Need An Escape? New Book Giving Insider's View of Las Vegas Does The Trick!

Under the Neon Sky: A Las Vegas Doorman's Story

When you think of Las Vegas, chances are you picture slot machines, card tables, casinos, showgirls, and maybe even Elvis. Yes, those things can all be found in abundance on the Strip, but take it from someone who's lived and worked in Sin City: that's just the tip of the iceberg. In his riveting debut, Jay Rankin presents the true story of a Vegas few people know exists.

The name conjures up images of casinos, gambling, drinking, spectacles, and sex. Yes, Vegas is all that, and more. It's a city without boundaries. There are no clocks, no last calls, no one to stop you from staying up all night, getting rich or going broke, destroying your marriage, or finding true love. For a brief moment in time you're free to be whomever or whatever you want to be. What could be more alluring?

If you think you know Vegas, you've heard only half the story, says Jay Rankin, author of the new non-fiction book *Under the Neon Sky: A Las Vegas Doorman's Story* (Jay Rankin Publishing, 2009, ISBN: 0984210911). Rankin, a former probation officer and television host who holds an advanced degree in psychology, worked the graveyard shift as a doorman at the 5,000-room MGM Grand hotel for six years. A memoir of sorts, Rankin's book tells the true story of this turbulent period in his life.

In his position as a doorman, Rankin found himself at the intersection of two worlds: the flashy, electric exterior of the Las Vegas strip, and its gritty hidden infrastructure. Surrounded by hordes of visitors whose singular goal was often to cross lines, Rankin faced a nightly fight for his sanity and his safety.

Visiting Vegas, says Rankin, is one thing. But trying to live and work in a gambling town that never sleeps, all the while struggling not to succumb to Sin City's temptations yourself? Well, that's another thing entirely.

Imagine working a 2 a.m. cab line populated by the desperate and the drunk, by high rollers and hookers. Imagine a workplace characterized by up-close-and-personal vice and violence. Now imagine getting through each shift under scrutiny from surveillance cameras, supervisors, and guests alike, knowing that one false move-whether in self-defense or in the best interests of another-might get you fired, or worse.

"Vegas is carefully constructed to propel visitors toward disaster," writes Rankin. "Most guests are in freefall. Naïve, unsuspecting, they have no defense. I witness the assisted suicide every night; I've seen it a million times. I'm almost guaranteed to be there when the thrill ends.

"I have a master's degree in psychology, which doesn't mean I'm less crazy or self-destructive than anyone else, but I can see when someone's about to cross the line into ruin. I can't do anything to stop them-or myself."

Take a step into the Las Vegas you never knew existed, seen through the eyes of a resort employee whose job was to offer the impossible. How do you ensure that boundaries don't exist for guests while your life is defined by them? How do you maintain a normal life in a city that's anything but? And most of all, how do you salvage your own soul when you're drawn to the thrill of ruin? These are the questions with which Rankin wrestles on the pages of *Under the Neon Sky*.

Read on for a sampling of what it's like to live and work in Sin City, as told by a true insider:

The survival strategies. One whiff of their breath exposes just about everything. Garlic reveals one set of facts; scotch relates something else entirely. Same with a cigarette or big Havana. I construct the guests piecemeal, every detail adding to the portrait, purpose, and propensities. Is he wearing snug custom clothes or loose, casual duds? Are his hands dirty from coins or chips? Are his fingernails manicured? What about shoes, hairstyle, age, cologne, gait, jewelry, tone, body language, teeth, expression?

Once I put the bits together, I know exactly who these people are. It's not a game; it's survival. In a city without boundaries, I have a chance to defend myself by knowing instantly, accurately, who's coming and going.

The fight night: Tyson vs. Holyfield. The sound inside the hotel escalates to a jet spiraling to earth. Screams mixed with glass exploding erupt from the lobby. I see a fast-moving crowd, thousands of people, rushing toward the doors, coming straight at me. I stand paralyzed. My brain won't work. Then my survival instinct sends me hurtling to the side, away from the force of this human tidal wave...

Thousands of people race past me, the fastest ones push their way to the fore and knock down anyone in their way. Hundreds of people disappear underfoot...Nothing stops the momentum-not even the steel girders. Ripped from their frames, the reinforced barricades shoot up like missiles, then crash down. I hear the sickening snap of bones.

