by Doreen Orion
Wearing a blindfold, measure and mix ingredients in shaker. (It’s not polite to look.)
* * *
From a two-armed, none-too-bright bandit we headed to the one-armed bandits and bright lights of Las Vegas…with a dying alternator.
Shortly after we left Tucson, Tim noticed the needle on the voltmeter drifting downward. What was a Project Nerd to do? Why, call on the vast knowledge he’d gleaned from his favorite National Public Radio show—Car Talk, of course. For PN, tuning in to Click and Clack every week was like being in direct electromagnetic linkage to the “automotive” branch of the Project Prophet Pantheon—the other branches being “home improvement,” “yard maintenance,” and “crap my wife makes me do.” He quickly realized the needle drooping on that gauge labeled “volts” meant…something. Nonetheless, he somehow resisted the temptation to stick black electrical tape over the pesky, if incessant, warning light.
Tim was able to explain that the voltmeter measures the output of the alternator, the electrical system that provides energy to pretty much everything on the bus except, unfortunately, me. With four hundred miles of desert to get through, an ailing alternator was not a good thing.
As we neared Las Vegas, the needle on the voltmeter sank steadily. With only thirty more miles to go, we approached Hoover Dam on U.S. 93. Like the road leading up to the haunted forest in The Wizard of Oz, this one was also lined with signs warning people to stay away. (There were so many and they were so insistent, I half expected one to say, “I’d go back if I were you,” or at the very least, the Wicked Witch of the West skywriting on her broomstick, “Surrender, Dorothy!”) The signs foretold of everlasting traffic and interminable congestion crossing the dam and suggested (some might say “commanded”) an alternate, albeit much longer, route. Our alternator was not allowing for any alternate, so I swallowed my traffic rage and we soldiered on.
The reason for all the hullabaloo quickly became apparent: new security measures after 9/11. All big rigs had to be boarded. We turned in to the inspection area and awaited our turn. For once, gorgeous Shula did not merit so much as a glance, not one ooh or ahh, even from the female officer who entered our coach. Although we took some comfort in that, Shula seemed less than impressed.
Once we were in the gambling capital of the world, our luck decidedly changed. Tim called the manager of a Prevost repair shop we had previously frequented. He put us in touch with his brother who had taken over a truck repair place right in Vegas. Usually, truck mechanics eschew buses because the motor is stuck in a small, cramped compartment in back, rather than being easily accessible under the hood. But in deference to his brother, our new savior had been endeavoring to make his shop bus friendly and was even able to get us a rebuilt alternator, considerably lowering what we had expected to ante up. Then we landed at the Oasis—a true RV resort. It had two large pools and an adults-only hot tub that stayed open late. We immediately extended our stay.
We just enjoyed the ease of it all, from our full-of-frills campground to Las Vegas’s no-hassle world travel. After all, where else can you stroll around Paris without breaking the bank to look chic, amble through New York without worrying about muggings, visit Venice’s Grand Canal without gaining ten pounds on pasta, feel at home in ancient Rome without wrapping yourself in a toga, experience a volcano erupting without running for your life, watch pirates battle from the safety of a sidewalk (alas, without seeing Johnny Depp), or shop at a Middle Eastern bazaar without having to pretend you’re Canadian.
Of course, we also did crazy rides wherever we found them. Our favorite had to be the Big Shot on top of the Stratosphere, propelling us 161 feet straight above the already 921-foot-tall hotel-casino, pulling four G’s on the way up and negative G’s (and for some, negative lunch) on the way down. The ride also provided me good payback: After it was all over, the helpful girl at the exit offered that we could go again, right away, for a steep discount. I immediately exclaimed, “Yeah!” only to turn around and see Tim glaring at me. At the risk of all eyes questioning his manhood, what else could he do but follow his wife, again?
Las Vegas is also where the company I’ve worked for the longest—over ten years—is based. I had been there before and met the staff, so this time I just had a few of them over for a “bus happy hour.” Alison, a nearing-retirement nurse who shared my passion for fashion, had become Miles’s long-distance aunt. Although they had never met, “Auntie A” got plenty of pictures of her furry nephew and frequently sent him treats in the mail, prompting Tim to observe wryly, “I needed someone my dog’s never met to teach me he likes peanut butter.” When they finally saw each other for the first time (and especially after we explained that this was the woman responsible for all the care packages), Miles and Alison became fast friends.
Ginny, another nurse, was one of the few people who could match my raunchy humor. As is the case with all insurance companies, the phone calls are “monitored for quality assurance,” leading Ginny and me to often wonder if our dual firing was also assured.
