Another Perspective

The Bottle & The Damage Done
Part IV: Il Buono, il Brutto, il Cattivo

We now return to our story about the Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas Silver Anniversary TourTM, an overland saga starring two lunatics and afire-apple red 1968 Buick LeSabre convertible.

God bless the Hamm's stewing in our sweltering trunk. It was Dom Perignon to our parched palates after the hell we had been through. These beers had a duty: like government "housekeeping" clerks, they were to shred every memory, and eliminate all emotions related to the twisted anxiety nightmare we had just experienced. The chaos dwindled away as Austin and I slumped into our deck chairs to watch the devil sun set over Lake Tahoe. Just 14 hours and 345 miles earlier, we had been rudely awakened from our Vicodin stupor by a pair of rabid Rottweilers. They managed to bite a hole in Hotel LeSabre's right rear tire, leaving us busted flat somewhere in the rural mountains of northern California. Four grueling hours of trekking and hitchhiking later, we were crammed into the cab of a tow truck with a grease monkey named Cliff (who looked strikingly like a post-heroin Chet Baker). He vowed to find and exterminate the dogs that did the damage. Cliff delivered us to Redding, into the healing hands of the tire Shaman-Les Schwab. The friendly bustling tire gnomes worked their magic, and we onthe road again.

Down a couple hundred bucks from the whole ordeal, we were forced to stay at the most ghetto Arab-run motel in town, the Thunderchief Inn (on their marquee this place lists HOT WATER and FREE ICE as amenities). But it didn't matter; we were just happy to be somewhere. Most importantly, we had reached the promised land--Nevada. True, our desperate last-ditch dive landed us mere inches over the state line, but the ball broke the plane and we were in the endzone. We couldn't wait to tune our livers to the state's 24 hour bar clock. That night we scrimmaged against South Lake, as a final practice before taking on Vegas. We found a vulnerable casino bar with a $1 drink special, and it wasn't limited to a shot of Busch or a thimble of Monarch gin like some cockamamie happy hours. This was $1 for anything--Sapphire martinis, Courvoisier VSOP, single barrel Wild Turkey, Jägermeister, Glenfarclas 30-year-all night. Bleary eyed, we stumbled out into the booze-sick dawn as victors, having beaten the house.

Onward. We descended out of the Sierras to Carson City, then guided themighty Buick southbound toward Vegas. After coming through a winding, hilly pass we beheld below us the most vast desert expanse imaginable. The road instantly became steep and taut, stretching down through the desert basin all the way to the horizon beyond. Highway 95. 400 miles of the world's straightest two-lane blacktop, right down Nevada's backside. This route is built for speed; so is the LeSabre. We had kept her at a leisurely 85 mph on the busy interstates, but she had grown restless. It was time to put the hammer down and see what she could do. With zero hesitation, Austin stood on the gas, whipping our 350 horse team into a full-frenzied gallop. The furious lurch pressed us deep into the bench seats as we rocketed down the hill into the void. She kept accelerating well after pinning the speedometer to its 120 mph ceiling. Two-bit sheriffs be damned; if we blew past a hidden patrol car at that speed, we'd be two counties over by the time he turned on his siren.

Enio Morricone's epic soundtrack for The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly wailed from the speakers, making the experience all too surreal. Ah-ee-yah-ee-yahhh! What a rousing testament to American excess: strapped into a generous portion of Detroit pride, getting eight miles per gallon, trampling tumbleweeds and mashing mirages on the scorching tarmac to Sin City. It gave me a turgid woody.

We stayed near full-throttle in the oncoming lane, a red streak passing 3 to 4 cars at a time. It wasn't long before we had to stop at a roadhouse for gas. A check of the map showed that we had eaten up 122 miles in just shy of a hour. Just a hair above target pace.

But there was another reason we were on Highway 95--our morbid curiosity about the Nevada heartland. We had our preconceptions, but we had to see it for ourselves. The habitat is extremely inhospitable: it's 107 degrees by 8 a.m., and the landscape is barren--dust and sage as far as the eye can see. I can understand why the Pentagon chose this region as their playground. An atom bomb couldn't make this sandbox look any different. So why the hell would anyone make their home here? Because the land is free. You see, there are certain people that the Creator doesn't want in the greater gene pool. He would rather have them living in a shotgun shack, grazing on sage hundreds of miles from civilization. So he gives them a Nevada acre with no obligation. Most of the 153 people living between Carson City and Las Vegas are settled in small clusters of ramshackle trailers. For them, dinner and a show is a 12-pack of Schlitz and a bug-zapper.

