i can’t say that i, personally, had known depression before i got fired from HDPL. though i’d watched Dennis struggle for years, i didn’t realize the grip it could have. i thought i’d find another job, i thought Dennis would move out to Vegas, and i thought my life would move on.
i called Dennis on a Saturday morning. early. i’d gotten into the habit of sleeping all day and touring casinos all night. that particular morning he was unpleasant and demanding. he asked how many men i’d talked to and what i did all night. he went on and on about how i shouldn’t have moved out to Vegas and how it was corrupting me, how he had no idea what i was doing with myself. i told him that i was tired and that we could talk later. then he dropped the bomb:
“I can’t do this anymore.”
you know what that means. he was barely emotional. he said that it was too hard, that he didn’t want to wonder about what i was doing, that it was just ‘time’. he spoke for a while. he asked me what i was thinking. unlike my usual reaction (because, you have to keep in mind, we’d done this before), i didn’t cry, i didn’t beg, i didn’t even open my eyes. i said,
“it sounds like you’ve made your decision.”
and i hung up.
