The Key to Happiness

(Continued from the last entry, “Happiness”)

My family and I, we always stayed at Harrah’s. The first thing my brother and I would do once we got into our hotel room was run to the window to see what kind of view we had. For some reason, it really mattered to us. If we got the pool, then it was going to be the best weekend ever. If we got the dirty rooftop of some building, then the weekend was still going to be okay because all that was only a small embellishment to the magnificent scene before us: Reno at night and its colorful bright lights lit up all across the city.

Even though my parents always booked non-smoking rooms, I could still smell a slight hint of smoke. Back then, I didn’t know it was cigarette smoke; I just thought of it as that nice hotel smell. And that nice hotel smell was everywhere. At the restaurants, at the casinos, and with all four of us as we ate, slept, and strolled outside. (Smell always evokes emotion and memories, and to this day, when I smell cigarette smoke, I’ll further take huge whiffs and miss my family and the times we spent together. This is probably why I’ll die of second-hand-smoke-induced lung explosions.)

The first task on the agenda after settling and resting was dinner. On the first night, we always went to this one restaurant—I don’t remember the name, but it had green walls, and we always went to it for breakfast for the following two days. While waiting for service, my brother and I grabbed the Keno cards and the accompanying crayons and “played” along with my parents. I’d mark some random amount of numbers and then watch the Keno screens, fervently praying that my numbers would get drawn. I never had luck unless I filled in at least eighty percent of the numbers, and I didn’t understand why my parents didn’t just do that either.

Once the waitress came, I always ordered the same thing: Scrambled eggs and hash browns with wheat toast. I once decided to be adventurous and ordered poached eggs, having no idea what “poached” was. The result of my experiment was disgustingly disappointing, so I never ventured again.

What happened after eating wasn’t always the same. Sometimes, after breakfast, we’d walk through the casinos and head straight outside. My dad carried this big bulky camera around and took pictures of my brother, mom, and me next to statues. I think our destination was usually Circus Circus or some other hotel. Sometimes for lunch, we’d always stop by this one hotel (might’ve been Harrahs) that had a McDonald’s that served Pizza Hut, which I found to be the most baffling concept ever, but nonetheless I always got the personal pan pepperoni pizza. For lunch and dinner, we’d usually find a buffet and enjoy ourselves there. Even in my younger years, I pigged out and pooped it all away immediately afterward.

Among all the sightseeing and eating, one huge part of the trip (most of the trip) was dedicated to my parents’ gambling adventures at the Harrah’s casinos. My parents would drop my brother and me off at the hotel arcade (“Starcade!”) with a crisp twenty dollar bill while they tried their luck at the casinos. The arcade had purple walls, but that’s beside the point. The arcade had a corner stocked with some of the most amazing useless toys that my brother and I had ever seen. From bicycle reflectors to huge flashing disco balls, we wanted it all. Stomp the moles, whack the alligators, roll the balls up the slope, shoot the coin into that very very tiny jackpot slot. As a young, naïve child, this was my favorite part of the trip.

I don’t think my parents ever won big from the casinos. Every once in a while, they’d at least make back what they lost and occasionally a little more. On arcade visits where I would finally get a prize that I was saving up for (such as Op), I’d hope that when my brother and I reunited with my parents to eat, they would greet us with the same happiness that I felt. But they were usually just okay, and so I’d feel just okay too.

I admit, the biggest part of the trip was the least family-oriented part. Sometimes I would wonder why my parents gambled if they never won a lot. I figured that we were already rich enough because our two-story house was far nicer than a lot of others. Reflecting further upon it, I think the Reno trip was mostly about the gambling and not so much about being together, but I still cherish the family time we had and the whole experience overall. Besides, we were essentially all doing the same thing. My mom, dad, brother, and I gambled our money in hopes of coming home Sunday night being worth a lot more than we were the Friday afternoon we left, and if our hopes went unfulfilled, we could at least lament together in the four-hour ride back home.



While waiting for my mom to pick up her phone, I thought about the email again. After her little overdramatic part about having a heart attack, she went on to write about how shitty our money situation’s been. I had always known it was shitty, but the details she reviewed to me were an absolute shock: My parents had borrowed a total of six thousand dollars from our relatives to sustain ourselves for the last three months, and they already secured another two thousand to get through the next month. Unfortunately, that’s still not enough, so my mom is going to try to sell her car (does anyone want a Corolla? I swear I haven’t had sex in this one.), and now my brother has to pay for his own bills (insurance, student loans, etc.).

