This last hitch at work, I saw a combination of two items that alarmed me quite a bit. On one of the bulletin boards for general communication in a BP camp, there was a piece of pure propaganda from that company's "Team Alaska". The flyer essentially said that BP and other oil companies were seeking to develop new resources in places where oil companies received more tax incentives and lower rates to produce. They flyer then encouraged employees to contact their elected representatives to lower tax rates and provide incentives to BP or else face the specter of more lay-offs. Essentially, BP would be taking it's ball and going somewhere else if the State of Alaska didn't stop taxing them so much.
All of this wouldn't have struck me so much, had it not been for the second piece of the combination. On a white sheet of letter sized paper were the four words that have become synonimous to me with Elitism, Narcissism, and all around Assholiness: "Who is John Galt?"
When I was a younger man, I became enamored with the philosophical views that espoused the ideals of merit, and that reward should always be payed to those who were able to achieve the most. I bought into the American illusion of upward mobility based upon hard work, skill, dedication, sacrifice, etc. Like Mom, apple pie, and all the other pieces of Americana; the rags to riches stories of the talented and dedicated insert random lowly position here who possessed some great skill that led him to take his rightful place among America's powerful elite, are second nature to those of us who grew up in this land.
I found this ideal played out best in Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. While most of the main players in the book are established members of the nation's industrial elite, the question "Who is John Galt?" lingers over the first half of the book, until he's finally revealed.
In John Galt, I found figure that encompassed all of the ideals of the meritorious American man, who takes his place among the natural aristocracy of elites.. Galt is born the son of a mechanic, who through talent and hard work, goes on to "better" himself through an elite education, making friends with very powerful young men of the industrial aristocracy, finally becoming a great inventor.
This could be any one of the Great American Success stories, except it doesn't end there. Galt leads a revolt of the modern bourgeoisie against the masses who they see as parasites, unfairly feasting off their success through taxes and the like. Instead of choosing to contribute a greater share of their disproportionately high wealth, Galt's followers instead go on strike and disappear. Like any good piece of elitist propaganda, the world falls apart without them.
I bought this line of reasoning hook, line and sinker for many years. It lead me to believe actions which were against my interests and favored rich elites were right and fair. I praised George W. Bush's tax cuts for the wealthy because they eased the "punishing of productivity".
"Why champion actions that are against your interests?" one might ask. Simply put, because the illustrations presented to me of people like John Galt, coupled with a healthy dose of narcissism, led me to believe that I too would someday be ultra-rich and would like to have the benefit of keeping my hard-earned wealth.
When the illusions started to unravel with the economic meltdown of 2008-2009, my perceptions of Galt changed. As I watched the über-rich of this country line up for handouts from the government, I began to see that it was they who were the parasites, not the unwashed masses. Through all their so-called "free trade", they had devised a system in which all of the wealth could be sucked up into the hands of few. When that wasn't enough, they created games to invent wealth to exploit. Finally, when the game couldn't be prolonged anymore, it was they who came begging to the public for more corporate welfare. All the while, they maintained an air of arrogance about how they were "too big to fail" and if they were allowed to fail, the country would collapse. Just like Galt and his followers, our modern day equivalents thought the world needed them more than they needed the world.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
29-A: Reckless Youth at South Point (Read First)
Author's Note:
Here's the first-person perspective on my experience. It takes place on the cliffs of South Point, on the Big Island of Hawaii, sometime during my original Sophomore Year in college, when I attended the University of Hawaii. There's a youtube video at the the end that I found for a little perspective. It's the same exact place where this even took place, but I have no idea who the people in the video are, nor who took it.
The creaking and groaning made it seem as if the platform was going to detach itself from the top of the cliff. While cliff jumping was my reason for being here, I certainly didn't want to do a tandem jump with a couple thousand pounds of decades-old lumber. That would certainly be a recipe for disaster.
I imagined myself falling foreword, with a white knuckle grip on archway on the ocean side of the platform. Falling face down towards my fate, eyes and mouth agape. It's a vision that immediately reminds me of the Nazi going over the cliff in Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade, a head and shoulders poking out of the top of a tank as it does a Thelma and Louise to it's fiery end at the bottom of the cliff.
The image makes me chuckle. "If this thing's been here this long, it'll hold long enough for me," I once again mumble.
"Huh?" Bracken asks me.
He's standing ten feet to my left at the lip of the cliff. His look is one of confidence. He's been here many times, made this jump countless times. Not that he needs experience to look confident. Bracken's a gym-rat. He's the type of guy that gets up in the morning and puts in two hours at the gym before the sun comes up. The visible result of that dedication is something which, deep-down, I'm a little envious of.
"Nothing," I say. "Just thinking out loud."
"Ahhhhhhhhh!!!!" From behind me, I hear what can best be described as the noise Private Joker makes when Sargent Hartman asks him to "show me your war-face!" upon arriving at boot camp in Full Metal Jacket. It's Kevin. He's running at a full sprint across the basalt plateau, running straight for the edge. It's almost a comical picture he paints. Short, awkward, a bit nerdy; his image is nothing like the near-Adonis Bracken. He runs right past Bracken, and I watch as he glides out into the void.
"Gerrrrrrronimo!"
I watch as he flails his arms and legs on the way down and at the last minute tucks his arms around his chest, brings his feet together, and looks up with closed eyes as he enters the water below.
Bracken and I wait a moment, and sure enough, Kevin's head emerges from the calm waters below.
"Wahoo! That was awesome!" Kevin screams back up. Soon he is swimming towards the old rusty iron ladder hanging off the side of the cliff. It is the only means of escape from the water below.
I take a few steps back, off the platform and onto the ground. Bracken turns and faces me, his back to the ocean.
"See you down there," he says, jumping backwards. His head snaps back, he grabs his knees to his chest and does a complete back-flip, suspended in mid-air. It's almost like a cartoon, as soon as he is right-side-up and vertical again, he plummets to the water below. I cautiously rush to the ledge and am relieved to see his smiling face looking up at me.
"Your turn," he says up to me, and makes a quick swim to the ladder.
I have one of those paralyzing moments. I want to go, but my feet don't want to move. It's a fight in my head: my conscious mind wants to do this, but my subconscious is holding me back. The human inclination towards self preservation is putting up a fight against this action that seems downright suicidal.
I look to my left and see Kevin cresting the lip of the cliff on the ladder.
"Dude, you gotta do the run and jump the first time. It's the only way you can keep from pulling back," he encourages.
I walk back from the ledge about thirty feet. My heart is racing, my palms sweating. I am about to jump off a sixty foot cliff into forty feet of deep blue Pacific Ocean. Aside from the rickety old ladder, the next nearest place to safely get out of the water is the beach a mile up the coast. I'd never make it if something went wrong with the ladder, and this weighs on my mind.
"Come on Matt, you can do it!" Kevin forcefully encourages.
I put one foot in front of the other, then another, and another. I'm at full speed when I step off the ledge into the air.
The fall is amazing. In an instant, I have tunnel vision. My focus is on the ocean below, and the spot where I will break into the blue. As I fall, my stomach finds a new home somewhere around my Adam's Apple, in the middle of my throat .
