The Leap Year Shift
Las Vegas Wedding Chapel Fiction, from my unpublished novel, Every Odd Hour.
February 29 doesn’t even exist.
It was way too early to be waking up so early, especially on a day that only happens once every four years and isn’t even real.
Mrs. Connie wanted me at the chapel by 9am.
She had called me a few days prior, asking if I could come in and work the 29th. Of course, there was no way I could ever say no to the old lady.
Mrs. Connie Sacco was the 78 year old, potty-mouthed proprietress of Las Vegas Boulevard’s legendary King of Kings Wedding Chapel. She was a tough cookie, but warm, fair, and hilarious.
I’d been working weddings, taking photos at King of Kings, off and on, for almost two decades, but I hadn’t worked there in any regular capacity for about four years. Mrs. C. thought of me as a “veteran” of the establishment and liked the way I did things, so sometimes, she’d call me in on special days, when she knew it’d be extra chaotic. Her late husband had always been a fan of mine. I’m sure that’s a big part of why she liked having me around on particularly stressful days.
Mrs. C. adored and idolized Mister Sacco.
Everybody called him “Rocky”.
At the chapel, there were certain, super-busy days with tons of bookings. Valentine’s Day, for example.
November 11, 2011 was a big one, too. People wanted 11/11/11 as their wedding anniversary. We were slammed that day.
February 29, the day that only occurs every four years, on a leap year, is another one of these kinds of dates. Having February 29th as your wedding anniversary is a whole “thing” to some people, apparently.
Fine with me.
One thing that sucks is that, when you work at King of Kings, you have to wear a black suit and tie all day.
Besides the suits, the job could get pretty hectic.
On days like the 29th, the whole point is that customers want that particular date as their wedding anniversary. No matter how packed the lobby gets with wedding parties, we have to get everybody’s vows done by midnight. I’ve seen it get close to the wire. One leap year, around 11:56pm, Mrs. C. had to grab her Bible and jog out to the parking lot to marry four couples at once, like Moonies or something. The date was that important to them, they didn’t mind. They all got a kick out of it, in fact. They all knew it was a great, Vegas wedding story to have.
Besides uncomfortable suits and a very real and suspenseful clock, ticking away, King of King’s can be a fun gig, and I usually made some okay bread. All it takes is a couple big tippers and you were set. A lot of times, it’ll be the still-drunk best man, showing off for his friends, or one of the bridesmaids he thinks he’s got a shot at.
King of Kings was one of the iconic, O.G. Las Vegas Elvis impersonator wedding chapels, over on the older part of the strip, a little past The Algiers.
You didn’t have to just get an Elvis. You could get married by a Little Richard or a James Brown, or any number of other impersonators, entertainers, priests, and officiants. Besides the Elvi, and the chapel’s squadron of well-cologned, usually bejeweled, actual ministers, we had two Princes (purple blouse or shirtless), a Donald Trump, and a Hulk Hogan, on-call.
Couples could “special order” a Dean Martin, a Sammy Davis Jr. or Frank Sinatra, as well. Nobody ever asked for a Peter Lawford, but I’m sure Mrs. C could rustle one up, if the money was right.
Radica, the Trinidadian lady who worked the front desk, tried to steer people away from the Frank, because of the fact that he drinks too much. There’s always drama every time that Frank works a job.
Nobody at the front desk ever recommended the Alcoholic Sinatra, but he still got booked all the time.
The problematic Frank’s picture was still in all of the King of Kings pamphlets, at the airport and hotel lobbies, all up and down the strip. Mrs. C. was too thrifty to have them redesigned and reprinted, so people kept calling up and requesting the Drunk Sinatra, “the one from the brochure.”
She’d laugh it off, “This is Vegas. Nobody’s mad about a drunk Sinatra.”
“We should charge extra if they’re drunk.” she’d often add.
On this 29th, I arrived at 8:45am and found a nice parking spot, across the street, in the Hot Talk strip club lot. Mrs. Connie still owned that property, so she used the way-back of their lot as employee parking for the King of Kings Wedding Chapel staff.