The hooker. A tall, beautiful hooker passes by, and she winks at me. I smile back. Her skirt is slit up the sides to her smooth thighs, and her neckline plunges, all nude inside. The backless dress shows off the dimples on her gorgeous ass. I wish she would take me away.*

"How you doin' tonight, Angel?" I ask.

"I'm so-o-o good," she says from whatever high she's on...She takes a long, strong hit off the joint. "I worry about the real crazies. We never know what's in a human heart."

Another hit and then [Angel] blows the sweet smoke in my face. I try to catch it. I wonder if we're on camera. I don't want to get into trouble for talking with Angel...If a girl is smart like Angel, she can have it all-a shelf-long collection of little black books plus a husband in the backyard and a couple of kids in Little League.

The cab line. A fight breaks out. Just what the street needs. Two more violent drunks. I search the mob for a security cop, but none is in sight. I watch the men swing at each other, and I brace myself. I've been hit by a stray punch or two. I turn away to open a taxi door, still expecting an uppercut to graze my temple. A moment later I turn back to see the opponents have settled their differences and are hugging each other. Jesus Christ.

The odors get denser, and the noise intensifies. I'm deafened by paradise. Coins filling up metal slot trays. Screams. Car horns. I have to yell to be heard. In a few hours my throat will be raw. I reach for the whistle in my pocket...My profession's one piece of inventory. Stress causes me to destroy one or more whistles every week. I lock my jaw and grind the whistle between my teeth. At this moment black plastic shards fill my mouth. I spit out the pieces and reach for one of the three new whistles in my pocket.

The hotel administration.

More than enough dislike already ricochets between the doormen and our bell captains. Sharkey and the other supervisors had begun harassing us during our training classes, and their threats of dismissal had never stopped. The captains thought we doormen needed to learn humility. According to them, we were an elite group making too much money. Yes, we did well financially, but we worked our asses off for our tips. The captains didn't seem to give a shit about that. So T-bone and Weasel complained about Sharkey to top executives, and within days, the hotel had become a war zone. The negative energy of a battlefield swirled around the porte-cochere, and I was turning into a basket case.

Sharkey had been dangerous before T-bone and Weasel complained to management; now he was lethal. He still believed I had ratted on him, even though I professed my innocence. I tried to stay clear of him, but that was impossible. His character had no room for compromise and whenever he looked my way, his eyes were more piercing than ever. He wrote notes after our every interaction, documenting what had been said, then filed them in my permanent folder in the Human Resources office. My anxiety increased in direct proportion to my supervisor's rising anger. I knew if I didn't do something to defuse the situation, my own rage would be uncontrollable. If I blew, I'd be out on my ass.

The work week. Outside Las Vegas, the workweek began with Monday and ended with Friday. But Saturday was my Monday. Which meant Monday was my hump day, Wednesday was my Friday, and Thursday and Friday were my weekend. I couldn't find anyone to party with on my Saturday night because it was Thursday, which was their Monday or Tuesday. Monday Night Football was played on my Wednesday. Worse, my shift "swung," which completely turned my life inside out. If I wanted to socialize with someone who worked days, we had to meet at three in the morning.

The home life. In a twenty-four-hour town where work schedules split into ten different shifts and different days off, relationships literally disintegrated. Month after month, year after year, couples rarely saw each other, let alone spent time together. Of course vows of loyalty and true love went out the window when your "until death do we part" mate became some stranger who shared your kitchen and garage. When the partnership lost its meaning, Vegas offered countless pleasures, all with impunity...

[But] I believed that once someone crossed a line-any line-that person was changed forever. The brain chemistry was altered. The party animal had permanently set a course down a different road, and no one could predict where the hell it might end or how. That was now a dark secret...The best anyone could do was battle the current and hope he didn't drift out too far to return to safety. That meant knowing which lines were harmless and which weren't.

The marriage. I was determined our marriage would endure. Las Vegas wouldn't make that easy. Husbands and wives worked so many shifts, they rarely had free time to spend with each other. As employees of the hotel industry, we wouldn't even celebrate holidays together like normal human beings...No employee ever had the Fourth of July or New Year's Eve off. That was a given in this party town.