Surprisingly, the fall was not one of those adrenaline-fueled moments that seems to last forever. It was quick. So quick that I almost don't have the presence of mind to prepare myself for the force which will overcome me when I break the surface tension of the water. At the last possible fraction of a second, I bring my arms in close to my body, bring my feet together, close my eyes and tilt my head back.
I feel my body enter the water violently. The resistance of the water, coupled with the position I entered the water in makes me shudder back and forth somewhat violently. When I finally come to rest, fifteen or so feet deep in the water, I'm almost flat on my back and looking up. I start swimming for the surface, exhaling air as I pull myself up. Soon I am rewarded with the sensation of broaching the surface, and take a gigantic breath of air.
Turning my gaze back up from whence I came, I see Kevin's smiling face peering over the lip at me. I see him raise his hand and give me a thumbs-up. A salute for my successful jump.
To my right, I see Bracken, climbing the ladder to safety. He looks down over his shoulder at me.
"Was that fun?"
"You know it!" I exclaim. "Get your ass up that ladder, I'm right behind you and I want to go again!"
29-B. The Old Man, The Boy, and The Sea (Read Second)
Author's Note: This is the third-person imagining of my scene.
The old man was enjoying his lazy afternoon fishing with his grandson. He had chosen to take the boy to a very special place on the island, South Point. A place very much dear to him, South Point was the place the old man went to when he wanted solace. Today, he was sharing that solace with someone very dear to him.
The two of them had driven all the way from their home in Kailua-Kona. They past South down the coast past the famous Kona Coffee plantations, past the quiet town of Captain Cook, and down the lonely ten mile stretch of road that led to South Point.
The road from the highway to South Point is one of a kind in the Hawaiian Islands. It feels more like a trip across Midwestern farm country, with the exception that the horizon is graced with blue ocean on one side, and Mauna Loa volcano on the other. It's slowly rolling hills, covered in grassy cattle pastures.
The boy pointed as they drove past one field, "What are those grandpa?" he asked.
"Windmills. The government put them here a long time ago, when Jimmy Carter was president," the old man answered, not taking his gaze from the road.
"Who's Jimmy Carter?" the boy quietly thought aloud, his grandfather not hearing him.
The two drove on, the old man's 1980's Nissan compact pickup creaking and groaning as they made their wave up, over, and down the endless rolling hills. Soon they were pulling up to the parking area by the cliffs. The old man looked at the boy.
"Stay close to me son. Don't go near the cliff until I have everything ready. If you fall in, it will be very bad," he cautioned his only grandchild.
"Okay grandpa. I won't," the boy complied.
As the two of them sat about removing their fishing tackle, the boy surveyed the new surroundings. He could tell that to one side of him was a massive set of cliffs that dropped off into the water. To the other side, there was rolling grasslands, with some dirt trails cutting their way across the landscape. He could see a peak rising in the distance next to the coast in that direction.
"What's over there grandpa?" the boy asked while pointing at the peak.
"The Green Sand Beach," the old man said. "It's almost a mile from here."
"Green Sand? I thought sand was black or white," the boy half asked, half stated to his grandfather.
The old man pointed way up the coastline to a black sand beach. "You remember how I told you a black sand beach is made?"
"Yes grandpa. When lava flows into the sea it cools down super-fast. When it does that it be hardens and breaks real quick," the junior geologist stated.
"Very good. I'm so proud of how smart you are," he doted on his grandson, "The Green Sand beach was made the same way, except the lava that made it contained a lot of olivine."
"Olivine? How do olives get in the lava?"
"Not olives, olivine. It's a mineral, a rock. But it's typically an olive-green color…"
"So, it shatters when it hits the water as lava, and becomes green sand?" the boy interjected.
"You are too smart!" the old man said, reaching down to pat the boy on the head. "Now lets go fishing."
The two anglers grabbed their long surfcasting rods, along with the rather large tackle boxes that the old man had kept in his shed for years. They contained the tackle that would only be used for this particular fishing spot. They walked to within ten feet of the ledge, and the old man nodded to the boy to place his gear on the ground there.
"I'll set this up, you just sit here and watch. Okay?" the old man instructed.
"Okay grandpa," the boy acknowledged.
The old man started pulling tackle from the boxes, and laying out on the ground before them. As he was doing this, a white Jeep pulled up and three men in their early twenties got out and walked to the cliff, about fifty yards away from the old man and the boy.
"Tell me the story about your grandpa again, please," the boy asked his grandfather.
"The one about the barracuda?"
"Yeah."
"Well, my grandfather used to come out here and fish out of a small boat…"
"How did he get it down there?" the boy interrupted.
The old man pointed over to where the three young men stood.
"Do you see that platform?"
The boy nodded.
"You see the pulley on the arch on the ocean side?"
Again, the boy nodded.
"He would lower the boat down using that pulley, then climb down the ladder to it."
The man continued working as he started in on the story. His fingers working delicately to bait hooks onto yard-long leaders.
"My grandpa would then paddle out just a little ways and tap his oar on the bottom of the boat three times. Sometimes he would have to do this a few times, but eventually a six-foot barracuda would show up.
"Grandpa would throw a little bit of steak or chicken into the water, and the barracuda would eat it. Then the barracuda would kill fish for Grandpa. They would float to the surface, and he would put them in his boat.
"When he had enough, he'd throw another bite to the barracuda, tap the bottom of the boat three times, and head back to the ladder and pull his boat out."
The little boy was wide eyed imagining this tale his grandfather was telling him. He thought it would be amazing to have a barracuda for a friend.
The boy's daydream was cut short when he heard a loud scream coming from down the cliff.
"AAAAHHHH!" the shortest of the young men was screaming and running for the ledge.
The boy cupped his hands over his cheeks and looked in shock as the young man soared over the ledge and down towards the water below.
"Geronimo!" the young man cried, right before he hit the water.
"Oh my gosh! What if the barracuda is down there? Will he hurt him?" the boy asked his grandfather as he turned to him frantically.
His grandfather didn't even look up from his job fixing his tackle.
"I wouldn't worry about a barracuda. That was just a fishing tale my grandfather liked to tell when I was a boy. It's not true. I don't know anyone who's ever seen a barracuda around here, " the old man said to the boy, trying to calm him.
"But don't we have barracuda in the water outside Kailua? Why wouldn't they be here? It's not far."
"Because, if a barracuda came down here, it would get eaten pretty fast," the old man chuckled.
The boy's eyes widened once again.
"Eaten? What could eat a barracuda?" the boy asked, completely bewildered.
"Well, Grandson, the waters off South Point are the biggest shark breeding ground in the entire State of Hawaii."
The old man was enjoying his lazy afternoon fishing with his grandson. He had chosen to take the boy to a very special place on the island, South Point. A place very much dear to him, South Point was the place the old man went to when he wanted solace. Today, he was sharing that solace with someone very dear to him.
The two of them had driven all the way from their home in Kailua-Kona. They past South down the coast past the famous Kona Coffee plantations, past the quiet town of Captain Cook, and down the lonely ten mile stretch of road that led to South Point.