The King of Kings lot was never big enough to begin with, and now, since adding the florist and tuxedo rental center, there were hardly any parking spaces for customers, let alone the workers.
Inside the KoK’s cluttered, paper-strewn office, Mrs. Connie was already seated at her desk, drinking Red Rose tea from a giraffe mug. The hanging doorbells clanged discordantly as I entered. Mrs. C. lowered her reading glasses, checked to see who it was, then sprung to her feet to give me a hug.
After the greetings and some catching-up with the administrative office staff, I made made my way out to the front lobby, where I was happy to reunite with Radica, the chapel’s long-time front desk reservations boss.
I leaned, sleazily, against the faux marble counter, “How’s things been over here?”
I wanted to see what, if any, dirt came flying out from the sofa, but Radica’s always been a loyal soldier for Mrs. C. She’d never say a word.
I heard through the grapevine that the current manager was a real “piece of work”.
Radica said nothing. She just smirked and rolled her eyes, then lovingly tapped my shoulder with a folder she was holding. She put her headset back on and returned to answering her exploding telephones. It was definitely going to be a busy 29th.
Continuing down the main hallway, towards the rear of the complex, I passed only a handful of the property’s 14 themed, wedding chapel rooms. They were all tacky and awesome and sweet.
There was an all-white room, a red velvet chapel, a black velvet chapel, a safari room, a couple Vegas / casino-themed rooms, some “traditional”, “church” rooms with crosses and “stained glass”, two, with tiki / beach themes, and a camo-draped, American flag and eagle-bedecked “Freedom Chapel” with a pulpit made from surplus ammunition cans.
Last but not least, there’s a “Romance Under the Sea” room, which Mrs. Connie swears is the greatest work of Mermaid Fantasy trompe-l’oeil this side of the Louvre.
But everybody who’s ever seen it knows that it is a perfect rendering of Bikini Bottom.
Often, cheeky kidult couples get married, in that room, wearing full, SpongeBob costumes, much to the confusion of Mrs. Connie, who still has no idea what Spongebob Squarepants is (no matter how many times her grandkids try to explain it to her).
As I walk towards the photographers’ break room, towards the back of the building, it is clear, to me, that the property has seen better days.
I was curious about the state of the chapels. I wanted to get a sense of the camera lighting situations and what, if anything, had changed.
My eyes scanned the floors and the corners of the rooms and rugs. Everything was dirty and in some state of disrepair.
Suzy’s brains would explode if she ever saw the place looking like this.
Suzy was the former GM who had been there forever and who had retired since I had last done any holidays. Before ending up in Vegas, she was a Coast Guard Quartermaster and continued running a tight ship during her tenure as General Manager of King of Kings.
Suzy was there during that run in the 80s, when all those big weddings came into the chapel over the course of a few months. One after the other; Bon Jovi, the guy from Motley Crue, Joan Collins, Michaels Jordan and Jackson, Brittany, and a bunch of others. Suzy was there for all of them. Her kids post “Throwback Thursday” photos of their mom with people like Wayne Newton, Joan Rivers, and Dionne Warwick.
Suzy is missed. She ran that place with a graceful and iron fist.
Now, with her gone, all the mirrors were foggy and the carpet in the upstairs chapel had a weird smell. On the way downstairs, I noticed one of the limo drivers grabbing a nap in the old dressing room, opposite the original coat check closet.
The break room was the last room at the end of the long hallway of chapels, just before the back door, where everyone went outside to smoke. Still leaning next to the exit, the scratched, brown, metal folding chair that employees used to prop open the door so it wouldn’t lock behind them when they stepped outside for a cig.
The King of Kings photographers’ break room was little more than a double-wide closet with a water cooler, a wobbly table, some chairs, and four, way-overcrowded power strips, plugged into scarce, struggling sockets. The room’s worn, wood-paneled walls were spiked with about three thousand sloppily installed coat hooks and nails. There was an unlucky mirror and a microwave, precariously perched on a bent-legged kitchen cart. Hanging from one of the crooked nails, a beat-up, brown clipboard with a 311 (the band) sticker.
