Cab Snow

At some point in mid-summer of 1989, I met a curious fellow named Corky, who became by best friend for a period of close to ten years. As fellow change monkeys, we aspired to do more at Harrah's, eventually leading him to the sports book and me to the valet parking department. All the while, I was faithfully attending classes at the University, doing reasonably well, and making progress toward a degree in geography. I'll get in to why I would have chosen such a peculiar major later on, for now, I was simply moving forward. Corky had tried college before and gave it another shot at Nevada, which for him was in one day and back out a few days later. University life just wasn't his gig, he was going to make it big betting on sports.

By the winter of '89, we both had moved in to our pinnacle positions at Harrah's and had become regulars at a bar called 'The Stuffed Shirt,' which is an idiotic name for a bar, but it was just across the street from Harrah's on 2nd Street and the bartender there, Jim, offered a free drink, usually after our 8th or 9th round. 'One for the road,' he would call it, which just seems insane thinking about it now, nearly 20 years out. Double fisting Coors Lights, playing pool and blasting Journey on the jukebox became our regular after work entertainment for months on end.

Mid winter in Reno can be grim, gray, freezing cold and depressing. While the first snow of the season is a welcome sign of change, the snows that come in late January are more bleak and tinged with dreariness. Emerging from 'The Shirt,' as we called it, one black 4:00 a.m., filled to the absolute brim with beer and reeking of cigarette smoke, Corky and I decided to go back over to Harrah's and regale our graveyard shift buddies with tales of drunkenness and how we clumsily attempted to hustle a couple of tourists at pool. Of course we needed fresh beers to fortify us as we stumbled through the casino, shouting at dealers we knew and placing crank pages with the hotel operators, "Paging Hugh Jass, paging Hugh Jass," and making general fools of ourselves.

Usually, one of the shift supervisors would speak quietly with us, exhorting us to leave at once lest we be reprimanded for being in uniform on property while completely drunk. So we usually left. Chugging the remainder of his beer before exiting, Corky expelled a ghastly and horribly loud burp just as we were emerging onto Center Street. The windows on the doors are heavily tinted and we did not see a small group of ladies coming in as we were leaving. One of them was unfortunate enough to bear the direct blast at a distance of no more than a foot. It was awful, one of the worst things I've ever seen. This poor lady was simply walking into the casino to have a good time (though it is in the wee hours of the day, so I guess you take your chances in downtown Reno) and suddenly she is hit with the stench and fury of an exaggerated belch directly in the face.

I recall saying something like 'Oh my God' and running from the building with Corky staggering behind me, laughing wildly and flailing around like a psychotic freak. He had his Harrah's tie wrapped around his skull like a headband, sort of like Rambo, but drunk and substantially less menacing. Out into the icy streets of Reno, slick and filthy from last week's snow. A rattling taxi bounced by on the pothole-chocked street, expelling a chunk of snow-caked ice from its' wheelwell. Corky lunged into the roadway and seized the brown and gray clump, screaming "cab snow, cab snow!" Immediately, he was running with his new prize back toward the Harrah's entry doors, staggering and laughing like a lunatic. Once inside, he held the hunk aloft, high over his head as it dripped muddy water onto his shirt. "Cab snow for sale," he shouted, "fresh cab snow from the streets of Reno!" Security was on him at once, pushing him back toward the doors. I had made my way to the bar and decided to order up a new beer and watch the spectacle. Upon his forced exit, Corky launched the chunk back into the street, screaming something that I couldn't make out from where I was sitting. After maybe ten minutes, I saw him skulking around another entrance door and then making his way to the bar, his shirt and face streaked with mud. "Where's my beer?" he demanded. "They don't serve street pigs like you in this place," I told him. Five more beers each and we determined it was the end of the road for this adventure, noting the rising sun and the arrival of dayshifters on the scene. It was nearly 8:00 in the morning and we were both due back to work by 3:00 that afternoon.

The suited men in more respectable positions at Harrah's were arriving for their workday, frowning disapprovingly at us as we made our way to the parking garage, both of us unkempt, shirts untucked, stumbling along the sidewalk. Corky was more of a spectacle than I was, covered with dried mud and grime. "See you in a few hours," I mumbled as he staggered out of the elevator to find his car, no real idea if he had stopped at the right floor. He'd figure it out, I thought, and I quickly got to my own car and headed for home.