The road from the highway to South Point is one of a kind in the Hawaiian Islands. It feels more like a trip across Midwestern farm country, with the exception that the horizon is graced with blue ocean on one side, and Mauna Loa volcano on the other. It's slowly rolling hills, covered in grassy cattle pastures.
The boy pointed as they drove past one field, "What are those grandpa?" he asked.
"Windmills. The government put them here a long time ago, when Jimmy Carter was president," the old man answered, not taking his gaze from the road.
"Who's Jimmy Carter?" the boy quietly thought aloud, his grandfather not hearing him.
The two drove on, the old man's 1980's Nissan compact pickup creaking and groaning as they made their wave up, over, and down the endless rolling hills. Soon they were pulling up to the parking area by the cliffs. The old man looked at the boy.
"Stay close to me son. Don't go near the cliff until I have everything ready. If you fall in, it will be very bad," he cautioned his only grandchild.
"Okay grandpa. I won't," the boy complied.
As the two of them sat about removing their fishing tackle, the boy surveyed the new surroundings. He could tell that to one side of him was a massive set of cliffs that dropped off into the water. To the other side, there was rolling grasslands, with some dirt trails cutting their way across the landscape. He could see a peak rising in the distance next to the coast in that direction.
"What's over there grandpa?" the boy asked while pointing at the peak.
"The Green Sand Beach," the old man said. "It's almost a mile from here."
"Green Sand? I thought sand was black or white," the boy half asked, half stated to his grandfather.
The old man pointed way up the coastline to a black sand beach. "You remember how I told you a black sand beach is made?"
"Yes grandpa. When lava flows into the sea it cools down super-fast. When it does that it be hardens and breaks real quick," the junior geologist stated.
"Very good. I'm so proud of how smart you are," he doted on his grandson, "The Green Sand beach was made the same way, except the lava that made it contained a lot of olivine."
"Olivine? How do olives get in the lava?"
"Not olives, olivine. It's a mineral, a rock. But it's typically an olive-green color…"
"So, it shatters when it hits the water as lava, and becomes green sand?" the boy interjected.
"You are too smart!" the old man said, reaching down to pat the boy on the head. "Now lets go fishing."
The two anglers grabbed their long surfcasting rods, along with the rather large tackle boxes that the old man had kept in his shed for years. They contained the tackle that would only be used for this particular fishing spot. They walked to within ten feet of the ledge, and the old man nodded to the boy to place his gear on the ground there.
"I'll set this up, you just sit here and watch. Okay?" the old man instructed.
"Okay grandpa," the boy acknowledged.
The old man started pulling tackle from the boxes, and laying out on the ground before them. As he was doing this, a white Jeep pulled up and three men in their early twenties got out and walked to the cliff, about fifty yards away from the old man and the boy.
"Tell me the story about your grandpa again, please," the boy asked his grandfather.
"The one about the barracuda?"
"Yeah."
"Well, my grandfather used to come out here and fish out of a small boat…"
"How did he get it down there?" the boy interrupted.
The old man pointed over to where the three young men stood.
"Do you see that platform?"
The boy nodded.
"You see the pulley on the arch on the ocean side?"
Again, the boy nodded.
"He would lower the boat down using that pulley, then climb down the ladder to it."
The man continued working as he started in on the story. His fingers working delicately to bait hooks onto yard-long leaders.
"My grandpa would then paddle out just a little ways and tap his oar on the bottom of the boat three times. Sometimes he would have to do this a few times, but eventually a six-foot barracuda would show up.
"Grandpa would throw a little bit of steak or chicken into the water, and the barracuda would eat it. Then the barracuda would kill fish for Grandpa. They would float to the surface, and he would put them in his boat.
"When he had enough, he'd throw another bite to the barracuda, tap the bottom of the boat three times, and head back to the ladder and pull his boat out."
The little boy was wide eyed imagining this tale his grandfather was telling him. He thought it would be amazing to have a barracuda for a friend.
The boy's daydream was cut short when he heard a loud scream coming from down the cliff.
"AAAAHHHH!" the shortest of the young men was screaming and running for the ledge.
The boy cupped his hands over his cheeks and looked in shock as the young man soared over the ledge and down towards the water below.
"Geronimo!" the young man cried, right before he hit the water.
"Oh my gosh! What if the barracuda is down there? Will he hurt him?" the boy asked his grandfather as he turned to him frantically.
His grandfather didn't even look up from his job fixing his tackle.
"I wouldn't worry about a barracuda. That was just a fishing tale my grandfather liked to tell when I was a boy. It's not true. I don't know anyone who's ever seen a barracuda around here, " the old man said to the boy, trying to calm him.
"But don't we have barracuda in the water outside Kailua? Why wouldn't they be here? It's not far."
"Because, if a barracuda came down here, it would get eaten pretty fast," the old man chuckled.
The boy's eyes widened once again.
"Eaten? What could eat a barracuda?" the boy asked, completely bewildered.
"Well, Grandson, the waters off South Point are the biggest shark breeding ground in the entire State of Hawaii."
Thursday, March 10, 2011
27. Why I Can't Write This Prompt
I'm usually not one who lacks the words to answer any challenge put before me. However, I'm drawing a blank when it comes to this particular posting prompt. I can't bring myself to find a particular belief in myself that I feel I can express in the manner suggested by this prompt.
Why? Why can't I come up with something to write? Don't get me wrong, I can always come up with something to write about, it's just that my nature doesn't lend itself to writing a "persuasive piece that defends a belief in an interesting–but not bombastic or aggressive–way."
Those of you who are familiar with my writing style know that it is full of passion and emotion. Most find my expressions can be very interesting. It's simply that subtlety is not a tool in my literary shed. It's certainly not one in the larger shop that is my life. I'm passionate in my feelings and beliefs, and I have a very loud and somewhat aggressive way of relating those beliefs, from which I cannot divorce myself.
I can tone down the fire on things I feel dispassionate about. That's how most academic writing plays out for me: take facts, then formulate non-prejudicial arguments. But beliefs are different. Beliefs involve faith, and faith requires passion. Beliefs are self-evident truths held dear lacking the certainty of irrefutable proof, which would otherwise make them fact. To remove passion from belief, I would be left with nothing more than fragmented ideas and mere notions. Simple notions cannot possibly be interesting enough to write so that others would be compelled to read them.
I once heard a wonderful description of the true mark of maturity being when a person becomes self-aware enough to know their limitations. This particular prompt has shown me a limitation in myself. I can't write about my beliefs from the dispassionate position required to not have them come out in the sharp tones and heated words this prompting seeks to avoid. To even attempt to do so feels like a betrayal of my self, the catch-all description of who I am, and who I am is very aggressively passionate and emotive.
Why? Why can't I come up with something to write? Don't get me wrong, I can always come up with something to write about, it's just that my nature doesn't lend itself to writing a "persuasive piece that defends a belief in an interesting–but not bombastic or aggressive–way."
Those of you who are familiar with my writing style know that it is full of passion and emotion. Most find my expressions can be very interesting. It's simply that subtlety is not a tool in my literary shed. It's certainly not one in the larger shop that is my life. I'm passionate in my feelings and beliefs, and I have a very loud and somewhat aggressive way of relating those beliefs, from which I cannot divorce myself.
