A couple of stools up from me at the bar at Caesars Palace, at 4am was a girl in her twenties, straw blonde hair, pale blue eyes, a Scandinavian look. Between the two of us, we had the bar to ourselves.
She was emptying her pockets onto the bar in front of her, piling up screwed up bills and casino chips.
“Looks like you have had a good night,” I said, gesturing towards the growing heap of notes and chips on the bar.
“Not bad,” she laughed, “but I am a waitress, so I always win. How about you, have you had a good night on the tables?”
“Pretty good, I made a few hundred dollars,” I replied.
The barman brought my coffee over, and I looked to the girl.
“Can I get you a drink?” I asked.
She looked up, with a big smile. “Yeah, that would be great.” She turned to the barman, “I will have a JD, please Carlo.” He nodded and brought her drink, in a flash, he clearly knew her drink before she even ordered it.
I reached out my hand to her.
“I am Alisdair.”
She jumped down from her bar stool, shook my hand, jumped up onto the stool next to me, reached out her left arm and scooted all her cash and chips along the bar in front of her.
“I am Candy,” she said, pointing at her name badge. “Will you help me count this, please?”
I counted the bills, from single $1 bills, to a couple of $100 bills, into a neat stack, $650 in total. She had stacked all the chips, another $420.
Now I was impressed.
“Wow” I said. “That is good money, for just one shift?”
“Yeah,” she said, leaving the money on the bar, almost disinterested now it was all counted up. “One shift. Actually this is the second best money I have ever made in Vegas.”
“What was the best money?” I asked, curious.
“I used to be a hooker,” she said, simply, looking me dead in the eyes, “and before that a dancer, waitress, blackjack dealer, showgirl, hospitality girl, nightclub hostess, dancer, hooker, and now I am a waitress, again.” She was counting the jobs off on her fingers.
“You must be a really good waitress,” I said, nodding my head towards her stash of cash, still piled up on the bar. “What is your secret?”
She laughed, and leaned towards me, screwing up her eyes, looking at me like she was searching for something.
“What! You don’t want to know about me being a hooker, or a topless dancer, or any of that? You want to know why I am a good waitress?”
“Yeah, why not?” I said, although I wanted to say more. I didn’t really care what she had done. I wanted to know who she was, and why I felt like I already knew her.
And, over more coffee and Jack Daniels, Candy told me her story, mostly highlights of the lowlifes she had come across, and helped.
Something about her inspired me.
Suddenly, it was 8.00am and the bar was closing. We ordered a last round.
I saw a flash of ink on the inside of her left wrist. I hadn’t noticed it before, couldn’t quite make it out, but it looked like a small row of numbers.
“What is your tattoo?” I asked. “What does it mean?”
“You know,” she said, looking down at her wrist, “it means a whole lot of things.”
“It means resilience. It means don’t just do your time, make the most of your time. It means if you believe in something, see it through. It is about inner strength and mental toughness. It means that just because bad stuff happens to you sometimes, it doesn’t make you bad, doesn’t mean you have to do bad stuff to other people. It is a call to arms, and a call to put down arms. It is about freedom. It means don’t give up hope, don’t ever quit, period.”
She stopped, although she didn’t seem quite finished. She touched the tattoo on her wrist, eyes shining, and she laughed.
“It is like a secret code, created by living a life.”
She stood up, put her jacket on and pocketed her cash and chips, finally, all in one graceful, flowing action, a dancer.
“Thank you for a wonderful night, I could spend days and days with you,” she said, and leaned forward and kissed me on the lips, softly, for a few seconds.
She rubbed her tattoo again, like it was a talisman.
46664
Nelson Mandela’s prison number.
And that is Candy, in Vegas, and her fake name, and her ink. Dear Reader, don’t ever give up.
If you want to know more about Candy, read Twenty One Meetings, a motivational story of a Las Vegas adventure, get it now on Kindle
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