Reggie -- Part Two
(This is Part two of the history of Reggie Brooks, my character's history. Part one was Friends-Only, but I've opened it up, so you can find it on my journal now if you'd like to read the introduction. As mentioned before, this information is extremely OOC and not in play at the moment.)
CHICAGO, IL
1938
It's important to know that as much as you and I are members of a clan that value their humanity and their connection to society, I threw away all ties to my former life long ago. I was born in 1938 to a happy newlywed couple. I can only guess that I was their pride and joy, but the world was not content to live out uneventful lives. My father was sent away to fight in the war, and was lost on the battlefield when I was almost 3. My mother couldn't bear the sorrow and dropped me off with distant relatives, thinking me the last and most permanent reminder of the love of her life. I still don't know much more about the story. I'm not even sure what my birth name was. All I know is that the people she dropped me off with were Forrest and Carolyn Smith, and they called me Reginald.
The Smiths lived on a modest farm, with land to tend and livestock to raise, what was considered a fine place to raise a boy during that time. They'd never had kids before, so Carolyn was excited to have this new gift laid on her doorstep. Forrest, however, saw me as another set of hands to have on the farm, so I wasn't sent to school when I was old enough: that was the perfect time to start putting me to work.
Carolyn did her best to make sure I got a bit of education, though, teaching me to read and putting books in my room when she could afford them, hoping I would find time between tilling soil and feeding cows to learn about a world outside the Illinois countryside. I don't know what her goal was, maybe she imagined some fantasy life I was destined for but had missed out on due to my placement there. Maybe she didn't want to see me grow into yet another ignorant clod living on the land like her husband.
It turned out that she did far too effective a job at motivating me. I was 13 when Forrest decided that I hadn't done a suitable job sweeping out the barn, and decided that I was old enough now to learn from the strike of a belt as well as the pages of a book. I always knew I wasn't their kid; Forrest reminded me enough of that. I had learned everything that I could ever hope to from these people, and the beating I received was all I needed to completely cut the cord. That night, I quietly bundled up some clothes, snagged a loaf of bread, and flagged down a truck for a ride. It must be some kind of miracle that the driver didn't immediately turn the truck around and haul me back home, but instead we drove on. I didn't ask where he was going, he never bothered to ask where I wanted to go. All of that was fine, because I really had no idea.
I drifted about a bit for the next few years, making money by doing odd jobs on the road. Sometimes a local parish would take me in for a bit, but I'd be gone before too long. I learned a lot about survival, and knowing the difference between fight or flight. I played my first poker game at the age of 16 inside a railroad car with 4 other kids. The leader of the group had coached them to try and collude me out of my money while dealing some bizarre Stud variant; this lasted for about 15 minutes before they realized it was much more efficient to simply beat me up and take whatever was on me. I didn't run with anyone else, so this was not a moment to seek revenge or even try and recoup my losses; it simply meant moving on to another town where they didn't know me. That was how I did it for all that time: Make the best of things, and if they turned sour, there was nothing keeping me from pulling up stakes and heading out. It was by some chance that during one of these escapes a guy who offered me a lift was on his way to Las Vegas. I didn't know much about it other than there was money to be made, and a life to be lived. I figured I would go there and set up shop for a few months. I ended up staying there for 45 years.
LAS VEGAS, NV
1955
Las Vegas is a horrible place to be homeless. I speak to this with first hand knowledge as to just how harsh a place it can be. Sure, everyone has a smile for you, and a spare hand to open the door or carry your bags - if you've got a buck. But know now, as sure as the Ventrue are after everyone's money, the casinos want it twice as much.
On top of that, the cruel nature of being only 16 made things even worse. I would get cleaned up and run errands for high rollers in the hopes of a tip, and then a group of us would pool our money together and give it to one of the older boys who looked mature enough to not be questioned by the casino staff. We'd tell him to put the money on the roulette wheel and we'd split the proceeds. This never worked as expected, and we lost far more than we ever won. At the time, our bad luck should have been more closely inspected to make sure the older kids weren't just conning us out of our money without wagering it (or worse, winning with it!) but we didn't know better and the hope of multiplying our money was too tantalizing a prospect not to try.