I can tone down the fire on things I feel dispassionate about. That's how most academic writing plays out for me: take facts, then formulate non-prejudicial arguments. But beliefs are different. Beliefs involve faith, and faith requires passion. Beliefs are self-evident truths held dear lacking the certainty of irrefutable proof, which would otherwise make them fact. To remove passion from belief, I would be left with nothing more than fragmented ideas and mere notions. Simple notions cannot possibly be interesting enough to write so that others would be compelled to read them.
I once heard a wonderful description of the true mark of maturity being when a person becomes self-aware enough to know their limitations. This particular prompt has shown me a limitation in myself. I can't write about my beliefs from the dispassionate position required to not have them come out in the sharp tones and heated words this prompting seeks to avoid. To even attempt to do so feels like a betrayal of my self, the catch-all description of who I am, and who I am is very aggressively passionate and emotive.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
25. More Office Hijinx
"Seven-ten, eight-oh-eight. Seven-ten clear in Scottsdale," I said into the radio, announcing my return to my home yard.
"Roger that Seven-ten. Go ahead and wrap it up, call at five for load and start," the voice on the other end came back.
"Thanks Dave, have a great night. Seven-ten out."
I hung the microphone on the dash, shut off the engine, and grabbed my gear. It was two in the afternoon, and I was done for the day. It was time to go home, crack open some beers and watch old music videos on YouTube. Anything to forget Sunstate Equipment Rental for the next twelve hours.
I climbed out of the cab of my Kenworth T-800 and started walking across the yard toward the office, where I would close out the day's paperwork. On my way there, I would pass in front of the large open-air equipment shop. Doubtless, the mechanics would be working like crazy getting machines checked out and serviced in order to be ready to go out on rent as soon as possible.
As I came around the retaining wall that had previously obscured my view, I was not met with a scene of industrial efficiency. Instead, I saw two mechanics, visibly winded and leaning on crowbars, gathered around a fifty-five gallon trash can.
"Hey Matt, come look at this," one of the mechanics was able to gasp upon seeing me.
The two mechanics moved over as I walked up to the can. I peered over the edge. Scattered across the inside of the trashcan was the horribly mangled remains of a four foot rattlesnake. These mechanics were sucking air because they had spent the last five minutes trying to dispatch the snake with the heavy iron crowbars.
"So… how'd that get here?" I asked.
"He brought it!" Richard, the mechanic nearest me said. He was pointing across the shop to the bald-headed field service mechanic. "Son of a bitch had it in a five gallon bucket and dumped it into the trash can! Brought it back from the field with him."
"Why in the hell would he do something like that?" I queried.
"Fuck if I know. You know 'well as I do that he's one weird retard. You saw what he was wearing when he got here this morning."
"How could I forget? Pink spandex and riding a ten-speed. He sure is a different duck," I chuckled.
Richard pulled a pack of cigarettes from his chest pocket. He pulled a smoke from the pack, and lit it. Out of breath, sweating, hair a mess, cigarette in his mouth; the semi-geriatric Richard looked more like he had just got done fucking his wife than fucking-up a snake.
"Well, Bob's gonna chew his ass here pretty soon. He's on a call to Metro Ops, but he'll be back out in a second. Pull up a seat," and with that, Richard slid a rolling mechanic stool to me.
We huddled around for a minute as Ricard and the other snake-slaying mechanic, Steven, told the tale of their recent brush with death. Apparently it took quite a lot to finally pacify the serpent. These were two stout individuals, and years of turning big wrenches and hoisting heavy iron machine parts left them fairly muscle-bound. What they hadn't had since high school was serious cardio work. The visible results of their five panicked minutes clubbing a snake made me struggle to remember where the automatic defribulator was stored.
"Here comes Bob," Steven said.
Bob walked in the shop, a contrast to everyone else present. He was wearing a green polo shirt and jeans, whereas everyone else was wearing dark work dungarees and coveralls. His face was devoid of any expression that would give away his emotional state. With the exception of myself, everyone else in the shop was pretty shaken up.
Bob approached the service mechanic. "So, why exactly is there a dead snake in my shop Mike?" he asked the bald man.
"I brought it in off a job up by Troon North," Mike said, rather calmly. "It was a residential neighborhood, and there were kids nearby."
"Why didn't you just let the neighbors know where it was at?" Bob asked, still calm as ever.
"I didn't think dispatch would appreciate me taking that much time with the service call I was on."
"So you put it in a bucket and brought it back here? Why didn't you just kill it and leave it there if you were so worried about the kids?"
Mike looked around, a little more frantic looking than before. Like he was trying to justify his actions he himself didn't understand.
"I… uh… I thought someone here might want the meat," his voice wavering.
Bob looked over at the three of us. We were trying our hardest to pretend we were doing anything else but watching the entertainment he and Mike were providing.
"Any of you guys interested in snake meat?" Bob asked. His ice cold exterior was beginning to melt, and there was a half chuckle in his tone.
None of us said anything. We responded with blank looks and shrugged shoulders.
"Yeah, I don't think anyone here has a taste for it Mike," Bob said, turning his focus back to the company dimwit. Mike was beginning to show signs of fear. He surely must have begun to see how an action like this could jeopardize his employment.
"Look, Mike. I'm not gonna write you up for this, this time. I really don't wanna deal with the headache. The rest of Phoenix Metro looks at us as the company clowns. I don't want to give them anymore ammunition," he paused and turned toward we three, "so we're all gonna keep this one quiet, and there will be no more bringing wildlife back to the yard."
I could see Mike breath a little sign of relief.
"I just want to know one thing. Can you can see how this was a bad idea?" Bob sternly asked.
Blankness returned to Mikes face. He didn't have an answer. He shrugged his shoulders.
"What if someone got bit?" Bob said, with a bit of forcefulness behind his voice.
It was as if all the illusions and forms had been pulled back and Mike finally saw reality through the eyes of a sane person. His jaw dropped, eyes widened. "Ahhh, I see."
"Roger that Seven-ten. Go ahead and wrap it up, call at five for load and start," the voice on the other end came back.
"Thanks Dave, have a great night. Seven-ten out."
I hung the microphone on the dash, shut off the engine, and grabbed my gear. It was two in the afternoon, and I was done for the day. It was time to go home, crack open some beers and watch old music videos on YouTube. Anything to forget Sunstate Equipment Rental for the next twelve hours.
I climbed out of the cab of my Kenworth T-800 and started walking across the yard toward the office, where I would close out the day's paperwork. On my way there, I would pass in front of the large open-air equipment shop. Doubtless, the mechanics would be working like crazy getting machines checked out and serviced in order to be ready to go out on rent as soon as possible.
As I came around the retaining wall that had previously obscured my view, I was not met with a scene of industrial efficiency. Instead, I saw two mechanics, visibly winded and leaning on crowbars, gathered around a fifty-five gallon trash can.
"Hey Matt, come look at this," one of the mechanics was able to gasp upon seeing me.
The two mechanics moved over as I walked up to the can. I peered over the edge. Scattered across the inside of the trashcan was the horribly mangled remains of a four foot rattlesnake. These mechanics were sucking air because they had spent the last five minutes trying to dispatch the snake with the heavy iron crowbars.