So was this: Let's say you are at work and your wife is alone, searching for something to do...In Las Vegas, the line dividing fidelity from betrayal is laser thin, and it stretches clear to the horizon. Human predators are always sniffing around, poised to pull her across...She's just a faceless stranger used for a night of partying and then discarded...And what about the wife in this hypothetical situation?...That one stupid mistake poisons her self-concept, redefines her, and destroys her marriage. If the waywardness gave her pleasure, then she'll crave it, and that will prove her downfall. If she feels regretful, then her shame and guilt will eat away at her. I knew this. I had witnessed it. I feared it, and it haunted me.

The friends. Once T-bone and I were in the parking lot, he pulled out a small plastic bag filled with coke. I hadn't even seen him make the buy. He stopped in the middle of the blacktop, threw back his head, and took a hit...I supposed if I had realized how limited T-bone's friendship would prove, I would have continued to search for a buddy. That wasn't how things played out, though.

...In this town, when someone found a friend he loved-or even liked-he wanted to hold on. Making friends in Vegas was so tough, T-bone and I, and Sam and I, made a point of discussing trust, so we would never lose sight of what we needed from each other...When I first started working at the hotel, I tried to strike up a conversation with one of the other trainees, a guy who had worked in other hotels. He shut me down fast. "I never make friends where I work," he told me, "and if you're smart, you won't either. You can't trust anyone." I had felt sorry for him then. Now experience was teaching me that he was right...I had to decide if a shitty friendship was better than no friendship at all.

The tips. D-man strolled over to me and said out of the side of his mouth, "You're not checking the First National Backseat Bank...Listen, when someone climbs out of the backseat, look around real quick. You'll find money, sometimes lotsa money. Bills and chips'll fall out of the fare's pocket when he pays the driver. Or sometimes the passenger doesn't shove his money deep enough in his pocket. Either way..." He shrugged. "Now if the driver sees the bills, they're his-everything in the cab legally belongs to him. But if you can scoop up the dough without the driver noticing..." D-man rubbed his thumb and index finger together, then strolled away.

The style. I observed the other doormen carefully and noticed the nuances of opening doors for people. This job was more complex than I had thought...From Day One T-bone had used fancy dance steps to dazzle the guests...Now I understood it was about putting on a show. I needed to develop a style, too, but in no way was I a dancer...So, what would fit my style and training? I had taken years of classes in the martial arts and boxing. My movements were swift, sharp, and strong, and I felt in balance and grounded while performing. This would be my shtick. I created unique arm movements and hand gestures based on karate and slowly attracted the crowd's attention. I kicked, I crouched, I leapt. It paid off...I was beginning to make more money. I mean, a lot more money. Was it just beginner's luck? No. Each day it just kept coming and coming and coming.

The dirt. One morning as I undressed in the locker room, I noticed my thighs were black. *How had I bruised myself so badly without realizing it?*I wondered, examining myself. Then I realized the rolls of bills had pressed against my quadriceps all night and stained my skin with greasy dirt from the paper money, coins, and chips. It was the color of Vegas money. I tried to wash off the filth, but soap and water hardly made a difference.

One thing's for sure: Vegas is not your average American town, and working as an MGM Grand doorman is not your average briefcase-toting job. Earning a living in Las Vegas is a nonstop thrill ride with an unknown destination. Look over Jay Rankin's shoulder as he navigates pitfalls and temptations, and gets off the tracks just in time.

About the Author:

Jay Rankin didn't research Las Vegas; he lived it. His six years as an MGM Grand doorman gave him the insider's view of real Vegas life, the grit behind the glitz. Jay reveals a Vegas few people know exists. Jay hosted a weekly television show, *Las Vegas Business Week*. That media experience and his connections won him the ambassador's job out of 1,500 applicants.

Jay holds an advanced degree in psychology. He began writing in 1993 and is currently working on his second book, about his life after escaping Vegas. He resides in Los Angeles, California.

For more information or to read Chapter 1 of Under the Neon Sky, visit www.jayslasvegas.com.

About the Book:

Under the Neon Sky: A Las Vegas Doorman's Story (Jay Rankin Publishing, 2009, ISBN: 0984210911) is available at bookstores nationwide and from major online booksellers.

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