I entered the glorified janitor’s closet and was happy to see a familiar face.
“Manny!”
My old photographer friend, Manny, was happy to see me. He greeted me enthusiastically with a heartfelt hip-hop hug, “My man!”
Manny caught me up on all of the hot, behind-the-scenes, King of Kings gossip.
Mrs. Connie’s racist, redneck brother was out of rehab (again) and back on “fetty”, living on the couch, in the office of another building they owned, a little ways up Las Vegas Boulevard. Everybody says he just stays in there, all day and night, getting high, and that the only thing he’ll eat (and the only place he feels comfortable going) is the Panda Express next door.
At the King of Kings’ front desk, it was mostly the same crew of women, still holding things down. The limo drivers all still sold cocaine to Best Men on the side of the building and again, (this time by Manny) the new GM, is described as a “real piece of work”.
Manny began to explain the new system. I couldn’t believe what he was telling me.
Used to be, there was a simple rotation of photographers, each getting assigned weddings to go and shoot. The women at the front desk gave you your assignment. They’d hand you a slip of paper with the wedding party name, the photo package the people paid for, and which room their ceremony was taking place.
It’d say something like “Smith… Silver Package + Video, Freedom Chapel.”
Easy.
For the photographers, it was a first come, first served sorta deal. Whichever photographer’s turn it was to go next, was assigned the next wedding. Very simple. When you were next, the person working the front desk handed you the slip of paper, and off you went to gather your group.
That’s the system they always had and that system had always worked perfectly, for me.
The front desk staff had a speech they’d give to whoever seemed to be in charge of (paying for) the wedding…
“It is customary that wedding parties thank their King of Kings Photography Team Expert with an average gratuity of $60, although you are welcome to show your gratitude with more, if you feel they provided you with an excellent experience on your very special day.”
After hearing that spiel, delivered with authority, and in a Jedi Mind Trick, hypnosis tone, by Radica (or one of her well-trained crew members), the guests would instantly oblige, without even thinking, like it was nothing.
The girls up front would time it perfectly, so that, just as their speech was concluding, they would gracefully extend their arm and place, directly into the guest’s hand, a small brown envelope with the word “PHOTGRAPHER” rubber-stamped in red ink, across the front. Like the Drunken Frank brochures, Mrs. C still hadn’t sprung to update the rubber stamp’s typo.
It didn’t matter. Like I said, the system worked perfectly.
The front desk ladies had it down so smooth. It was beautiful to watch. Especially if you knew what they were doing. Especially if you were one of the photographers about to be on the receiving end of that cash.
Boom.
That’s all it took.
One, short, well-crafted, well-delivered sentence, and every single photographer got a sixty dollar tip, at least.
The genius combination of those words, that script, and that blessed envelope, was the entire key to us making such good money at King of Kings. We all did decent.
A sixty dollar tip, for less than 30 minutes work, plus an hourly wage (a small one) on top, was not bad money for taking pictures of smiling, flashily-attired happy people.
But wait, this scam gets even better…
When guests didn’t have cash, our helpful front desk staff would direct them to the ATM, just across the lobby.
The King of Kings lobby ATM was set up “casino style”, in that it had a hundred dollar withdrawal minimum and only dispensed hundred dollar bills. On top of that, the ATM fee had also been set up “strip club style”, with a greedy $9.99 withdrawal fee.
The guests never wanted to look stingy, asking for change on their special day, so they’d basically always just take the c-note from the machine and slide it directly into the little brown “PHOTGRAPHER” envelope.
Very, very often, I’m talking, like, every third wedding, in the confusion of the ceremony’s conclusion, we’d get tipped multiple times, by multiple members of the same wedding party.
Fine with me.
Gotta give credit where credit’s due. The whole speech / envelope / ATM hustle was the work of the late Mister Vincent “Rocky” Sacco. He was also the mastermind behind the rubber stamp’s red ink, “indicating urgency.”
Genius.
Credit where credit’s due, placing the envelope directly into the guest’s hand was all Radica.
