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.