I resorted to more underhanded methods of support. Being a con artist is cake when you're a young kid and tourists are generous. With some clean clothes and a shower, I was unstoppable. A sad story and an innocent pout always led to a free meal, maybe a bed for the night with especially sympathetic folk. They'd always have lots of cash on them, they were here to gamble. A quick swipe from the purse in the hotel room, and I was gone. I never took enough to notice anything was gone, usually taking just a fraction of their money was enough for my needs. They probably didn't even notice it was gone, just a random loss from the blackjack tables that they'd forgotten about. It was paradise.
It was Tommy, one of the more brazen kids I ran with, who suggested we target some of the richer locals. It didn't make sense to me given that we were doing alright, but he seemed to think we'd find enough riches in one job to rent an apartment for awhile or stay at the casino. This is the way young kids think logically. Something smelled off, but the challenge of it was too good. He started scanning the newspapers looking for good targets. It was a few days later that I spotted an article in the paper that screamed for our attention. A "rich good for nothing", as Tommy called him, had been in the news for giving away a lot of cash to local charities. It only made sense that we should personally collect our share, as we were just as needy. If we happened to take a few other people's shares in the process, hey, that's just because we were forward thinking about it. Tommy's buddy Richie found out where he lived from one of the high rollers he carried luggage for, and that was all we needed.
The original plan, I remember, was the dumbest thing ever attempted by a bunch of young punks: I was going to go up to his door, pretend to be collecting for a school donation drive, win the guy over with my innocent charm, and go for the kill when I told him that I could win a prize for getting the most money donated. Surely, he'd give me a few hundred thousand, it was nothing to him! He had that just lying on the floor of his house, we were convinced. This would be easy.
Of course, we didn't count on the biggest downpour in the last three years to suddenly hit. Las Vegas averages about five inches of rain a year, and it decided to all show up at once. I was already halfway across town, and there was no way I could show my face if I came back without trying. But for a kid that didn't have a car, and had already trekked halfway across town to try a stunt this big, with a lot of distance yet to cover, all of my confidence washed away with the runoff. I couldn't read the directions I was given anymore, and got lost amongst all of the expensive real estate. Tommy assured me it would be "The biggest house on the street", but any one of them could have qualified. It was already past dark and I wanted to get this over with. With my "nice" clothes clinging to my body in the torrent of rain, and my hands shielding my eyes so I could see the doorbell, I walked up to a mansion at random because I thought it looked cooler then the rest. With a concerted effort to keep my hand steady enough to ring the bell, I prayed the master of the house was in the residence.
It was a minute before an older man in a dark suit pulled open the door slowly. If there was ever a way to visually define the term "odd", it was this guy. He stared down at me with circular sunglasses, from indoors, at 9 o'clock at night. The lenses sat perched over his gaunt, pronounced cheekbones, which seemed to actually be featuring a bit of makeup. He raised an eyebrow as he leaned at the frame of the door, at a loss to figure out what to make of the kid resembling the drowned rat at the doorstep.
"I'm sorry, but, can I help you?" I looked back up at him, unable to speak. This guy was not Alistair Brooks. I reached into my shirt pocket for my prepared plea for several thousand dollars, only to pull out a drenched piece of paper with a bunch of runny ink on it. I looked back up at the man, still shivering and not sure how to proceed. The strange man laughed, and I knew I had to spit something out before he slammed the door in my face and I died where I stood of pneumonia.
"I.... I would like to speak to Alistair Brooks." Somehow I managed to sound halfway intelligent between the ever growing shivers, and the strange man laughed harder.
"Oh, this is too good. Alistair! You have a guest!" He walked away from the door, leaving it open a crack, but I stood in my spot on the doorstep, thinking my display of acting properly would lead to a better donation in the end. The strange man returned, with Alistair Brooks in tow, who did not seem pleased.
"I don't understand what in the hell someone is--" Alistair stopped mid sentence after spotting my pathetic visage in front of him. He looked down with a furrowed brow, not really sure what to make of me. "Well now... Hi, with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?" Alistair looked down with an air of politeness, as if I was a visiting dignitary from some far off land. If I hadn't been about ready to die from the elements and my own embarassment, I might have been impressed.
Instead, I responded with a quivering bottom lip and a vicious sneeze. Alstair stared at me deeply for a moment, clicked his tongue and opened the door further. "Alright, come on in, before you come down with something." The strange man with him gave an odd look, and his presence in the doorway was enough to make me hesitate getting out of the miserable weather and into the warm house. Alistair noticed and silently urged him to remove himself from the door, which he did. I finally walked in and, to the surprise of everyone but myself, promptly passed out on the living room floor.