Genius.
The King of Kings photographers greatly appreciated the opportunity that Mrs. Connie and Rocky Sacco’s establishment (and their gentle scams) were providing us.
This was not lost on anybody, and the staff was fiercely loyal to Mrs. Connie and to the landmark establishment.
The place was a Las Vegas institution.
Even our newest, least experienced photogs would clear $200 a shift, guaranteed, even on a weekday, overnight shift, like, say Wednesday night, 1-9am shift.
Those were the best shifts to work because there’s only one photographer on-duty.
If you’re working graveyard, and you get a little, walk-in rush, or a couple big tippers, you’d make all of the money instead of sharing the jobs with other photographers.
Oh, if I hadn’t mentioned it earlier, King of Kings was open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. There was an in-house florist, tuxedo rental shop, and limo fleet. They also did divorces and had a drive-thru.
When I clocked in, that morning of the 29th, Manny was already there because he had worked the previous evening’s 1-9am shift and was getting ready to head home.
“How was graveyard?” I was curious if they still ever pulled any numbers overnight.
He shrugged, “It was whatever. Three ceremonies.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“They do it all very differently now. The new GM, David, has a whole new system.”
My interest was piqued, “How so, now?”
Manny lowered his head and shook it, “Man…”
“What?” Now I was curious.
“Yeah man, it’s pretty different, dog.” His voice trailed off.
“But you make any money the new way? Is it bad?” I was concerned.
“I mean… people make money…”
“Really?” I was genuinely bummed.
“Hey man, I shouldn’t have said anything. Not. Getting. Involved.”
Manny cackled to himself as he carefully placed his camera, flash, and lenses into his backpack. He added, “For real, my dude, don’t sweat it. He’s not bad. He’s just a little extra extra…”
His shift now officially over, Manny punched the clock on the wall and made his way down the hall, out towards the doors that exited onto Las Vegas Boulevard.
He turned back to me, one last time, “But good luck making any money.” He chuckled one last ominous laugh.
"What’s that supposed to mean?”
The question hung, unanswered. What a dick.
“Come on. You can’t do that, Manuel.”
He didn’t turn around, but he called out loudly, “I’m fucking with you, you’ll do great.”
Manny disappeared up Las Vegas Boulevard.
I didn’t believe him, regarding the “fucking with you” part.
Manny had the best coat hook in the break room, closest to the best electrical outlet for charging stuff, so I moved my things to his rusty nail. I organized my gear for the day. Mints, flash, camera, point and shoot in my inside, jacket pocket, weed pen, ink pen, pocket knife. Shoot my cuffs, straighten my tie.
One by one, the other photographers arrived.
By 9:04am, there must have been seven or eight other dudes crowding the room, all in bad suits, all fumbling with equipment. All, just like me. I only recognized one of them, but couldn’t remember his name. Terry, maybe? I knew he was a real pastor of some sort, or used to be a real pastor. Something to do with God or a church. He said he made more doing photos, at King of Kings, than doing vows.
For that day, we were doing “holiday shifts”, 9 to midnight, straight, no breaks. A total violation of state labor laws, but we didn’t care because we knew we’d cake up. At least that’s what I thought.
My eyes scanned the cramped quarters for more familiar faces. I held onto my prized, break room real-estate; my spot in the corner with the good hook, next to the mirror and the hand sanitizer. Next to the best electrical outlet, in which I was charging my scattered batteries of various device and purpose.
There was an audible thunder and palpable vibe-vacuuming as David, the new GM, approached the photographers' room.
In war, it is said that to really “take” a room, you need “surprise”, “speed”, and “violence of action”. David’s arrival, that morning, possessed each of these qualities.
“Morning, soldiers.”
David was a large presence, physically and otherwise. He somehow looked like both a Country Western star and a Reggaeton star, at the same time. Tall, freshly faded haircut, complicated facial hair, all black suit, bedazzled, designer sunglasses. He wore a pinkie ring and had a tattoo of rosary beads on his forearm that would peek out from his jacket, whenever his arms reached too far forward and his sleeve hiked up. His energy was Rupaul meets Gordon Ramsey, as interpreted by Pitbull.
