We’d just arrived in Vegas. Literally, I believe we were on a tram to baggage claim, when we over heard the conversation. “Can you believe we saw Brad? Isn’t he fine as shit in person? No one will believe us, you know? I wish I could have watched them film longer. I wonder when the movie comes out. Around Christmas would be my guess. Who knows? What are they calling that flick again? Ocean’s Eleven.”

Kate and Emmy and I looked at each other. We knew right then and there, we had to find them. Our husbands and boyfriends rolled their eyes at us. It was my 21st birthday weekend. Our first trip to Vegas, where all of us were actually legal. Not our first trip mind you, just our first legal trip. We did all the regular things you’d expect on a birthday weekend. Drank 3ft margaritas. Rode roller coasters. Went to clubs. Danced. Danced. Drank. Danced some more. Gambled a bit.

We looked for them everywhere we went. Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, George Clooney. We knew who was going to be in that movie. You don’t live in West Los Angeles and not hear rumors. We never found them. Best memories of my 21st birthday weekend however, are from looking for them. We were convinced we’d find them. It made the weekend more exciting. You never knew what could have happened.

On the cab ride back to the airport, the cabbie says: did you hear about the movie Brad Pitt was filming? Yeah, they finished three days ago. It was pretty exciting. Turns out, they’d left the day we arrived. We spend three days looking for people who’d already left. We laughed our asses off the rest of the way to the airport.

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It was one of those vacations that I didn’t really mind as a kid. My siblings did, but I never minded. Long car days were fun for me. It meant I had a reason to wear headphones, read books and ignore the world. I liked that. It was the way I got along with my dad and step-mom best.

I was twelve that year. We were a day from home, when the car broke down. In Death Valley. In August. It had to of been 112 degrees outside. My dad is a mechanic. Normally he could fix anything. We could tell by the way he was swearing and kicking the car, that he couldn’t fix this.

Like magic, a tow truck driver pulled up. No idea why, but he showed up, just happened to be driving by. We’d only been sitting there for ten minutes. He towed us to his town. Three kids in his front seat, singing They Might Be Giants, Little Birdhouse in Your Soul to him. My parents paid him in beer.

Tonopah, Nevada. That was his town. It’s as exciting, as it sounds. It had one hotel, where we took up residence for nearly a week. Turns out a transmission on an old Suburban has to be ordered. To save time, my dad had it ordered to his shop in LA and had my aunt drive it to us. Yes, this was saving time.

We spent five days there. We roller bladed in the hallways during the day. We swam in the pool in the evenings. We ate three meals a day at the only restaurant. My step-mom didn’t care when we ordered mozzarella sticks for lunch, or pancakes for dinner. The waitress gave us shit for ruining her coffee every single morning. We spent tons of my dads money on video games at the restaurant/casino/game room.

The woman who ran the hotel, took pity on my parents and brought us her VCR and her grand-kids videos, as well as a ton of bored games to play.

In truth, that was the best vacation we’d had with them, in years.

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We were playing in the garage when we found it. One of those old Pepsi tins, stuffed full of money. Folded up fives and tens. Rolled up ones. Crumpled twenties. The thing was completely full.

What do we do, my brother asked me? We show grandpa. It’s his garage, it has to be his money. Maybe he lost it. We went in the house and made him come outside with us. He was a gruff old man. He loved us, you could tell, but he was tired of kids being around by then. We were interrupting his nap time. He was about 85 years old and we were his great-grandchildren. I was probably only seven years old, which would have made my brother barely five.

His eyes got all big when he saw the money. Oh now, what do we have here, he asked? We told him how we’d been playing and the ball had bounced too high and well we climbed up to get it and found this tin.

Did I ever tell you about the pirates? The pirates, oh those pirates. You could see the twinkle in his eye, as he told us this story. I bet this was their money once upon a time. Pirates Grandpa, I asked? In Texas, really? Well why do you suppose this town is called Wichita Falls? Because of the falls at Lucy Park, I said? Oh no, that is just what’s left. Once, there was a great ocean here. The falls were huge. Like that place up north, those Niagara falls. Yeah, like that. That was back when I was a boy, back when pirates roamed freely. You had to be careful around them, because some weren’t all that nice. See this scar here? He lifted up his shirt sleeve. This was from a fight with a pirate. Dirty rotten scoundrel. Thought his chips should be free. I wasn’t scared of that one eyed man. Anyhow, somehow when they left, they just took the ocean with them. It’s been all hot here ever since. Bet this money was theirs, he said. Well it’s ours now.

Truth was, he only used cash. He always had mom and pop type shops. Potato chips, pies, Christmas trees, handyman…he’s done it all and sold it all. They’d have a little shop and when it got to where he and Grandma couldn’t run it themselves, they’d sell it off. He didn’t like to have employees. Too much work, he’d say. He dealt only in cash. He’d forgotten about that tin, I’m sure. He used to have them all over the house and some probably buried in the backyard. Until my uncle made him take it all to the bank.

That day, he gave us each ten dollars as a finders fee.

We weren’t around him much after that and he died about two years later. This memory is my defining memory of him. Pirates in North Texas. Snort.

You can see past memories HERE, if you’d like.