"So… how'd that get here?" I asked.
"He brought it!" Richard, the mechanic nearest me said. He was pointing across the shop to the bald-headed field service mechanic. "Son of a bitch had it in a five gallon bucket and dumped it into the trash can! Brought it back from the field with him."
"Why in the hell would he do something like that?" I queried.
"Fuck if I know. You know 'well as I do that he's one weird retard. You saw what he was wearing when he got here this morning."
"How could I forget? Pink spandex and riding a ten-speed. He sure is a different duck," I chuckled.
Richard pulled a pack of cigarettes from his chest pocket. He pulled a smoke from the pack, and lit it. Out of breath, sweating, hair a mess, cigarette in his mouth; the semi-geriatric Richard looked more like he had just got done fucking his wife than fucking-up a snake.
"Well, Bob's gonna chew his ass here pretty soon. He's on a call to Metro Ops, but he'll be back out in a second. Pull up a seat," and with that, Richard slid a rolling mechanic stool to me.
We huddled around for a minute as Ricard and the other snake-slaying mechanic, Steven, told the tale of their recent brush with death. Apparently it took quite a lot to finally pacify the serpent. These were two stout individuals, and years of turning big wrenches and hoisting heavy iron machine parts left them fairly muscle-bound. What they hadn't had since high school was serious cardio work. The visible results of their five panicked minutes clubbing a snake made me struggle to remember where the automatic defribulator was stored.
"Here comes Bob," Steven said.
Bob walked in the shop, a contrast to everyone else present. He was wearing a green polo shirt and jeans, whereas everyone else was wearing dark work dungarees and coveralls. His face was devoid of any expression that would give away his emotional state. With the exception of myself, everyone else in the shop was pretty shaken up.
Bob approached the service mechanic. "So, why exactly is there a dead snake in my shop Mike?" he asked the bald man.
"I brought it in off a job up by Troon North," Mike said, rather calmly. "It was a residential neighborhood, and there were kids nearby."
"Why didn't you just let the neighbors know where it was at?" Bob asked, still calm as ever.
"I didn't think dispatch would appreciate me taking that much time with the service call I was on."
"So you put it in a bucket and brought it back here? Why didn't you just kill it and leave it there if you were so worried about the kids?"
Mike looked around, a little more frantic looking than before. Like he was trying to justify his actions he himself didn't understand.
"I… uh… I thought someone here might want the meat," his voice wavering.
Bob looked over at the three of us. We were trying our hardest to pretend we were doing anything else but watching the entertainment he and Mike were providing.
"Any of you guys interested in snake meat?" Bob asked. His ice cold exterior was beginning to melt, and there was a half chuckle in his tone.
None of us said anything. We responded with blank looks and shrugged shoulders.
"Yeah, I don't think anyone here has a taste for it Mike," Bob said, turning his focus back to the company dimwit. Mike was beginning to show signs of fear. He surely must have begun to see how an action like this could jeopardize his employment.
"Look, Mike. I'm not gonna write you up for this, this time. I really don't wanna deal with the headache. The rest of Phoenix Metro looks at us as the company clowns. I don't want to give them anymore ammunition," he paused and turned toward we three, "so we're all gonna keep this one quiet, and there will be no more bringing wildlife back to the yard."
I could see Mike breath a little sign of relief.
"I just want to know one thing. Can you can see how this was a bad idea?" Bob sternly asked.
Blankness returned to Mikes face. He didn't have an answer. He shrugged his shoulders.
"What if someone got bit?" Bob said, with a bit of forcefulness behind his voice.
It was as if all the illusions and forms had been pulled back and Mike finally saw reality through the eyes of a sane person. His jaw dropped, eyes widened. "Ahhh, I see."
22. Banter With Bad Boy Billy
Ding! The chime announced that the Alaska Airlines 737 had come to a complete stop at the gate and I was now free to remove my seat belt. I jumped into the aisle, and quickly removed my laptop bag and jacket from the overhead bin.
It was one of those typical hurry-up-and-wait moments. I was in the back of the aircraft, second to last row. I was going to have to stand here and wait my turn to deplane. I wanted to get out as fast as I could though.
Back in Seattle, I ran into an old high school buddy. His name was William, and I hadn't seen him in six or seven years. We exchanged a few pleasantries in line, then promised to meet up at the baggage claim in Anchorage and chat for a bit. I was more than a little anxious to see how he was doing.
William had one of the most miserable childhoods of anyone I knew. William's home-life was abysmal: no mother, drug addict brothers, physically and emotionally unavailable father, living in a state of perpetual poverty. Unlike his brothers, he reached out and the community rallied around him. He found a home with one of our teachers, gained some adopted brothers in sports, and found a creative outlet in music. William is the greatest guitar player I have ever had the pleasure to behold!
His life had seemed to come together when he met Chrissy after high school. They went through a whirlwind romance that led to a quick marriage and children shortly thereafter. In time, they moved to Nashville with one of Williams friends, Danny. All three of them worked in the personal training industry while William worked to break into the music scene as a studio guitarist in Nashville's music scene.
I finally made my way off the aircraft and found myself walking down the C Concourse in the Ted Steven's International Airport. As I walked, I kept an eye out for William, but I knew he would see me long before I saw him. In school we affectionately referred to William as 'The Angry Midget'. William was under five and a half feet tall, but he had the physique of the Incredible Hulk. All the time William spent escaping his miserable family by hiding in the gym had created a champion body-builder.
All the way through the concourse, I saw no sign of William. I walked out the security checkpoint and stepped on the escalator down to the baggage claim. When I looked down, there was William waiting for me at the bottom, a gigantic grin on his face.
I reached the landing, stepped off and was greeted with huge hug. I'm sure it looked strange to anyone else in the place, a very fit half-man hugging and almost lifting a six-foot fat man off the ground.
"Matt Kester, damn it's good to see you man!" William said upon releasing me so I could breathe again.
"What are you doing up here again William? I thought you would've had enough of this place." I wheezed out.
William did a little shoulder shrug. "My dad had a heart attack a few days ago. He's okay now, but he needed someone to come up here for a little while and help him get back on his feet."
This struck me as more than a little bit odd. I had a hard time accepting the fact that William would put his life on hold to jump on a plane and come to the aid of a father that had been so indifferent to him.
"Damn, I'm sorry to hear that. That takes a lot to drop everything to come take care of him. What are your brother's up to these days?"
"Drugs," he quickly offered, with a slight twinge of anger on his face. "Well, Paul and Mark at least. Daryl's living in Hawaii. He's working as a government contractor and doing the acting thing. Seems like he's the only one of us with his shit together."
"How's Paul doing? Last I saw him he was sucking a Camel through a tracheotomy tube," I asked.
I had started to realize how out of touch I had become over the years. I hadn't heard much of Paul either. Paul had been the victim of an unfortunate accident my senior year in high school that resulted in half his face being removed by a point-blank shotgun blast.
I saw more disgust building in Williams eyes, "Fuck my brother. He got half a million dollars five years ago, now he doesn't have shit. Drugs, booze, toys. That's where all that settlement money went."