Abruptly ending the chatter of the gathered shooters, David loudly barked-out the day’s first wedding assignments.
“Ramos… Freedom Chapel. Jato… Tiki 1. Mitchell… Viva Las Vegas."
David stood there, rifling through a stack of color-coded index cards.
“Must be the new system.” I thought to myself.
I tried to be subtle. I looked around at everyone’s faces, trying to get a good read on the room.
Everybody there seemed pleased to be working the leap year shift.
I really didn’t understand the deal with getting married on February 29th as “a thing”.
To me, it doesn’t make any sense, having your wedding anniversary on a day that only comes once, every four years.
I could see wanting one’s birthday to be on February 29th, that way you’d only gain a year of age, every four years. When you’re forty, you’re really only ten years old, etc.
Seemingly contrary to that logic, many, many people are eager to have the rare date of February 29th as their wedding anniversary.
This, I truly did not understand.
This math doesn’t work out for marriage.
I’d want to be credited for every single milisecond of my “time-served”.
Not that I have anything against the institution of marriage, it’s a beautiful thing, it’s just that I’d want full credit for all my time put in, that’s all.
Whatever their logic, we did 235 weddings that day, total.
You believe that?
People think it's romantic or symbolic or some shit, I don’t know.
All I know is that, out of those 235 weddings, I was only assigned six, total, in the twelve hour shift that I was about to be wrapping up.
The new system.
My phone vibrated inside my jacket pocket as I stepped into the musty break room.
It was a text from my sometime colleague, Beverly Green, the (adult) performer known professionally as Trinity Billions.
“Are you at the chapel??”
I replied, “Yes. Ha. How’d you know?”
She continued to text,“lololol… saw ur car at Hot Talk.”
I texted back, “Cool almost finished.”
Beverly replied, “Will wait in my car at Hot Talk.”
I hit her with a thumbs up emoji and put my phone back into my jacket pocket.
Time had become a jumbled soup, so I hadn’t even noticed that it was already 12:03am. Besides the shitty new system, shorting my dough, everything went rather smoothly. The books were cleared well before midnight, with time to spare. All of the couples were happy. All of the photos, full of joy. The ones I took, at least. February had ended, time to March forward. I began wiping down my lenses and packing my things.
In walks my old friend, Manny, from exactly 15 hours earlier. Back for another round at the grindstone and sacramental altar.
“Yo!”
We gave each other sturdy pounds, accompanied by the “hip-hop hug”. Customary, considering our respective ages and cultural backgrounds.
Manny was grinning ear to ear, tearing up from laughter.
“So…”
He paused purposely, well beyond comfort, then asked, “How was your day?”
He doubled over, laughing.
“Yo, man…” I was truly at a loss for words. I began stuttering, “ I - I - I just don’t understand… this used to be thee best gig…”
Manny made prayer hands and looked skyward, “THEE best!”
My body formed into a man-sized shrug emoji.
He leaned in, “But seriously though, it’s all fine if you want it to be. You just get down with David’s little, ‘Royal Package program’ he’s got going on, the all-cash program, holmes.”
I was curious, but it was time to go. My porn star friend was waiting for me, across the street.
I bid Manny goodnight, “I have to be out. You’re on graveyard again?”
Manny was fussing with his hair in the streaked-glass mirror, “That would be me.”
I truly felt for him, “Good luck, brother.”
We fist bumped once more and I threw my man-purse over my shoulder. On my way out the door, Radica and I squeezed each other consensually. I walked across the street to the Hot Talk Strip Club & Adult Superstore parking lot, where my good friend, Trinity Billions, was sitting in her car, waiting for me.
Trinity saw me before I saw her and exited her Mercedes to run up on me with a busty embrace.
“I was getting things I need for a shoot tomorrow and recognized your car, figured I’d text you.”
“Glad you did. Wow.”
