Without An Address, You Can’t Go Home

Howdy Pardner Vegas Cowboy

Photo by Kevin Connors

When I lived in Las Vegas, my title at United Parcel Service was “Bad Address Clerk.” Because Vegas is a town of drifters, grifters and shifters of identity, packages would continually go astray, paralleled by the wanderings of their addressees, who in a month’s time in Vegas might have changed their residence—and their jobs, spouses and perhaps even their sex—two or three times. And then disappeared. So my shelves were filled with boxes large and small, for which the drivers could find no recipients.

Thus, if I exhausted every means of trying to locate these souls-on-the-wing (this being the 70s, many phone calls and phone book scratchings later), I would get to OPEN the packages, and, CSI-like, try to ascertain the whereabouts of the recipient by something in their contents. Guess what? People send very interesting things in the mail. Tear gas, for example. Firearms. Naughty things (I kept those). Jewelry. It was a diverting job, for a while; too bad it didn’t keep me out of the casinos.

Vicious tease that I am, I won’t let you see this tale fully unfold here. But know that it culminates in me stealing a car from a stripper, and having a cop remove me from my college classroom.

Well, at least that’s how it went down on paper. Check out the full article at Dave’s Travel Corner.

(What happens in Vegas—stays in your mind for years to come.)

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