rope being wound around my wrists in front of me, the old man spoke in a slow, measured voice, but quiet so that only my father could hear him before he started to protest: “Mr. Young, you’re quite the prolific man of business, so I’m sure you can forgive us when I tell you that us taking your daughter is just business. Don’t worry. You’ll get her back safe and sound in no time.” He turned to everyone in the lobby, speaking loud enough now for everyone to hear him. It was then that I noticed Zech, laying on the floor on the other side of the lobby, looking dead into me eyes with fear, and love. “We have this man’s daughter, and if the police are sent after us, we will end her life. So please remember that, and choose your next few moves wisely. Let’s go, boys. Ms. Young.” And with that, my nightmare began as I was led out the door and into the trunk of the most beautiful lime green Cadillac I ever saw, then and now. It was hellish in that dark, cramped trunk, and I was so scared I couldn’t even move or speak, or scream. Luckily, the money wasn’t dumped in there with me, so I had some room to breath, and I placed my cheek against the quasi-carpeted floor of the trunk, trying to comfort myself. And before I knew it, I was asleep. Funny how when your entire world falls to Hell and your life is in danger, the mind is so quick to shut down. Maybe to try and ignore. To forget. Either way, I was knocked out, and thank God for that.