IF YOU'RE LUCKY (COMPLETE)

1. Trailer Trash Vicky

VICTORIA POV

Growing up, my mother always said, "Vicky, there's no such thing as luck. The only way you're ever gonna get what you want is to work hard and people like us have to work twice that".

People like us. She meant us trailer trash.

My mom and dad moved to Las Vegas before I was born to pursue my mother's dreams of becoming a showgirl. Unlucky for her, she was already pregnant with me before they could even unpack the boxes.

My dad was unable to work due to an old injury back when he was working in a factory, so he mostly drank while waiting around for his disability checks. With the bills piling up, my mom found a job as a stripper at the Cheetah Gentleman's Club on the strip. It wasn't show business, but it was dancing at least. Sometimes when when my dad was too hammered to watch me, she'd take me there and hide me in the locker room until her shift was over. It wasn't so bad, I would bring my homework with me and I'd chat with all the nice ladies that worked there. I admit it wasn't the best environment for a nine year old girl, but my mom did the best she could.

When she wasn't working, my mom would drag me to any audition she could find. I'd get to sit in the back rows and watch all kinds of people perform. I saw dancers, trapeze artists, and sword swallowers. But my favorite was the fire breathers. I loved them. I would watch with anticipation as they spewed fire out of their mouths, without worry as their sparkly costumes glistened from the flames. To me, they were fearless and beautiful. I wanted to feel that way. I wanted to be a fire breather.

As time went on, my dad's drinking got worse and would stop paying bills and sent his checks straight to the liquor store. Unable to pay the mortgage, we ended up moving to the Sunset Mobile Park and I became known as "Trailer Trash Vicky" at school.

It never bothered me, to be honest. When my dad was drunk off his ass, he'd use me as a human ashtray or sometimes a punching bag. Being teased at school was a hell of a lot better than to be the receiving end of another one of his episodes.

I embraced the bullying, the black eyes, and the bruises. It gave me tough skin.

I was tough.

I was tough enough to go through high school heartache and tough enough to see my mother wither away from cancer.

I was tough.

I was tough enough to take on two jobs to pay the mounting medical bills my mom left us. I was tough when I had to pick out her coffin at the funeral
home. I was tough enough to be accepted into college and finally leave my dad.

I. Was. Tough.

But sometimes I wasn't. Sometimes I would break down and cry. Sometimes I would break things and smash the bathroom mirror out of frustration. And then I would stop. I would stop because it was a sign of weakness to cry, to react. So one day I decided I wouldn't cry, wouldn't react.

The world was cruel and unfair. Cheaters, gambling addicts, and tourists would come to Las Vegas to bet on the luck they didn't deserve. They'd play blackjack or roulette all night just to make a few bucks. Even rich bastards who already had money got lucky on the slots. Me? I was dealt a bad hand and I accepted it.

I listened to what my mother told me and I worked hard. Twice as hard. Three times as hard.

Hard work got me through my mother's death, my dad's wrath, and college. Not luck.

Luck was for people who were already lucky. Hard work was for people like me.

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