by Don Hall

For an awful lot of people, the two years of COVID caused them to question their existence, the framework within they worked and survived. Not so much for me. I remained gainfully employed throughout; I even made a job change in the midst.

No, I had no existential crisis until I was unceremoniously punched in the throat with the knowledge of what my wife was doing during that dark period. While I was working in a casino for the first half and researching data privacy and writing marketing collateral for the second half in order to do that most American thing—make the cash, pay the bills, keep the credit score from plummeting—she had created an entire life apart from our marriage.

So, we divorced in record (Vegas) time and now I get to have my existential crisis. Mind you, I genuinely hold nothing against her. That's how life unfolds sometimes and choices we don't think through come to bite us in the ass or wound those whom we love.

It does, sometimes, oftentimes, leave one of those involved at a place where starting over from scratch presents itself. At my age, starting over is daunting to say the least. I recognize that hundreds of thousands of people over the course of the past three years or so have had a similar What the fuck happened to my life and now what am I going to do? scenario. Small restaurateurs, bar owners, local retail shop keepers—the pandemic destroyed far more in its wake than merely those who contracted the virus.

“Then it was that the thought of death burst into my daily life. I would measure the years separating me from my end. I would look for examples of men of my age who were already dead. And I was tormented by the thought that I might not have time to accomplish my task. What task? I had no idea. Frankly, was what I was doing worth continuing?” ― Albert Camus, The Fall

Existence after leaving Chicago went from the feeling of creating some sort of legacy to the day-to-day grind of survival. Work the gig, make the money, pay the bills. Las Vegas doesn't seem to need anyone like me with my specific set of skills. That certainly isn't the fault of the city. Like so many things, I leapt before I looked and came to Sin City without having an accurate concept of the place.

At the time I wrote that Las Vegas Stinks... of Possibility:

That’s the thing about this move. It could be Alpine — deceptive promise with hopes dashed to the ground. It could be Treasure — all possibility and anticipation. We’ll certainly see in the new year which one it is but for right now, Las Vegas stinks… of opportunity, potential, possibilities undreamt of, and a genuine sense of something different for which to look forward.

These days, it's difficult to see it through that patina of potential. As soon as I left the casino gig, I recognized that I had zero interest in working for a casino or a hotel in Las Vegas. Hospitality designed exclusively to cater to our worst instincts combined with the manipulative goal of separating tourists from their life savings left a stink I couldn't abide. Outside of that industry, there just aren't enough interesting jobs left in the area. Strip away the Strip and this is a tiny place.

Aside from the lack of opportunities for myself, I find that the atmosphere, the encouraged debauchery, has taken something from me I can't get back. Vegas was for she and I, together. We aren’t together anymore. My ability to find any sense of joy in this city has vanished.

Step one of my existential crisis solved. Leave Las Vegas (but not in a Nick Cage, die by alcoholism way, because he did it better than I would). 

Step two: now what?

I had entertained the idea of taking a year to couch-surf, checking out, and traveling the country. Then I was watching Pulp Fiction the other night:

Jules: Well, that's what I've been sitting here contemplating. First, I'm going to deliver this case to Marsellus, then, basically, I'm just going to walk the Earth.

Vincent: What'cha mean, "walk the Earth"?

Jules: You know, like Caine in Kung Fu: walk from place to place, meet people, get into adventures.

Vincent: And how long do you intend to walk the Earth?

Jules: Until God puts me where He wants me to be.

Vincent: And what if He don't do that?

Jules: If it takes forever, then I'll walk forever.

Vincent: So you decided to be a bum?

Jules: I'll just be Jules, Vincent; no more, no less.

Vincent: No, Jules. You've decided to be a bum. Just like those pieces of shit out there who beg for change, sleep in garbage bins and eat what I throw away. They got a name for that, Jules: it's called "a bum". And without a job, a residence or legal tender, that's exactly what you're going to be: a fucking bum.

I don't do well with aimlessness. In this case, Vincent Vega is 100% correct. The idea sounds romantic and all-Kerouac, shuffling around the country, town to town. The reality is some nights sleeping in a Prius, bad choices of food, fewer showers, and no place to receive mail.