My mom wrote me, “Please tell me if I have done something wrong? Is it because of the monies that I said in my previous email to you?” I didn’t really understand what she meant. The email she sent me before reminded me to deliver those fucking persimmons, and the only mention about money was I’d get $100 if I did it. Maybe my mom thought that I thought that she thought that I was a terrible greedy money-motivated son and that I got butt-hurt? Either way, I didn’t realize how much money was such a sensitive topic in my family. Maybe it’s a sensitive topic in everyone’s families? She did, after all, hide the details about our money-borrowing for the last three months.

Of course, I didn’t really review all that in my head while waiting for my mom to pick up, because the phone actually rang only once before she answered. Gently breathing in the smell of cigarette smoke as I passed the student center and trying my best to ignore how upset she sounded, I carried the normal routine phone conversation: “I’m fine (lie). Classes are going well (lie). Work’s been good (lie). I haven’t spent more money on shoes. I’ve been having three meals a day (lie).”

And then we got to the awkward part, with her asking me if there was something that I had been upset about. I told us that I was perfectly fine (lie), that Trung and I were still going strong (lie), and that I wasn’t mad at her and my dad for the “monies” or for any reason. Then she reassured me that I could always go to her if something was wrong, and I told her of course I would (lie). I finally got to the “K love you bye” part and hung up after continuously trying to convince her that I had just been too too too busy to call, and I think she believed me, which she should’ve because that was one of the only few things that I didn’t lie about.

Although, upon further reflection—actually, no reflection or deep thinking is even necessary—I know that “being too busy” may not be a lie, but it’s still a really really bad excuse. It’s impossible to not take five minutes out of my day for a simple phone call. There’s so much down time when I wait at the bus stop or walk to class or check Facebook during the day.

I just can’t bring myself to do it. When I’m here at Irvine, I have freedom; I forget that I have two parents and a brother. And I don’t like to be reminded that I do, because this reminder also reminds me that I have obligations to my family. And it’s no longer just any family now; it’s a family with money problems, even worse.

I’m the last child in college, not to mention a college that will probably boost its tuition fees by thirty percent next year. As though it isn’t bad enough being the family disappointment, I explained to Alfonso at dinner, I am now the family burden, which also has its close ties with being the family disappointment. I know I shouldn’t, but I wonder if my parents, particularly my dad, think to themselves, We’re throwing away money by putting through college this gay teacher/moneyless-future-career-bound kid who wastes all his time dancing like the fag he is.

Going under the assumption that they do think this as they cry themselves to sleep every night (don’t try to convince me otherwise, because I usually make something good come out of being hard on myself), I need to start supporting myself. I need to take responsibility. Step up the work hours, stop spending money on material objects, stay away from the baking aisle at Albertsons.

All easier written than done, however.

I fucking hate working at Pippin. If I have to scrub dirty tables in silence for more than a total of eight hours a week, I will shoot myself. And even if I do (work more than eight hours, not shoot myself), I want rewards—rewards that I can wear on my feet, rewards that I can ride around campus, rewards that I can look hot with. If my paychecks go straight to paying rent or tuition or whatever bills, I’ll feel like I’m not even getting paid. I know that I’m getting paid and I know that my money is going into something useful, but I just can’t feel it if I don’t get to satisfy my selfish needs. Yes, selfish; I know I’m being selfish and it’s fucking hard to suck it up.

Don’t worry though, I’ll learn. I’ll suck it up. I’ll convince myself that I can live without new dunks, a longboard, and a tattoo to show for my hard work (lol) at the dining commons, and I’ll also convince myself that bussing people’s dishes, which, by the way, they’re supposed to bus themselves those fuckers, is in a way like teaching a student how to write a five-paragraph response-to-literature essay.

This is all for my parents. I owe it to them. I love them, and I can’t just live my own carefree life three hundred miles away from them as their money problems kill them slowly.

Never have I disagreed so vehemently with that stupid cliché, “Money doesn’t buy happiness!!”