Las Vegas, What Happens There, Stays There. PLEASE!!

I was in my mid twenties living in the New York City area when I had an epiphany: “I hate this place.”  I had lived there all my life, except for a short hiatus in Rhode Island where I went to college but failed to learn anything except how to smoke dope, drink lots of beer, cut class, and play with coeds.  

I was tired of the hustle and bustle that was the metropolitan area, tired of the crime and the endless traffic jams.  There is a reason why the Long Island Expressway is called the world’s largest parking lot.  I was tired of the cost of everything.  I once paid $17 to park my car in a parking garage for two hours while I interviewed for a job, and this was the 70’s.  I can only imagine what it must cost now.  Are there enough zeros?

I was tired of the gruff impatience of the denizens of a city who, for some reason, felt the need to refer to their city as a fruit.  Once, while standing in line at a cafeteria, when asked what I wanted to eat, I responded that I was still making up my mind, and I was yelled at. I was holding up progress.  But most of all I was tired of living close to my parents, so close that I felt obliged to visit frequently so that they could lecture me on how I wasn’t living up to their expectations.  They had my life planned for me, but I had different ideas.  Actually, I had no ideas at all what I wanted to do, but I did know what I didn't want to do -- anything my parents could think of.

I wanted a new start, a new town, a new life.  I wanted to live in paradise.  But where could I go?  Then providence stepped in to teach me a lesson.   My girlfriend calls me all excited.  She had done a stint as a Vista volunteer in Vegas at the city’s Department of Social Services, and they had just offered her a full time job, and she wanted to know if I would move with her.  “Sure,” I said while looking up to the heavens and privately thanking providence for its generosity.  Vegas, the razzle-dazzle, the gambling, the celebrities, the glitzy shows, the wide open spaces, the land of sunshine and no rain, and, most of all, a place not close to my parents.  We agreed she would leave in a couple of weeks, and I would come a month later after I had attended to a couple of matters.  

A month later I packed my car and rode off into the sunset.  The drive across the country was awesome, the surroundings and people getting nicer and nicer as I drove further and further away from the city.  There were several sights along the way worth remembering, but with this one exception I will save them for another post.

While driving through a small town in Utah, I came across the following sign that said something like the following

Next gas station a gazillion miles down the road. Consider refueling before proceeding  

So I did, and the sign wasn’t kidding.  There was nothing along this stretch of highway, for miles and miles not a single human artifact.  But I did notice one thing.  About every 20 miles or so I would pass a dirt road exiting the highway heading toward horizon.  I could see nothing that these road led to.  But each dirt road had the same sign post  

Ranch Road

That's what each one said, nothing more.  I, being a New Yorker and not particularly worldly, wondered what purpose these signs served if all the roads had the same name.  Then — Duh! — it dawned on me.  These are RANCH roads.  As in real, cowboy ranches.  Somewhere beyond the horizon, each of these dirt roads terminated at a ranch, and each one must have acres and acres of land.  This entire stretch of road, traversing desolate territory was emblematic of most of my journey.  From western Missouri onward -- vast stretches of land without a single indication of the human existence, except for the highway itself and the rare car I’d pass.

After navigating through the Forgotten Land, I slowly descended down a valley into Las Vegas, the city on a hill in a valley while thinking of all the striking experiences to come my way.

Upon entering Vegas, the first thing to strike me was another car.  I was waiting at a traffic signal at Maryland and Sahara when the light turned green and the driver in front of me, instead of driving forward, plowed into me in reverse — crash! — going like 30 miles an hour.  I didn’t even know a car could go 30 miles an hour in reverse.  So what’s she do?  Does she stop and get out and apologize?  No.  She slams her car into forward and escapes.    

Welcome to Vegas.

The second thing to strike me was my girlfriend.  Not physically, but when she opened the door and I tried hug her, she pushed me away, and said 

I’ve found another man. You can’t stay here.  But I’ve done you a great favor.  My girlfriend’s boyfriend lives in a bungalow on the outskirts of town, and the one next to him is empty,  If you hurry you can get it real cheap.  Goodbye.”  Slams door.

 So I rent the bungalow, which is attached to the one my new found friend, the boyfriend of my EX-girlfriend’s girlfriend, lives in.  The first thing he does is come running out his hovel, hugs me, and hands me a beer.  He’s wreaking of alcohol, and its 10 AM.  He’s totally drunk, almost incapable of standing up, and it turns out this is his normal state of being.  He’s awake all of the time, morning, noon, and night, always with a beer in his hand.  

Then his girlfriend comes out to meet me beer in hand. You know the one of whom I speak: my EX-girlfriend’s girlfriend, and she’s drunk too.  They’re both drunks, a perfect pair.  They argue through the night, sometimes throwing things at one another, and it doesn’t stop until one of them passes out.  My hovel, with its half-inch thick walls is attached to their hovel, so I know this.  Trust me. Oh, and she gave better than she got.  The next day my Ex-girlfriend comes over, because she friend’s with my neighbor’s girlfriend and they like to do things together.  If eyes could kill.

The next thing to strike me was a thief who emptied my wallet of all its cash, which was in my pants pocket in a locker at the YMCA while I was working out in the weight room.  I never had the opportunity to meet the fellow, but I’m sure he’s a nice guy because he left me my driver’s license and even put the wallet back in my pants’ pocket. 

Finally, the next day I’m looking for a gas station when I realize there is one on every street corner just like in New York.  In fact, everything in Vegas reminds me of New York.  Most of the people are New York transplants.  I’d driven over 2,000 miles across country to get away from New York only to end right back in New York.  It was like a Twilight Zone episode.

So, I cussed providence and moved to Redding California.