These people subsist entirely on the necessities of the highway drifter. Their one gift is a firm grasp of supply and demand; it's a seller's market out there. Gas prices are actually negotiated, starting from $2.25 per gallon. Jethro pumps rot-gut petrol from an ancient pump. "Whut's it werf to ya?" he asks with a toothless grin before spitting a half-pint of chaw sluice in the dirt before my feet. He controls the barter, casually reminding me that there ain't no Texaco across the street and the next gas is 167 miles south. To sweeten the deal at $2.00/gallon, he offers to arrange a discount at the hot pink house-trailer where his wife, two sisters, five nieces and mom work. "Old Bessie does this thing with pop-rocks and a frozen carrot that'll have you crushin' diamonds between your butt-cheeks. Jist tell 'em Jethro sent ya."

There are more roadside whorehouses than restaurants on this highway. And they all have alluring names like "The Candy Shack," "Raunchy Ranch," "Cooz 'n Snooze," and the "Cum 'n Go." Every female from 12 years old to menopause works hard for the money. With prostitution legal in Nevada, each fresh tramp must fill out a W-2 form, scrawling "prostitute" in the space for "occupation." Then Uncle Sam takes his share of her hard earnings. That cracks me up.

Onward. 167 miles later, we stopped in the town of Goldfield, which hadbeen a thriving outpost during the Gold Rush. We slipped into a tavern that sucked away more light than a black hole. Conversation quickly died off as people got a gander at us. A long-hair and a bald guy-keeps 'em guessing. Clad in sweat-stained Hawaiian shirts, madras shorts and sandals, we were definitely not up to dress code. In a jukebox somewhere, the needle skipped off a Travis Tritt record. The bloated silence was finally broken by a raspy voice: "Whut year's yer Buick?" Heads turned to a lanky guy in a greasy wifebeater and snakeskin boots. His black hair was slicked back with 30-weight pomade. Instead of pulling a chair to his table, he was crouched down low, coiled up like a nervous diamondhead ready to strike. Seated in the booth were two crusty old codgers: one was bug-eyed with a facial tic, and the other stared straight ahead with his mouth ajar. He looked valiant in his mesh VFW hat with the olive branches on the bill. "I said what year's yer Buick?" Randy demanded, with the slightest sideways glance. Nohello. No introductions.

"1968," Austin answered proudly. This input seemed to put their minds in motion. Bug-eyes nodded uncontrollably and the catatonic vet grunted and swayed a little, while Randy worked a splintered toothpick in his mouth and scratched at his three-day stubble thoughtfully. "Hmm, '68... then you must got a 454 under the hood, huh?" Austin admitted that it was only a 442, and then recited the Buick's resumé. He highlighted all her mechanical merits, then gave a brief history of the restoration from junkyard condition. When his whole dick was on the table, the men nodded, mildly impressed. "Any more?" Randy prodded, with a flash of his steely eyes.

"Any more what?" Austin asked, confused.

"Cars. Got any more cars?" We were at a loss. What did he want from us?Wasn't the LeSabre enough of a car? Christ, it's worth more than he is.

Now it was Randy's turn to lay down his manhood: "Well, I got me a few. I got a 1970 Riviera with a 454 so bored-out you could drop a softball down the cylinders. Four-barrel carb, overhead cam, dual exhaust, racing slicks and suspension. She could lay a 20-foot stripe off the line and reach 80 in second gear," he swaggered. "But I ran into a cow while doin' 95 one night about seven years back. Totalled it, damn shame. It's been sittin' in my yard growin' weeds ever since. 'Course, I rebuilt the engine and shoehorned it into a '74 Nova. Then there's my modified '77 Matador that I race in the Winnemucca County Rally..."

Randy clearly had the bigger dick. After being thoroughly schooled in car talk, there was nothing left for us to say. No one gave a panda's ass where we were from or where we were going. Without goodbyes, we split. Rural Nevada was every bit the wasteland I had imagined, and we had seen enough. Onward, to Vegas...

To be continued...

Michael Atkinson, a senior majoring in Journalism, is a featured columnist for the Oregon Commentator