Her name was Andie. She lunched alone at the seafood restaurant I managed in Henderson, a bedroom community suburb of Las Vegas. In my years of working in restaurants, I’d gained a skill at spotting real estate agents a mile away by picking up on what I termed the “realtor’s smile.” A smile that Andie had.
But Andie was different. While other agents from her office ate in groups and screamed competitively into their BlackBerrys, Andie dined in solitude, phone off. Co-workers held her in reverence, sneaking in a quick hello or wave before leaving her be. She was regal. She was poised. She eschewed mac and cheese for steamed spinach. Andie was all the choices I’d failed to make in life and the reason I was navigating a suburban lunch rush while she had complete control of her life. Until 2007, when both of our lives shifted overnight, and we awoke to a nightmare.
Las Vegas was ground zero for the housing market collapse. The signs had been there, but it was impossible to believe a plan that an entire country had invested in could be misguided. Sure, my neighbors were moving out in the middle of the night. Yes, I did see a man selling his shower enclosure and mirrored closet doors at a garage sale. But these had to be the exception. How could we all have been so wrong?
And then, that November, sales at the restaurant dropped 40%, eliminating the profit-sharing portion of my salary. Builders and mortgage companies began a steady stream of layoffs. I was over-leveraged and on the verge of losing everything I’d moved to Las Vegas to achieve. My job. My first long-term relationship. My home. The stink of failure seemed to emanate from all of us. Except for Andie. Which is why when she asked me, “Are you interested in learning about a way to generate an additional income stream?” I eagerly said yes.
Fully grown trees lined the streets of the well-established subdivision where the presentation was held. Andie took me by the arm the moment I entered the single-story home. I had arrived. I shook hands with twenty other attendees, most of whom still held their best realtor’s smile. But did I detect a darkness in their eyes? With a clap of her hands, Andie introduced a man named Steve, touting him as one of the most successful members of World Ventures, the travel sales group we were all going to have the opportunity to learn about that night.
A group of Andie’s acolytes scurried to close the plantation shutters as the DVD player whirred itself to life. The video displayed opulence of the highest magnitude. Massive McMansions in generic Floridian beachside communities. Straight, spray-tanned couples with fresh veneers traveling across the world. Men that would term themselves as “alpha” stepping out of Lamborghinis. College dropouts waving stacks of cash and flaunting diamond-studded accessories. All claimed to have achieved their best life in a matter of months. And all said it was due to selling subscriptions to a discounted travel site.
The lights came on and every remaining ounce of hope drained out of me. What I wanted was a way to earn an extra five hundred dollars a month. A way to fend off creditors. Buy groceries. This option didn’t add up. But if it didn’t add up, why was everyone else so excited? Was I the one missing something?
I stood up to leave. Andie rushed toward me, no longer confident, poised, and nutrient-conscious, but now wild-eyed, desperate, and carnivorous. “What did you think?”
“I don’t understand the numbers,” I said, proceeding to ask about the cost of the memberships and details of the travel benefits.
Andie waved me off. “You make money by getting others to join. And when they sign on others, you make money from that too. Don’t you see? This is your chance to get in on the ground floor.”
I nodded agreeably. I needed Andie’s regular lunch business. I didn’t want to ruin a relationship. But I was also horribly gutted that either she was that thick or believed me to be or both. She shoved a magazine into my hands. “Read this and we’ll talk.”
That week, I tentatively told friends about the presentation, to which they instantly responded, “pyramid scheme” and yes, I knew that. So why did I cling to this idea for longer than a millisecond? Largely it was because I was desperate for a solution to the dumpster fire I couldn’t escape. And also, because I wanted to belong.
I always thought people were in on something that I wasn’t. My move to Las Vegas from Los Angeles in 2004 unveiled that vulnerability. When my skeptical side voiced concerns that the spike in home prices simply didn’t make sense — and not to buy — the evil mastermind within told me I would stay where I was in life if I didn’t follow.
So, I joined into something I didn’t fully believe in to both belong and, just as importantly, not get left behind. If others were on the brink of becoming independently wealthy, didn’t I deserve that too? I bought one house, then two, awaiting the perfect moment to cash in. To fund my writing pursuits for years. And find the time and space to scribe a glossy-covered New York Times bestseller. Until reality stopped me in my tracks.
Andie’s visits to the restaurant became infrequent. I could see the cracks in her confidence, the glint of sadness, maybe even defeat. It wasn’t going to happen for any of us.
On a drive home from work, as my adult world crashed down, I thought about my dreams and how they’d eluded me. All the times I’d tried to be a part of something I perceived to be better. Fought to go outside of myself and beyond my upbringing. And how each attempt pushed me deeper into my flaws and insecurities.
Despite my hatred of the outdoors, I joined Cub Scouts in the hopes that it would make me “normal.” The result: a forged achievement log to get my Webelos pin and the ugliest car to ever enter the Pinewood Derby.
In eighth grade I joined my church’s youth group, believing that an organization headed by a pastor in the HOUSE OF GOD would give my peers no choice but to be kind to me. The result: the group accessed cassette tapes of a soap opera I’d written, produced, and starred in (every role, thank you), and proceeded to hold secret listening sessions at my expense.
In my late twenties, a friend convinced me to take up Scuba diving and get my PADI certification, not once mentioning that I would have to be under water. The result: a panic attack in a public pool and an unpaid debt on scuba equipment.
But despite all these horrible experiences, I still believe there’s a club for every one of us.
Some of us spend our entire lives searching for a club to belong to. In the case of The Silver Chain, and their sailing club The Naughty Nauticals, these bonds weren’t formed until members were in their 40s and 50s. The club gave them a chance to share passions that went beyond partner swapping. They played bridge together, bowled, sailed, and camped. They were a part of something.
During the course of making this season of Time Capsule, I found myself longing nostalgically for days when adults had a wide variety of clubs to participate in without recalling neither my disastrous attempts at belonging to clubs that weren’t the right fit nor recognizing the fabulous clubs that I’m fortunate to be a part of today. A longstanding writers group whose bonds have eclipsed writing. A cookbook club that keeps me connected with two of my dearest friends and their spouses. And a Jackie Collins book club held at The Polo Lounge that’s equal parts camp and community.
When I moved back to Southern California in 2010, I left behind every part of my life in Las Vegas except my long-term partner. By listening to, and following others, I paid the price by failing in one of the most spectacular ways imaginable: financially. I filed bankruptcy. I was finally a part of something, yes. But it was something I wasn’t supposed to talk about or acknowledge.
What I didn’t know then was that second, sometimes even third chances can be the best ones. Every perceived disaster can bring us closer to our destination. Maybe not the destination we thought we desired or even deserved, but ultimately something that will feel mostly right. I had the opportunity to not belong to discover where I did. There was no perfect moment. The meet-cutes were rare. And at times I still feel life push me back into myself in the worst of ways. Those inescapable feelings resurface. But I know it will be fleeting because I’m now surrounded by my own club. People who chose me who I choose right back. People who will help get me back out. Without making me watch a video. XO, Paul
Feeling Naughty?
We knew once we saw the photo of The Silver Chain’s sailing club that we had to remake the t-shirt. These new items are available starting today on our merch page.
Absolutely loving every second of the Silver Chain and reading your newsletter.
Your podcast is entertaining! Your writing is fabulous! You ooze talent and I hope for very big things for you. Thank you for sharing your talent.