I began to sense the big smile I had seen just a minute prior was highly unlikely to come back anytime soon in this conversation. My friend's life continued to be troubled. I figured I should try to find something safer than his brothers and father.
"How's Chrissy and the kids?"
"Oh, we're getting divorced. She got a bolt-on chest six months ago, then started screwing half the town three months ago."
Jesus H. Christ! I thought. His life is one bad country song!
"Fuck man! I'm sorry buddy," I tried. I just couldn't seem to find something positive to rally this conversation around. It begin to feel like if I couldn't find somewhere positive to go with this, he was going to run out to the curb and lay down in front of a shuttle bus.
The idea entered my head that I could deflect this to one of our mutual friends I hadn't heard about in a while, Danny. Danny played football and hockey with us, and he and William became seemingly inseparable as time went on. If there was any true brother William could have had, Danny was it. Plus, Danny couldn't be near the complete zeros Williams blood-brothers were.
"How's Danny? Isn't he out there with you guys?"
William turned pale white and just stared at me. There was pain in his eyes. He looked at me as if he just found out I had violated his mother's corpse.
"You don't know man?" he asked me in a cold voice.
"Know what? I thought he was out there living with your guys, building a business with you two or something," I panicked to say.
"Danny's the reason Chrissy and I split. He was fucking my wife!"
Please, God that I don't really believe in, get me the hell out of here!
I just stood there speechless for a second, shaking my head. I felt so awful for William in that moment. No matter how horrendous the last ten years had been for me, it was a drop in the bucket compared to the perpetual shit-storm William had to contend with.
"Man, I'm so sorry William. That's all so damn horrible," I tried to console him. The look in his eyes told me it wasn't going to be much use.
"Don't worry about me man. It'll all work out somehow, it always does. At least I still have the kids in my life," and with that I saw the faintest of smiles return to his face. There was the one bright-shining piece of hope in his life, his two adorable children.
It was one of those typical hurry-up-and-wait moments. I was in the back of the aircraft, second to last row. I was going to have to stand here and wait my turn to deplane. I wanted to get out as fast as I could though.
Back in Seattle, I ran into an old high school buddy. His name was William, and I hadn't seen him in six or seven years. We exchanged a few pleasantries in line, then promised to meet up at the baggage claim in Anchorage and chat for a bit. I was more than a little anxious to see how he was doing.
William had one of the most miserable childhoods of anyone I knew. William's home-life was abysmal: no mother, drug addict brothers, physically and emotionally unavailable father, living in a state of perpetual poverty. Unlike his brothers, he reached out and the community rallied around him. He found a home with one of our teachers, gained some adopted brothers in sports, and found a creative outlet in music. William is the greatest guitar player I have ever had the pleasure to behold!
His life had seemed to come together when he met Chrissy after high school. They went through a whirlwind romance that led to a quick marriage and children shortly thereafter. In time, they moved to Nashville with one of Williams friends, Danny. All three of them worked in the personal training industry while William worked to break into the music scene as a studio guitarist in Nashville's music scene.
I finally made my way off the aircraft and found myself walking down the C Concourse in the Ted Steven's International Airport. As I walked, I kept an eye out for William, but I knew he would see me long before I saw him. In school we affectionately referred to William as 'The Angry Midget'. William was under five and a half feet tall, but he had the physique of the Incredible Hulk. All the time William spent escaping his miserable family by hiding in the gym had created a champion body-builder.
All the way through the concourse, I saw no sign of William. I walked out the security checkpoint and stepped on the escalator down to the baggage claim. When I looked down, there was William waiting for me at the bottom, a gigantic grin on his face.
I reached the landing, stepped off and was greeted with huge hug. I'm sure it looked strange to anyone else in the place, a very fit half-man hugging and almost lifting a six-foot fat man off the ground.
"Matt Kester, damn it's good to see you man!" William said upon releasing me so I could breathe again.
"What are you doing up here again William? I thought you would've had enough of this place." I wheezed out.
William did a little shoulder shrug. "My dad had a heart attack a few days ago. He's okay now, but he needed someone to come up here for a little while and help him get back on his feet."
This struck me as more than a little bit odd. I had a hard time accepting the fact that William would put his life on hold to jump on a plane and come to the aid of a father that had been so indifferent to him.
"Damn, I'm sorry to hear that. That takes a lot to drop everything to come take care of him. What are your brother's up to these days?"
"Drugs," he quickly offered, with a slight twinge of anger on his face. "Well, Paul and Mark at least. Daryl's living in Hawaii. He's working as a government contractor and doing the acting thing. Seems like he's the only one of us with his shit together."
"How's Paul doing? Last I saw him he was sucking a Camel through a tracheotomy tube," I asked.
I had started to realize how out of touch I had become over the years. I hadn't heard much of Paul either. Paul had been the victim of an unfortunate accident my senior year in high school that resulted in half his face being removed by a point-blank shotgun blast.
I saw more disgust building in Williams eyes, "Fuck my brother. He got half a million dollars five years ago, now he doesn't have shit. Drugs, booze, toys. That's where all that settlement money went."
I began to sense the big smile I had seen just a minute prior was highly unlikely to come back anytime soon in this conversation. My friend's life continued to be troubled. I figured I should try to find something safer than his brothers and father.
"How's Chrissy and the kids?"
"Oh, we're getting divorced. She got a bolt-on chest six months ago, then started screwing half the town three months ago."
Jesus H. Christ! I thought. His life is one bad country song!
"Fuck man! I'm sorry buddy," I tried. I just couldn't seem to find something positive to rally this conversation around. It begin to feel like if I couldn't find somewhere positive to go with this, he was going to run out to the curb and lay down in front of a shuttle bus.
The idea entered my head that I could deflect this to one of our mutual friends I hadn't heard about in a while, Danny. Danny played football and hockey with us, and he and William became seemingly inseparable as time went on. If there was any true brother William could have had, Danny was it. Plus, Danny couldn't be near the complete zeros Williams blood-brothers were.
"How's Danny? Isn't he out there with you guys?"
William turned pale white and just stared at me. There was pain in his eyes. He looked at me as if he just found out I had violated his mother's corpse.
"You don't know man?" he asked me in a cold voice.
"Know what? I thought he was out there living with your guys, building a business with you two or something," I panicked to say.
"Danny's the reason Chrissy and I split. He was fucking my wife!"
Please, God that I don't really believe in, get me the hell out of here!
I just stood there speechless for a second, shaking my head. I felt so awful for William in that moment. No matter how horrendous the last ten years had been for me, it was a drop in the bucket compared to the perpetual shit-storm William had to contend with.
"Man, I'm so sorry William. That's all so damn horrible," I tried to console him. The look in his eyes told me it wasn't going to be much use.
"Don't worry about me man. It'll all work out somehow, it always does. At least I still have the kids in my life," and with that I saw the faintest of smiles return to his face. There was the one bright-shining piece of hope in his life, his two adorable children.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
21. America, Under an Electric Sky
It's these substandard motels on the (lalalalala) corner of 4th and Fremont Street.