The last thing I remember going through my mind at that moment was how expensive the marble floor must have been.
(To be continued...)
CHICAGO, IL
1938
It's important to know that as much as you and I are members of a clan that value their humanity and their connection to society, I threw away all ties to my former life long ago. I was born in 1938 to a happy newlywed couple. I can only guess that I was their pride and joy, but the world was not content to live out uneventful lives. My father was sent away to fight in the war, and was lost on the battlefield when I was almost 3. My mother couldn't bear the sorrow and dropped me off with distant relatives, thinking me the last and most permanent reminder of the love of her life. I still don't know much more about the story. I'm not even sure what my birth name was. All I know is that the people she dropped me off with were Forrest and Carolyn Smith, and they called me Reginald.
The Smiths lived on a modest farm, with land to tend and livestock to raise, what was considered a fine place to raise a boy during that time. They'd never had kids before, so Carolyn was excited to have this new gift laid on her doorstep. Forrest, however, saw me as another set of hands to have on the farm, so I wasn't sent to school when I was old enough: that was the perfect time to start putting me to work.
Carolyn did her best to make sure I got a bit of education, though, teaching me to read and putting books in my room when she could afford them, hoping I would find time between tilling soil and feeding cows to learn about a world outside the Illinois countryside. I don't know what her goal was, maybe she imagined some fantasy life I was destined for but had missed out on due to my placement there. Maybe she didn't want to see me grow into yet another ignorant clod living on the land like her husband.
It turned out that she did far too effective a job at motivating me. I was 13 when Forrest decided that I hadn't done a suitable job sweeping out the barn, and decided that I was old enough now to learn from the strike of a belt as well as the pages of a book. I always knew I wasn't their kid; Forrest reminded me enough of that. I had learned everything that I could ever hope to from these people, and the beating I received was all I needed to completely cut the cord. That night, I quietly bundled up some clothes, snagged a loaf of bread, and flagged down a truck for a ride. It must be some kind of miracle that the driver didn't immediately turn the truck around and haul me back home, but instead we drove on. I didn't ask where he was going, he never bothered to ask where I wanted to go. All of that was fine, because I really had no idea.
I drifted about a bit for the next few years, making money by doing odd jobs on the road. Sometimes a local parish would take me in for a bit, but I'd be gone before too long. I learned a lot about survival, and knowing the difference between fight or flight. I played my first poker game at the age of 16 inside a railroad car with 4 other kids. The leader of the group had coached them to try and collude me out of my money while dealing some bizarre Stud variant; this lasted for about 15 minutes before they realized it was much more efficient to simply beat me up and take whatever was on me. I didn't run with anyone else, so this was not a moment to seek revenge or even try and recoup my losses; it simply meant moving on to another town where they didn't know me. That was how I did it for all that time: Make the best of things, and if they turned sour, there was nothing keeping me from pulling up stakes and heading out. It was by some chance that during one of these escapes a guy who offered me a lift was on his way to Las Vegas. I didn't know much about it other than there was money to be made, and a life to be lived. I figured I would go there and set up shop for a few months. I ended up staying there for 45 years.
LAS VEGAS, NV
1955
Las Vegas is a horrible place to be homeless. I speak to this with first hand knowledge as to just how harsh a place it can be. Sure, everyone has a smile for you, and a spare hand to open the door or carry your bags - if you've got a buck. But know now, as sure as the Ventrue are after everyone's money, the casinos want it twice as much.
On top of that, the cruel nature of being only 16 made things even worse. I would get cleaned up and run errands for high rollers in the hopes of a tip, and then a group of us would pool our money together and give it to one of the older boys who looked mature enough to not be questioned by the casino staff. We'd tell him to put the money on the roulette wheel and we'd split the proceeds. This never worked as expected, and we lost far more than we ever won. At the time, our bad luck should have been more closely inspected to make sure the older kids weren't just conning us out of our money without wagering it (or worse, winning with it!) but we didn't know better and the hope of multiplying our money was too tantalizing a prospect not to try.
I resorted to more underhanded methods of support. Being a con artist is cake when you're a young kid and tourists are generous. With some clean clothes and a shower, I was unstoppable. A sad story and an innocent pout always led to a free meal, maybe a bed for the night with especially sympathetic folk. They'd always have lots of cash on them, they were here to gamble. A quick swipe from the purse in the hotel room, and I was gone. I never took enough to notice anything was gone, usually taking just a fraction of their money was enough for my needs. They probably didn't even notice it was gone, just a random loss from the blackjack tables that they'd forgotten about. It was paradise.