And still... Now what?

Finding the where is a bit of a preoccupation. I suppose I need a place to focus on in order to get moving. After hours and hours of research, I've decided on Denver. All the things I miss about Chicago—bookstores, small arts venues, jazz, a robust arts community, nonprofit industry designed to improve the world—are there. I've lived on the East Coast, the South, the Midwest, and the Desert. Never lived in the Mountains, so that works for me.

I also need to keep in mind that my father is in ill health and my mother needs some help. They've offered to put me up in Kansas for a time so I can be of assistance. My ego alerts me that this is moving home with my parents (which at twenty-five seems somewhat reasonable but at fifty-six feels like giving up) but my ego is a problem. I need some time to rebuild my existence; they need some help. Win-win.

On the ApeCast a few weeks ago, Joe and I talked. Himmel was out of the country and Joe stepped up for co-hosting duties. We talked about fun stuff and then we dove into a touchier topic. I called it Old White Guy Problems. We talked around the idea of being a man of a certain age and feeling like starting over. After decades of experiences and achievements finding yourself with nothing material to show for it.

Joe confessed that at sixty-one, he didn't anticipate working three part-time jobs to simply pay rent on a Bronzeville apartment by himself. As we talked, I recognized that while my specific reasons for my life blowing up in my face were unique, this state of being—older, with a serious amount of life experience and an impressive resume, completely adrift, and still struggling with basic survival—is not unusual.

"All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better." — Ralph Waldo Emerson

That's the reframe. Perspective is everything. 

The specifics of where I live and what I do to pay the bills is ultimately less crucial than why I do what I do. What purpose do I serve? Am I merely a creature of consumption and survival or is there something more than drives me? These are questions I'd guess an awful lot of people are asking right now. COVID shocked the world into a dark gaze into the void of routine and comfort, of complacency in the face of chaos just at bey.

The bizarrely beautiful aspect of these moments of self doubt and wonder at the point of it all is that those things that consumed me during that time of daily grind, living check-to-check, accomplishing more in terms of paying those unceasing bills than embracing the awful complexity of life mean almost nothing.

The cultural debates over CRT, trans rights, the environment, Trump, Amber Heard, Netflix, Elon Musk, abortion, guns, and crime suddenly seem mostly silly. Writing think-pieces about these cursory issues immediately feels like a waste of time.

Finding purpose when the world is on fire is the challenge. Some find a cause. Some find a god. Some lose their minds. A few—really, a tiny few—do all three and become hateful partisans spending their days looking to shame one another for not embracing their cause, their god, their insanity.

My purpose seems to be creation. I used to create theater, then events, then stories. Now, I want to create books. But for whom to read them? And does that actually matter? Who are the books for?

In Stephen King's twenty rules for writing, the number one rule is:

First write for yourself, and then worry about the audience. “When you write a story, you’re telling yourself the story. When you rewrite, your main job is taking out all the things that are not the story."

Joe tells me on the ApeCast that during one of his three part-time jobs, the one that often requires him to stand on a boat for hours with nothing to do but be present, he engages in a mindful meditation. He thinks in a loop "Compassion, honesty, and humor." It keeps him grounded and gives him a picture of how he wants to be seen in the world. Knowing Joe the way I know him, I'd say his meditation is doing the trick because he is one of the most compassionate, honest, and funny humans I know.

It reminds me of a Steven Covey exercise I used to do with my eighth grade students. "Begin with an End in Mind." The exercise was to write three eulogies for your own funeral from the perspective of a family member, a friend, and a co-worker. The idea is that by writing what others will say about you once you're gone, you define how you want to be seen in the world while alive.

Today, that exercise places an awful lot of priority on the opinions of others so it doesn't quite work for me. That being said, there is benefit from some iteration of it, I believe.

Perspective. Reframing.

"Take it moment by moment, and you will find that we are all, as I’ve said before, bugs in amber."―Kurt Vonnegut