Lee Geiger

When you’re chided for your naiveté, and you will be, remind your critics that an amateur built the ark. Experts built the Titanic.

Peyton Manning

Four bottles of Chateau de Affordable into a nine-hour dinner party, a member of the Wine Mafia asked the table of six to consider the following question; “At what point in your life did you first realize you had officially grown up?” While my worldly foodie friends pondered a response worthy of the gravitas of the inquiry, an answer flew out of mouth faster than an Oreo cookie at a Weight Watchers convention.

“That’s easy,” I said. “September 16, 1985, at 2:45 a.m.”

“Could you be a little more precise?” asked our slightly-toasted host, stunned by the swiftness of my response. “And could you tell us WHERE on God’s Earth you were at such an illuminating moment of your life?”

“Where many aspiring young guns discover their manhood,” I said. “On the Las Vegas Strip.”

The Story:  Part I

Late in the afternoon of September 14, 1985, The Pretty Blonde and I had given our mutual “I do’s” to the institution of eternal matrimony. Our sweet and simple wedding ceremony was held in the intimate courtyard of historic Darlington House in fashionable La Jolla, CA. Anne’s parents had spent a small fortune inviting over 100 of their closest friends and relatives, while my small family debated passing the hat to bring in a dozen or so members of a nearby temporary labor pool to fill a few vacant rows on our side of the aisle. Afterwards, Anne and I spent our wedding night rolling around the silk sheets of the Honeymoon Suite at the enchanting La Valencia Hotel, where we added a couple of stars of our own to the hotel’s rating. The next morning, while strolling casually toward a table with an unobstructed view of La Jolla Cove for a sumptuous Sunday Brunch armed with a knockout blonde for a wife (whose wedding planning-induced nervous tummy prevented her from eating), I truly believed I had won the lottery. Married life was going to be easy.

Due to my graduate school commitments, our Fantasy Island honeymoon would have to wait. As such, by mid-afternoon of September 15, flush with $3,000 in cash we had received as wedding gifts, we were on the road to the rest of our lives, which in this case meant Interstate 15 toward Las Vegas. We had exactly one week to make it to my first day of classes at Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire, a 3,000 north-by-northeast diagonal trek across the near entirety of the United States. Everything we owned in the world was stuffed into Anne’s five-year old lime-green Volkswagen Rabbit, and to insure a safe journey I had taken her car to a VW dealership the week before for a thorough inspection. The gurus at Volkswagen gave our love carriage two thumbs up.

Several hours later, while pulling off the freeway in beautiful downtown Barstow for our initial food and fuel stop, the car lurched forward and the engine died. Unable to restart the car, we coasted from the off-ramp to the nearest gas station. The greasy mechanic-on-duty popped opened the hood and declared with absolute certainty that all of our problems would be solved if we simply replaced “the coil.” Auto mechanically-challenged, I gave the okay. An hour and $500 later (Anne was still too nervous to eat), we were on our way to a rollicking good time in Sin City.

My original plan was to spend the second night of the rest of our lives in some swank Las Vegas hotel. But that plan changed in the blink of an eye. As I pulled the car off the freeway, the engine died a second untimely death. Coasting along the dark and desolate southern portion of the Las Vegas Strip with the airport located directly to my right, I maneuvered the car toward a one-story motel where the gigantic Mandalay Bay Hotel now resides. Once again, the car refused to start. Instead of plushy pillows and room service, Night Two of our marriage would be spent in a sleazy, dilapidated motel room, located adjacent to an airport runway, furnished with a broken air conditioner and paint peeling off the walls. How’s married life treating me now?

With no place to go and no way to get here, The Pretty Blonde and I tried to sleep. But the stifling heat and roar of jet engines prevented that from happening. Not to mention that Anne hadn’t eaten anything all day and was still feeling sick to her stomach. At one point during the night she asked if I could please go find a store and bring back something to help her feel better.

I got dressed and went outside. I looked at my watch…2:45 a.m. I began to walk toward the lights of the Strip, having absolutely no idea where I was going or what I was doing. Suddenly, with a hot wind from the North blowing directly into my face, a single thought coursed through my head. If it were just me in this situation, I thought, I would be just fine. I could handle it and take care of myself. But now I had a wife to worry about, and that changed everything.

That’s the moment I officially grew up.