Two years later, I graduated from the University of Nevada, finally having enough credits for a bachelors degree, cobbled together from junior colleges and an intermittent stint in the CSU system. In the 4 years immediately following the pomp and circumstance, I sought and finally got what I perceived as the perfect job: working for a local government agency. Little did I know at the time that the same job I idealized, for whatever blurry reasons, would be the beginning of a spirit-killing slog that to this day has me firmly pinned to the mat. Oh sure, I have nothing on the surface to complain about; the pay is decent, lots of holidays off and a degree of security not common in 2009. This has proven to be the thinnest of veneers as my inner disgust with the workings of government, based on actual experience and observation, has drained me of nearly all of my creative energy. But there is more than just disgust with my job, I am truly seeking the next adventure in life and I have to start somewhere. "Follow the yellow brick road," said the good witch.How did I get from such a high to what feels like a march toward death, at least on the levels I am referring to, primarily career happiness and satisfaction? In opting to explore this in blog format, I am hoping to elicit even one response that provides insight as to how this may have happened, and moreover to discover the ladder that may be a way up and out of this grim hole. In this unknowable space of the Internet, I will detail the 20 years I have spent in Reno, from zenith to nadir and back again. And again. Now for the first of several posts, parts and installments. Here goes...
I crossed the state line into Nevada from Sacramento, CA in the spring of 1989. 
Though the Silver State was already growing at the fastest clip in the nation, Reno still retained a certain Wild West feel to it, and I loved it. I worked at Harrah's for a few years, making change for a bit and then parking cars for the remainder of my college years. That first summer was an immersion into a lifestyle I had never experienced before. At 24 years of age, I was completely on my own for the first time ever. I had a tiny box of a studio apartment in Sparks-just east of Reno, close enough to I-80 to hear the whine of the cars speeding east and west. Thunderstorms were abundant that year and the smell of wet sagebrush became the new scent of home for me. The excitement of living in a 24-hour town after 20 years in a central California cow town was captivating and, at times, surreal.
Though the Silver State was already growing at the fastest clip in the nation, Reno still retained a certain Wild West feel to it, and I loved it. I worked at Harrah's for a few years, making change for a bit and then parking cars for the remainder of my college years. That first summer was an immersion into a lifestyle I had never experienced before. At 24 years of age, I was completely on my own for the first time ever. I had a tiny box of a studio apartment in Sparks-just east of Reno, close enough to I-80 to hear the whine of the cars speeding east and west. Thunderstorms were abundant that year and the smell of wet sagebrush became the new scent of home for me. The excitement of living in a 24-hour town after 20 years in a central California cow town was captivating and, at times, surreal.My first shift at Harrah's was graveyard, working 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. My commute home from downtown Reno was to the east, into the rising sun. As someone not accustomed to overnight hours, this was just one of the many jarring aspects of my new existence. On occasion, I would have a few beers after my shift. Drinking Coors Light at 8:00 in the morning is not always the best way to start the day. Many times my trip home was delayed by a few too many drinks and what eventually became substantial sleep deprivation.
One of my co-workers was a Paiute named Vince. Though only about 5'9", he was built like a steel barrel and weighed in close to 250 pounds with body fat of maybe 12%; needless to say, a big, powerful man. Vince was one of the friendliest people at Harrah's, always helpful and always polite. One grim Monday morning after another night of dealing change to chain-smoking slot addicts, I noticed Vince at the sports bar on my way out of the club. He obviously had been there for at least a few hours on what they called an early-out, or EO, in casino parlance. In the kindest of terms, Vince was drunk out of his mind. Against better judgement, I joined him and ordered up a Coors draft, intending to do a 'one and out.'
I was still dressed in my ridiculous pink Harrah's shirt, idiotic tie and black polyester pants, but I wholly blended in with the other graveyard shift drones, drinking and smoking away their after shift hours in the dark, lower level bar, far removed from the 
glaring sun of the summer of 1989. After several more beers (it was more like seven and out for me that day), Vince wanted to leave and I figured I should try to get to my car and just sleep there, in the cool of the parking garage. By this time, Vince was in a full drunken lunacy. As we staggered down Center Street, he suddenly lunged at me for no reason, driving me into the travel lanes and nearly getting me killed by a passing taxi. I somehow got away from him and his inexplicable and startling rage. He didn't look fast but seemed to be running 40 miles per hour right at me, yelling like a freak about Indian rights and cursing at such volume that his shreiks echoed off the walls of the buildings along the street. My impaired reflexes were only slightly faster than his and I dodged his clumsy attack. Vince tripped and fell into the gutter, only to awkwardly pull himself up and begin attacking a parking meter with his boulder-like fists. As he swung wildly around, something tripped him up and he fell back into the gutter, thrashing violently as vomit began to spew from him in sickening yellow arcs.
glaring sun of the summer of 1989. After several more beers (it was more like seven and out for me that day), Vince wanted to leave and I figured I should try to get to my car and just sleep there, in the cool of the parking garage. By this time, Vince was in a full drunken lunacy. As we staggered down Center Street, he suddenly lunged at me for no reason, driving me into the travel lanes and nearly getting me killed by a passing taxi. I somehow got away from him and his inexplicable and startling rage. He didn't look fast but seemed to be running 40 miles per hour right at me, yelling like a freak about Indian rights and cursing at such volume that his shreiks echoed off the walls of the buildings along the street. My impaired reflexes were only slightly faster than his and I dodged his clumsy attack. Vince tripped and fell into the gutter, only to awkwardly pull himself up and begin attacking a parking meter with his boulder-like fists. As he swung wildly around, something tripped him up and he fell back into the gutter, thrashing violently as vomit began to spew from him in sickening yellow arcs.I had managed to make it back into the casino and watched him for a several minutes through the window before he lumbered off down the road, screaming at traffic and wiping vomit from his filthy Harrah's uniform. I headed for an opposite exit and cautiously crept to my car, parked in the cool of the parking garage two blocks away. I slept for five hours, awoke and made my way east to Sparks. The sun was low in the western sky when I fumbled my way in to the dingy studio and locked the door behind me.
Later that evening, when I reported back to the casino for duty, Vince was there, sober as a Mormon and greeting me happily with his Paiute-tinged accent. All was good and right and normal. The slot junkies showed up and another bleary overnight shift began.
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