“Yeah, I’m proud of myself. Man, they were just talking about leap year, on the radio and I remembered you guys park on this side on big wedding days. See? I remember things. Go, me, go meee…”
It was great to see Beverly after such long, draining day. I was tired and smiling, “Yes. Go you, Bev. Damn. I’m flattered you remember things I tell you about my day job.”
Beverly zipped up her furry hoody and asked, “You doing anything tomorrow night?”
“I’m around. Why?”
“Need you to drive me to a job or two.”
I totally must have manifested this “celebrity” guest appearance and the next night’s well-paying gig. Trinity pays good. This was a very much appreciated, impromptu parking lot conference.
Big up Miss Trinity Billions, my Lord, Saviour, and winner of the prestigious, 2019 Adult Video News Awards “Throat G.O.A.T.” Lifetime Achievement trophy.
Money had been slow, so I was thirsty for work. My voice must have squeaked with eagerness, “Of course! I got you.”
“Okay, cool. Sahara lobby, 3pm. I may not be there right away, but it’s important that you are. Just linger and see what’s up, you know. Long story, but that’s what it is for tomorrow.”
She didn’t have to say anything else. I’d done these kinds of gigs with her before. I knew what she meant. She wanted me generally “around”. She wanted to know she had someone in the area. Something must have been weirding her out about whatever job it was, but that was none of my business. I was happy to show up and be good at what I was good at.
“Yeah, I got you. I get it. I know how you do.”
We touched fingertips and smiled.
Beverly / Trinity had one of those huge sets of keys with 35 grocery store “valued customer” fobs, a multi-tool, a hubcap from a 1983 Datsun, an air fryer, and a waving, good luck kitten attached.
“What’s all those keys for, Bev?”
Her keychain looked like a chandelier at Liberace’s house.
“Oh, these? These are my keys.”
“Is that a rabbit’s foot?”
She jangled the crass menagerie at my chest, “Two rabbits foots. Yes sir. Good eyes.”
Beverly and I had a slight flirtation going on, over the years. She made me feel her butt and boobs a few times, but that was work-related. We never fooled around or took our relationship beyond professional. Not sure we ever would or could.
A loud voice startled us, “Hey there, buddy!”
A sudden, dull chop to my back almost gave me an actual heart attack.
Neither I, nor Trinity, had seen the man approaching, and he almost killed me, right there on the Old Vegas Strip, with his sneak-attack backslap greeting.
“Holy shit, dude.”
“Ha! Gotcha!” David made a pistol with his fingers and aimed it straight at me.
I felt clumsy, confused, and small.
He pressed his car key button, activating the flashing lights and loud chirps that go along with with the unlocking of an automobile, then placed his camera bag and leather briefcase (??) onto the passenger seat.
His car is a bright, Slimer-green, custom, “Fast & Furious” sort of situation.
Across the windshield, in a font that appears to be depicting voluminous, viscous, fluorescent green ejaculate, a custom decal reads, “El Toxico”.
David hopped into his whip and revved Slimer to life. Barry Gibb and Barbra Steisand’s “Guilty” rang loudly from his speakers as he pulled northbound, onto Las Vegas Boulevard with a burnt rubber screech.
The last thing I saw that evening was David’s state-issued, Nevada, vanity plate, which, keeping with his general brand, read, “LTOXICO”.
The man stays on-message.
Trinity lit her Backwoods joint and stared towards the glimmering casino lights of downtown, “Today ain’t real. Anything that happens tonight, never happened at all.”
I took a pull from her spliff, “What about the weddings? Those never happened?”
"Oh, hell no. Especially not the weddings. Those shits definitely never happened. Not tonight and not ever. Definitely not here, and never like this.”
Beverly took the last pull of the joint then flicked it at a flattened Modelo can on the asphalt. We hung in the parking lot for another twenty minutes or so, just telling jokes and complaining about the cold.
Eventually, we both got inside our respective rides.
Before pulling out of the parking lot, Beverly pulled up next to me and rolled down her window. I rolled down mine.
She exhaled a plume of smoke and was giggling uncontrollably, “And, what’s up with your mans, El Toxico?”
We shared one more laugh, then both drove home alone.