Appealing only because they are just that un-appealing
Any practiced catholic would cross themselves upon entering.
The rooms have a hint of asbestos and maybe just a dash of formaldehyde,
And the habit of decomposing right before your very (lalalala) eyes.
-Panic! At The Disco, Build God, Then We'll Talk
The limo ride from The Strip was pretty uneventful. It had to be, there wasn't a wet bar in the car and the only radio stations that the passengers could tune in were playing Ranchero music with DJ commentary in Spanish. No one in the car spoke anything but English, with the exception of Thomas, who could order drinks and produce mild insults in German. The occupants of the gigantic cab were on a mission, to take in The Fremont Street Experience. "Old Vegas", as it's called. They wanted to see the street featured in virtually every old movie about the city.
The car pulled up to the curb across from the entrance to the Fremont Experience, and one by one, the five of them shuffled out. They were an odd number, Lee and Jean; Ben and Beth; and Thomas, the fifth wheel. That didn't matter, they were here to see one of the most celebrated slices of Americana.
Casually referred to as "Glitter Gulch", Fremont was where the Vegas legend was born. All the bright lights, the smoking cowboy, this was it!
"Vegas Baby!" Ben exclaimed, mimicking every cult movie about the town from Swingers to The Hangover. He then pulled Beth in towards his rough and unshaven face for a huge kiss. She swung her arms around her husband and accepted the affection from the happy drunk. After all, she was pretty drunk too.
Thomas looked away from the two of them, as if this was a private moment and he was determined to afford them whatever privacy might be available on the busy street corner. He turned his gaze to Lee and Jean, only to see they too were embracing one another.
"Alright, screw you guys, I need some booze!" Thomas admitted, and started across the street towards the ocular orgy that awaited. His friends, sensing Thomas' alienation, soon followed and caught up. The five of them stopped to take in the scene before them.
They were standing at one end of an almost eighteen-hundred foot long tribute to American excess. What was once a busy street, lined with casinos, shops, and bars; had now been smoothed over to more or less resemble a mall of vices.
The casino fronts were just as they'd always been, lit-up bright and inviting. There were performance artists everywhere. Next to the entrance was a modest stage, where a rough Lady Gaga impersonator was in the middle of one of Gaga's more forgettable numbers. Just like a mall, there were little kiosks selling anything from buttons to cigars. There were also some that were full-service bars. Right here, on the "street", someone could drink and smoke to their hearts content without so much as incurring a disapproving eye from a passerby.
The five walked past the first bar. It featured two plastic looking models gyrating away in black lingerie atop the bar. "Only thing faker than a bartender is a stripper," Thomas let out. "I can't imagine what happens when you cross the two."
"I hear you there," Lee kicked in.
"I know you two are just saying that because I'm standing here," Jean chimed in.
The two men paused and looked at each other.
"Oh Jean, if only you knew," Thomas said. "The only thing that's ever happened when we've gone to strip clubs has been us leaving, less a hundred dollars, smelling of shame and strawberry body-spray."
The five of them burst into laughter.
"God, I love this guy," Jean confessed to her mate. "I'm glad he came up here to see us," she said of Thomas, who had made the long drive from Phoenix to be with them for the evening.
Thomas smirked, and looked up. This circus of vice was capped by an electric sky. This artificial heaven is home to the worlds largest television screen and it runs as a long arched canopy the entire length of The Experience. At that moment, there were just advertisements running up and down its length.
"Ben, when did you say they do the shows?" Thomas asked.
"Every hour, on the hour," Ben replied.
Thomas looked down at his watch. They had fifteen minutes.
"Drinks?" he asked his companions.
No one said a word, they didn't have to. They continued their stroll down Fremont in search of liquid refreshment. Around them was a sea of oddities. On either side of the path there were performers of all sorts. A man sat with his little dog, it was dressed up like a leprechaun and doing tricks of all sorts. There were celebrity impersonators everywhere. There were quite of "celebrities" one would expect to find in a place like this: Micheal Jackson, KISS, and the obligatory Fat Elvis.
There was one celebrity who stood out, a very weak Dale Earnhardt Sr. The man looked more like Bernie Lomax from Weekend at Bernie's than he did NASCAR's dearly departed "Intimidator". He might have only been five and half feet tall, had a round face, and an overbearing fake mustache that was far to bushy to belong to the Man in Black. Had he been more aware of his looks, perhaps the man would have chosen to get a pair of bib overalls, a red turtleneck, and posed as the namesake from The Super Mario Bros. Perhaps he was aware of this distinction, but chose Dale Sr. because it was a celebrity the native population of Glitter Gulch could relate to better.
Thomas was becoming aware that there was a sort of equivalent duopoly in the patrons of Fremont Street. There was a segment that seemed to be right at home here. They ranged from the elderly, riding HoverRound Chairs; right down to twenty somethings in T-shirts and flip flops. They were the people that weren't too interested in the bright lights and glamor of the place, but were the ones gambling and drinking at the bars with one another.
Everyone else just seemed like they were visiting. They dressed better, were buying up every trinket they could lay their hands on, and actually paying the performance artists for their time. These people were pointing at everything that caught their eyes, screaming to their friends to look at whatever oddity it was they had just spied.
The five friends found a nearby street bar, and to their surprise, found it offered Foster's Lager in the gigantic "oil cans". They all ordered one, laughing at their fortune.
"Lee, I think I've got this place figured out," Thomas quietly offered to his friend. "There's two things going on here."
"Oh yeah?" Lee turned to his friend. "What's that?"
"There's two types of people down here. White Trash, and the people that have come to laugh at it."
The two men laughed.
"So what are we?" Lee asked.
"Chinese dinner. A little of Column A, a little of Column B. Both!"
This time the entire group laughed, but were soon interrupted when all the exterior lights on the casinos and shops went dead.
"Here we go!" Ben shouted.
The five friends looked up at the canopy in anticipation of the show that was about to begin.
Electric lightning graced the the LED sky. Then the most unmistakable intro in classic rock: Boom, Boom, Clap! Boom, Boom, Clap!
The lightening was gone, replaced with a Union Jack background, and the elegant logo of the rock band Queen. "We Will Rock You" hailed the beginning of ten minutes which could bring about be the demise for all but the most immortal of epileptics. Amazing visualizations that moved to the beat, performance videos of the band, it was simply one of the most mind-boggling sights any of the friends had seen. It was like heaven had opened up it's floors and let Freddie Mercury make one last performance to the world, and God himself was working the stage lights!
Everyone in the place was looking up and taking in the show. Glitter Gulch natives, White Trash Zoo-goers, even the performance artists themselves were looking up and taking in the amazing sights. But, like all good things, it soon had to end. The casino lights came back on, and the sky went back to displaying advertisements for cheap Vegas stripshows.
Life returned to it's balance on Fremont Street. America's simpler segment went back to pursing it's vices in its Utopian boulevard of broken dreams, and the outsiders went back to being amazed by it. The performance artists and celebrity impersonators went back to trying to finagle money out of the impressible. A little slice of Americana, preserved and encouraged to continue in it's raw traditions, and hermetically sealed up by a hundred million dollar electric sky. Vegas Baby!