It was Tommy, one of the more brazen kids I ran with, who suggested we target some of the richer locals. It didn't make sense to me given that we were doing alright, but he seemed to think we'd find enough riches in one job to rent an apartment for awhile or stay at the casino. This is the way young kids think logically. Something smelled off, but the challenge of it was too good. He started scanning the newspapers looking for good targets. It was a few days later that I spotted an article in the paper that screamed for our attention. A "rich good for nothing", as Tommy called him, had been in the news for giving away a lot of cash to local charities. It only made sense that we should personally collect our share, as we were just as needy. If we happened to take a few other people's shares in the process, hey, that's just because we were forward thinking about it. Tommy's buddy Richie found out where he lived from one of the high rollers he carried luggage for, and that was all we needed.
The original plan, I remember, was the dumbest thing ever attempted by a bunch of young punks: I was going to go up to his door, pretend to be collecting for a school donation drive, win the guy over with my innocent charm, and go for the kill when I told him that I could win a prize for getting the most money donated. Surely, he'd give me a few hundred thousand, it was nothing to him! He had that just lying on the floor of his house, we were convinced. This would be easy.
Of course, we didn't count on the biggest downpour in the last three years to suddenly hit. Las Vegas averages about five inches of rain a year, and it decided to all show up at once. I was already halfway across town, and there was no way I could show my face if I came back without trying. But for a kid that didn't have a car, and had already trekked halfway across town to try a stunt this big, with a lot of distance yet to cover, all of my confidence washed away with the runoff. I couldn't read the directions I was given anymore, and got lost amongst all of the expensive real estate. Tommy assured me it would be "The biggest house on the street", but any one of them could have qualified. It was already past dark and I wanted to get this over with. With my "nice" clothes clinging to my body in the torrent of rain, and my hands shielding my eyes so I could see the doorbell, I walked up to a mansion at random because I thought it looked cooler then the rest. With a concerted effort to keep my hand steady enough to ring the bell, I prayed the master of the house was in the residence.
It was a minute before an older man in a dark suit pulled open the door slowly. If there was ever a way to visually define the term "odd", it was this guy. He stared down at me with circular sunglasses, from indoors, at 9 o'clock at night. The lenses sat perched over his gaunt, pronounced cheekbones, which seemed to actually be featuring a bit of makeup. He raised an eyebrow as he leaned at the frame of the door, at a loss to figure out what to make of the kid resembling the drowned rat at the doorstep.
"I'm sorry, but, can I help you?" I looked back up at him, unable to speak. This guy was not Alistair Brooks. I reached into my shirt pocket for my prepared plea for several thousand dollars, only to pull out a drenched piece of paper with a bunch of runny ink on it. I looked back up at the man, still shivering and not sure how to proceed. The strange man laughed, and I knew I had to spit something out before he slammed the door in my face and I died where I stood of pneumonia.
"I.... I would like to speak to Alistair Brooks." Somehow I managed to sound halfway intelligent between the ever growing shivers, and the strange man laughed harder.
"Oh, this is too good. Alistair! You have a guest!" He walked away from the door, leaving it open a crack, but I stood in my spot on the doorstep, thinking my display of acting properly would lead to a better donation in the end. The strange man returned, with Alistair Brooks in tow, who did not seem pleased.
"I don't understand what in the hell someone is--" Alistair stopped mid sentence after spotting my pathetic visage in front of him. He looked down with a furrowed brow, not really sure what to make of me. "Well now... Hi, with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?" Alistair looked down with an air of politeness, as if I was a visiting dignitary from some far off land. If I hadn't been about ready to die from the elements and my own embarassment, I might have been impressed.
Instead, I responded with a quivering bottom lip and a vicious sneeze. Alstair stared at me deeply for a moment, clicked his tongue and opened the door further. "Alright, come on in, before you come down with something." The strange man with him gave an odd look, and his presence in the doorway was enough to make me hesitate getting out of the miserable weather and into the warm house. Alistair noticed and silently urged him to remove himself from the door, which he did. I finally walked in and, to the surprise of everyone but myself, promptly passed out on the living room floor.
The last thing I remember going through my mind at that moment was how expensive the marble floor must have been.
(To be continued...)