What Happened in Vegas…

I’m currently sitting at Iso, a sushi & boba bar in Westwood, thinking about Mike and my last visit to Sin City, how it was completely different from any trip I’ve made there before, and how I would never look at Las Vegas the same way again.

Unlike other trips to Vegas, this is the first time I flew into the city. Usually I drive, but considering the emotional circumstances as they are, I didn’t want to take the risk of my family losing two cousins on the road this week. So I shelled out the $200 to fly into McCarran Airport on Saturday afternoon.

The airport is definitely decked out with Vegas flavor. The moment you get off the gate you are bombarded with slots and video poker. A shuttle takes you from the gates to the main terminal, where you are greeted with video screens advertising the latest spectacles on the Strip. You go outside and, waiting on the curb, are an army of taxis riddled with ads for strip clubs, ready to whisk you away to the carnal desires the city has to offer. I navigated my way through all of that and was picked up by my father and John David, Mike’s brother.

We left to go to Uncle Boy and Auntie Veron’s house, Mike’s parents. I learn that the collision that took Mike’s life wasn’t too far, and that we’d be passing it by. My heart skipped a beat. I had been detached from the event for so long, and suddenly it would become real. Because we were driving, my father couldn’t find where the collision was, but I did.


As we got to the house, family members were leaving to return the scene. I left with them.

After stopping by Albertson’s to pick up some flowers, we pull up to the scene. The rest of the family is already gathered there.


Some of the family knelt to light candles.


I placed my flowers down at the makeshift memorial.


As we walked around, we began to piece together the events on the morning of the 21st. Mike was coming home from working at the Stratosphere in his new car. A red car pulled up next to him, challenging him to a race. With few cops in sight, Mike accepted. They sped down Sahara when he hit the turn. This was where he lost control.


He attempted to swerve, but it was too late. His car smashed into the brick wall.


The collision bent the steel supports about four feet.


The guard at the nearby apartment complex ran to the scene and saw the red car stopped and its driver outside, visibly shaken. The guard ran to Mike, tried to talk to him to keep him conscious. Mike was pleading, “please… please.” The paramedics arrived, and they worked with him as best they could, but he expired.

As I stood there, attempting to logically put the pieces together, it somehow still didn’t hit me. The evidence was there, but somehow it still wasn’t real. We went back to the house, still struggling with the fact that this had happened to one of our own.

We went back inside the house, where I saw the family making preparations to go to the Philippines. They had brought out all the non-perishables and packing them into balikbayan boxes.


As expected, we prayed the rosary, with my mom leading the prayer. I remembered it well having led the rosary for my grandfather’s passing. An Our Father and three Hail Marys to lead, and one Our Father, ten Hail Marys, and one Glory Be for each of the five Mysteries, and end with some prayers for the dead, and one Hail, Holy Queen.

These prayers were always emotional… except for one detail. My Uncle Totit had drank a little too much in the afternoon, and ended up passed out on the couch. And so during the rosary, I kept hearing this snoring behind me, and there’s my uncle! My first instinct was to wake his ass up, I mean, what the hell is he doing snoring during his nephew’s prayer?!? But then I thought of Mike, and knowing him, he woulda been laughing his ass off! And so I let it pass, even when my uncle’s stanky foot got me in the ribs. I continued the prayer, although I couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of Mike looking down on us.

Sunday.

I put on my funeral dress, black suit & tie, white shirt, and at noon we went to the funeral parlor. It was in a strange area; it was just across the street from the airport, and so every so often, your moments of peace would be interrupted by the roar of the 747s coming in for landing. Leave it to Mike to have his viewing next to the airport.

As I walked in, I saw that it was open casket. “This is it,” I thought. This was when it becomes real. The cousins gathered around the casket to see him.


I saw his face, and yet, I still couldn’t believe this was Mike. It resembled him, but it wasn’t him. You could tell the accident was bad. The funeral parlor had to cake the makeup on his face, especially around his forehead, his left eyebrow stitches, and his hairline was no longer straight, more closely resembling a fault line.

But it was more than the physical appearance. It was missing a spirit. Mike had an energy that surrounded him. He had a smile that infected you when you were in his presence. He was funny, engaging, and alive. Whatever was in that coffin, it wasn’t him. Maybe it had been, once, but now Mike’s spirit couldn’t be contained in a human form. He was everywhere. At least that’s what I believed. He was here. And he always would be.