Appealing only because they are just that un-appealing
Any practiced catholic would cross themselves upon entering.
The rooms have a hint of asbestos and maybe just a dash of formaldehyde,
And the habit of decomposing right before your very (lalalala) eyes.
-Panic! At The Disco, Build God, Then We'll Talk
The limo ride from The Strip was pretty uneventful. It had to be, there wasn't a wet bar in the car and the only radio stations that the passengers could tune in were playing Ranchero music with DJ commentary in Spanish. No one in the car spoke anything but English, with the exception of Thomas, who could order drinks and produce mild insults in German. The occupants of the gigantic cab were on a mission, to take in The Fremont Street Experience. "Old Vegas", as it's called. They wanted to see the street featured in virtually every old movie about the city.
The car pulled up to the curb across from the entrance to the Fremont Experience, and one by one, the five of them shuffled out. They were an odd number, Lee and Jean; Ben and Beth; and Thomas, the fifth wheel. That didn't matter, they were here to see one of the most celebrated slices of Americana.
Casually referred to as "Glitter Gulch", Fremont was where the Vegas legend was born. All the bright lights, the smoking cowboy, this was it!
"Vegas Baby!" Ben exclaimed, mimicking every cult movie about the town from Swingers to The Hangover. He then pulled Beth in towards his rough and unshaven face for a huge kiss. She swung her arms around her husband and accepted the affection from the happy drunk. After all, she was pretty drunk too.
Thomas looked away from the two of them, as if this was a private moment and he was determined to afford them whatever privacy might be available on the busy street corner. He turned his gaze to Lee and Jean, only to see they too were embracing one another.
"Alright, screw you guys, I need some booze!" Thomas admitted, and started across the street towards the ocular orgy that awaited. His friends, sensing Thomas' alienation, soon followed and caught up. The five of them stopped to take in the scene before them.
They were standing at one end of an almost eighteen-hundred foot long tribute to American excess. What was once a busy street, lined with casinos, shops, and bars; had now been smoothed over to more or less resemble a mall of vices.
The casino fronts were just as they'd always been, lit-up bright and inviting. There were performance artists everywhere. Next to the entrance was a modest stage, where a rough Lady Gaga impersonator was in the middle of one of Gaga's more forgettable numbers. Just like a mall, there were little kiosks selling anything from buttons to cigars. There were also some that were full-service bars. Right here, on the "street", someone could drink and smoke to their hearts content without so much as incurring a disapproving eye from a passerby.
The five walked past the first bar. It featured two plastic looking models gyrating away in black lingerie atop the bar. "Only thing faker than a bartender is a stripper," Thomas let out. "I can't imagine what happens when you cross the two."
"I hear you there," Lee kicked in.
"I know you two are just saying that because I'm standing here," Jean chimed in.
The two men paused and looked at each other.
"Oh Jean, if only you knew," Thomas said. "The only thing that's ever happened when we've gone to strip clubs has been us leaving, less a hundred dollars, smelling of shame and strawberry body-spray."
The five of them burst into laughter.
"God, I love this guy," Jean confessed to her mate. "I'm glad he came up here to see us," she said of Thomas, who had made the long drive from Phoenix to be with them for the evening.
Thomas smirked, and looked up. This circus of vice was capped by an electric sky. This artificial heaven is home to the worlds largest television screen and it runs as a long arched canopy the entire length of The Experience. At that moment, there were just advertisements running up and down its length.
"Ben, when did you say they do the shows?" Thomas asked.
"Every hour, on the hour," Ben replied.
Thomas looked down at his watch. They had fifteen minutes.
"Drinks?" he asked his companions.
No one said a word, they didn't have to. They continued their stroll down Fremont in search of liquid refreshment. Around them was a sea of oddities. On either side of the path there were performers of all sorts. A man sat with his little dog, it was dressed up like a leprechaun and doing tricks of all sorts. There were celebrity impersonators everywhere. There were quite of "celebrities" one would expect to find in a place like this: Micheal Jackson, KISS, and the obligatory Fat Elvis.
There was one celebrity who stood out, a very weak Dale Earnhardt Sr. The man looked more like Bernie Lomax from Weekend at Bernie's than he did NASCAR's dearly departed "Intimidator". He might have only been five and half feet tall, had a round face, and an overbearing fake mustache that was far to bushy to belong to the Man in Black. Had he been more aware of his looks, perhaps the man would have chosen to get a pair of bib overalls, a red turtleneck, and posed as the namesake from The Super Mario Bros. Perhaps he was aware of this distinction, but chose Dale Sr. because it was a celebrity the native population of Glitter Gulch could relate to better.
Thomas was becoming aware that there was a sort of equivalent duopoly in the patrons of Fremont Street. There was a segment that seemed to be right at home here. They ranged from the elderly, riding HoverRound Chairs; right down to twenty somethings in T-shirts and flip flops. They were the people that weren't too interested in the bright lights and glamor of the place, but were the ones gambling and drinking at the bars with one another.
Everyone else just seemed like they were visiting. They dressed better, were buying up every trinket they could lay their hands on, and actually paying the performance artists for their time. These people were pointing at everything that caught their eyes, screaming to their friends to look at whatever oddity it was they had just spied.
The five friends found a nearby street bar, and to their surprise, found it offered Foster's Lager in the gigantic "oil cans". They all ordered one, laughing at their fortune.
"Lee, I think I've got this place figured out," Thomas quietly offered to his friend. "There's two things going on here."
"Oh yeah?" Lee turned to his friend. "What's that?"
"There's two types of people down here. White Trash, and the people that have come to laugh at it."
The two men laughed.
"So what are we?" Lee asked.
"Chinese dinner. A little of Column A, a little of Column B. Both!"
This time the entire group laughed, but were soon interrupted when all the exterior lights on the casinos and shops went dead.
"Here we go!" Ben shouted.
The five friends looked up at the canopy in anticipation of the show that was about to begin.
Electric lightning graced the the LED sky. Then the most unmistakable intro in classic rock: Boom, Boom, Clap! Boom, Boom, Clap!
The lightening was gone, replaced with a Union Jack background, and the elegant logo of the rock band Queen. "We Will Rock You" hailed the beginning of ten minutes which could bring about be the demise for all but the most immortal of epileptics. Amazing visualizations that moved to the beat, performance videos of the band, it was simply one of the most mind-boggling sights any of the friends had seen. It was like heaven had opened up it's floors and let Freddie Mercury make one last performance to the world, and God himself was working the stage lights!
Everyone in the place was looking up and taking in the show. Glitter Gulch natives, White Trash Zoo-goers, even the performance artists themselves were looking up and taking in the amazing sights. But, like all good things, it soon had to end. The casino lights came back on, and the sky went back to displaying advertisements for cheap Vegas stripshows.
Life returned to it's balance on Fremont Street. America's simpler segment went back to pursing it's vices in its Utopian boulevard of broken dreams, and the outsiders went back to being amazed by it. The performance artists and celebrity impersonators went back to trying to finagle money out of the impressible. A little slice of Americana, preserved and encouraged to continue in it's raw traditions, and hermetically sealed up by a hundred million dollar electric sky. Vegas Baby!
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