20 Years in Reno- Chapter 1

I have lived in Reno, Nevada since May of 1989, having moved here from Sacramento and 20 years in the Big Valley of California. Two years later, I graduated from the University of Nevada, finally having enough credits for a bachelors degree, cobbled together from junior colleges and an intermittent stint in the CSU system. In the 4 years immediately following the pomp and circumstance, I sought and finally got what I perceived as the perfect job: working for a local government agency. Little did I know at the time that the same job I idealized, for whatever blurry reasons, would be the beginning of a spirit-killing slog that to this day has me firmly pinned to the mat. Oh sure, I have nothing on the surface to complain about; the pay is decent, lots of holidays off and a degree of security not common in 2009. This has proven to be the thinnest of veneers as my inner disgust with the workings of government, based on actual experience and observation, has drained me of nearly all of my creative energy. But there is more than just disgust with my job, I am truly seeking the next adventure in life and I have to start somewhere. "Follow the yellow brick road," said the good witch.

How did I get from such a high to what feels like a march toward death, at least on the levels I am referring to, primarily career happiness and satisfaction? In opting to explore this in blog format, I am hoping to elicit even one response that provides insight as to how this may have happened, and moreover to discover the ladder that may be a way up and out of this grim hole. In this unknowable space of the Internet, I will detail the 20 years I have spent in Reno, from zenith to nadir and back again. And again. Now for the first of several posts, parts and installments. Here goes...

I crossed the state line into Nevada from Sacramento, CA in the spring of 1989. Though the Silver State was already growing at the fastest clip in the nation, Reno still retained a certain Wild West feel to it, and I loved it. I worked at Harrah's for a few years, making change for a bit and then parking cars for the remainder of my college years. That first summer was an immersion into a lifestyle I had never experienced before. At 24 years of age, I was completely on my own for the first time ever. I had a tiny box of a studio apartment in Sparks-just east of Reno, close enough to I-80 to hear the whine of the cars speeding east and west. Thunderstorms were abundant that year and the smell of wet sagebrush became the new scent of home for me. The excitement of living in a 24-hour town after 20 years in a central California cow town was captivating and, at times, surreal.

My first shift at Harrah's was graveyard, working 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. My commute home from downtown Reno was to the east, into the rising sun. As someone not accustomed to overnight hours, this was just one of the many jarring aspects of my new existence. On occasion, I would have a few beers after my shift. Drinking Coors Light at 8:00 in the morning is not always the best way to start the day. Many times my trip home was delayed by a few too many drinks and what eventually became substantial sleep deprivation.

One of my co-workers was a Paiute named Vince. Though only about 5'9", he was built like a steel barrel and weighed in close to 250 pounds with body fat of maybe 12%; needless to say, a big, powerful man. Vince was one of the friendliest people at Harrah's, always helpful and always polite. One grim Monday morning after another night of dealing change to chain-smoking slot addicts, I noticed Vince at the sports bar on my way out of the club. He obviously had been there for at least a few hours on what they called an early-out, or EO, in casino parlance. In the kindest of terms, Vince was drunk out of his mind. Against better judgement, I joined him and ordered up a Coors draft, intending to do a 'one and out.'

I was still dressed in my ridiculous pink Harrah's shirt, idiotic tie and black polyester pants, but I wholly blended in with the other graveyard shift drones, drinking and smoking away their after shift hours in the dark, lower level bar, far removed from the glaring sun of the summer of 1989. After several more beers (it was more like seven and out for me that day), Vince wanted to leave and I figured I should try to get to my car and just sleep there, in the cool of the parking garage. By this time, Vince was in a full drunken lunacy. As we staggered down Center Street, he suddenly lunged at me for no reason, driving me into the travel lanes and nearly getting me killed by a passing taxi. I somehow got away from him and his inexplicable and startling rage. He didn't look fast but seemed to be running 40 miles per hour right at me, yelling like a freak about Indian rights and cursing at such volume that his shreiks echoed off the walls of the buildings along the street. My impaired reflexes were only slightly faster than his and I dodged his clumsy attack. Vince tripped and fell into the gutter, only to awkwardly pull himself up and begin attacking a parking meter with his boulder-like fists. As he swung wildly around, something tripped him up and he fell back into the gutter, thrashing violently as vomit began to spew from him in sickening yellow arcs.

I had managed to make it back into the casino and watched him for a several minutes through the window before he lumbered off down the road, screaming at traffic and wiping vomit from his filthy Harrah's uniform. I headed for an opposite exit and cautiously crept to my car, parked in the cool of the parking garage two blocks away. I slept for five hours, awoke and made my way east to Sparks. The sun was low in the western sky when I fumbled my way in to the dingy studio and locked the door behind me.

Later that evening, when I reported back to the casino for duty, Vince was there, sober as a Mormon and greeting me happily with his Paiute-tinged accent. All was good and right and normal. The slot junkies showed up and another bleary overnight shift began.