A little later in the afternoon, we were hit with some shocking news, especially during a time like this. Around 2 pm, a group including my sister and some other cousins were going to leave and make the trip back to the Bay Area. When they got to their car, they noticed that one of the windows was down. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t down… it was broken! They opened the trunk and found that several backpacks were stolen, which included clothes, a wallet, keys, an iPod, and a laptop!

As the family gathered around the crime scene, with the shattered glass spilt on the ground and on the upholstery of the back seat, I wondered what all this meant. At first I was shocked that anyone would rob people in mourning. Then I got angry, and wished the thieves got what was coming to them and then some. Then I felt sorry for them, figuring that folks desperate enough to steal from the grieving had bigger issues to deal with. But ultimately, we all began to think of this as a blessing, because if this had not occurred, we would not all have been present for what was to come.

As time went on, more of Mike’s friends arrived to pay their respects. Some were friends from school, others were co-workers from Stratosphere. Everyone came in knowing what to expect, and yet completely unprepared for what they were to see. Around 4 pm, we did the rosary, and soon after my mother asked me to announce to the crowd to come to the podium to speak on behalf of Mike. At first, it went really slowly. My cousin Darah started things off, and several minutes later I spoke, reminiscing of the time when Mike’s family first arrived from the Philippines nine years ago, and how he ended up being the little brother I never had. Soon others followed, including aunts, uncles, my parents, and some friends and co-workers. Everyone said some similar things, how Mike had this engaging smile, how he was loyal and he always knew how to make you smile. But at the end, none of us could be prepared for the final speaker, Mike’s mother, Auntie Veron.

Her words were short, but none in the room could hold in their emotions any longer. Everyone in the room cried… except me. I was in a different state. I was in awe. Within the sobs and tears of the audience, there was an energy that whirled around the room with incredible power and emotion. It was an energy that could only have been cultivated by a mother’s love. I sat breathless, and thought, “Mike, are you seeing this?” I knew he was, and that made it all the more comforting.

We left the funeral parlor around 9 pm, went back to my parent’s house, changed, and went to Uncle Boy and Auntie Veron’s house. I spent more time with family, and we leave around 11 pm with the rest of the family. I give hugs to Auntie Veron, Mike’s sister Celeste, John David, and Uncle Boy. As I part from Uncle Boy’s embrace, he gives me some advice. “Drive slow.” Sure thing, Uncle.

As I go back to my parent’s house, I think about Mike’s family, and how the worst is yet to come. You see, in dealing with the death of a loved one, the most difficult time isn’t the first week. As emotional as those first days are, your family and friends are all there, sharing your grief, thinking about you, talking to you, giving you all that emotional support. It’s that time during the first year, after the funeral, when the rest of your family and friends are getting on with their lives, and you’re left to deal with life without that special person there. It’s Uncle Boy and Aunt Veron going to work and come back home, day-after-day, to that house with an empty room that shouldn’t be. It’s Celeste looking for a babysitter, knowing that her children’s uncle won’t be there. And as much as those family and friends can do, they can only do so much to help; ultimately, they face their reality alone. That’s the real struggle. That’s when they will need support the most. I should know. I was there nine years ago.

Learning from this incident that I simply do not spend enough time with my cousins, I decide to spend the night at another cousin’s house. We basically goof off into the early morning, including a $2 buy-in winner-take-all Hold ‘Em tournament (I got 2nd…::tear::), daring another cousin, Genevieve to swim in the neighbor’s pool for a dollar…


…(she did)…


…(and the best part was I forgot to pay her!), and of course, late night whipped cream attacks.




I woke up early Monday morning, my cousin Jenel drove me to the airport, and dropped me off while picking up my sister Michelle, who had just come in that morning. I tagged her in, initiating her on the emotional journey that I was just leaving.

And so ended my last foray into the City of Sin. On one hand, this trip gave me so many more reasons to hate this city: the death of a beloved cousin, the ruthlessness of a thief who would steal from grieving family, the casinos that continue to operate, feeding off people’s greed and vice, indifferent to the pains and grief of the ones who work within its walls. And yet, underneath all the chaos and neon lights, I found the resiliency of family and the human spirit. I witnessed a family coming together in one of its darkest hours. I saw strength of Mike’s friends from school and his co-workers at Stratosphere, how they found strength and joy with each other. I found laughter and happiness at a time when we needed it the most. In a place where I couldn’t find peace, I found home.

And so the next time I pass through this city, driving through its midnight black streets, in the unforgiving dryness of its extreme heat and cold, passing the blazing lights from those monstrosities on the Strip, I’ll remember that there is a community here with whom I am eternally linked, and all because of a mistake made in the early morn of April 21st, on the corner of Sahara and Sloan.