A few days later, Alison invited us (come to think of it, she only invited Miles and I tagged along) to a Doggie Parade at the upscale District at Green Valley Ranch, where George Clooney keeps a condo. (Ironically, the condos, themselves don’t allow dogs.) I thought I was being clever slapping a white bow tie on the poodle. Not so much; Miles was woefully underdressed, although as usual, he was a good sport. Although ever friendly with all manner of his species, he always seems to recognize kin, this time in the form of Jacques, a white standard poodle sporting a jaunty blue beret. While Alison appreciated the bichon frise with the pink bow in her hair and matching pink booties, my favorite was the terrier in a baseball shirt, cap, and sweatpants—complete with a hole cut out for his tail.
On past trips to Las Vegas, Tim and I had tried to see as many shows as possible, and although this one was no exception, it was the first time I feared being arrested for stalking. Always on the lookout for Motown cover bands, I found one, Sho Tyme, listed as playing in a small club in one of the hotels. Tim tried to get out of the cover charge—“Ladies free. Gentlemen $5”—by telling the woman at the door he was no gentleman. I’m pretty sure that only made her tack on an extra buck. Regardless, we became hooked and came back three more times. It would have been four, but during the last performance, I saw the lead singer glance our way with what can only be categorized as alarm on his face.
Another performer who should be alarmed at his fans but never seems to be is Jimmy Buffett. Even blocks from the MGM, where the concert was to start in two hours, hordes of Parrot Heads, dressing and acting bizarrely even by Las Vegas standards, combed the streets: There was the fireman wearing his helmet painted with a tropical scene, complete with stuffed parrot perched on top. The ten-year-old boy with his dad, dressed identically in grass skirts and coconut shell bras, prompting Tim to wonder if this was merely a sweet method of bonding or child abuse. The Elvis Parrot Head, a cultural commingling that would not even have qualified as a near miss anywhere else.
The revelry continued in the venue itself. Before the concert started, large beach balls bounced around the arena. Unfortunately, one of the bounces took the man next to me off guard, spilling his entire twenty-four-ounce cup of beer all over my favorite pants—pink Lillys with green martinis on them. His apology was so sincere and it truly wasn’t his fault (after all, he hadn’t had anything to drink yet), so we started chatting about all the Parrot Head functions he’d been to. His chapter, like so many others, not only has get-togethers but does charity work. Who knew?
Even though I was now effectively wearing my husband’s favorite cologne, Tim wasn’t focused on me when he returned from the vending area.
“I got these for free!” he proudly exclaimed, holding up two giant beers. Of course, I wanted to know how. He explained that the lines for that most essential part of the food pyramid—the beer group—had been so long, that a guy came up and offered Tim twenty dollars if he’d buy him a brew. Of course, my
good-natured, some might say “rash,” husband told the guy to just pay to fill a couple of go cups instead.
“You turned down twenty dollars?” I demanded evenly.
“But I got you a free beer,” he protested.
“I don’t drink beer,” I said, even evener.
“Oh, yeah,” he replied as he took big, alternating, two-fisted gulps.
Barring that, we enjoyed the show immensely, except the part where Jimmy observed how the concert was great group therapy for all the Parrot Heads in the audience, saying he’d “just saved you a bunch of money on psychiatrist bills.” Fortunately, the crowd couldn’t hear us boo.
Finally, yes, we did renew our vows on the bus with Elvis officiating. I booked him sight unseen and was pleased when Jeff Stanulis, a svelte, pre-drug-addled, pre-fried-donut King arrived. As he sang along to a boom box, his funny takeoffs on various Elvis standards left us all shook up and in no danger of ever losin’ that lovin’ feelin’.
Death Valley’s hundred-year bloom was all over the news. And since we were in the area anyway…
We couldn’t get a reservation for a campground in the park (well, we could have gotten a spot—maybe—if we’d lined up at 6 a.m. to try, and how likely was that?), so we stayed in nearby, charming Beatty, Nevada. OK, so it’s only nearby. Beatty is a one-whorehouse town and it shows. Our RV park happened to be conveniently situated just down the road from Angel’s Ladies, housed in a none-too-discreet, pink double-wide, complete with a large letter “A” branded on the hill above it.
On the plus side, the RV park fee did include access to any one of three private bathhouses on the property fed by Bailey’s Hot Springs, each with a different temperature water (from the highest, 103 to 105 degrees, for the hardy, to the lowest, 98 to 101 degrees, for the completely wussy). We were only going to stay in Beatty four or five days, but ended up parked for a week. We were, after all, only feet from what we considered to be the biggest attraction in town (sorry, ladies), even though I was dubious of the hot springs at first. The rooms were so dark and passels of people seemed to be passing through. What about germs? Tim reassured me that little could survive in that heat. Oh, yeah? That’s what I thought about heating my lunch in the windshield. I remained worried until the warm waters washed away my apprehensions. We took a dip every night.
Beatty did inspire us to come up with the “Top 10 Reasons You Know You’re in a Shit Hole.” You know you’re in a shit hole when: 10. There’s no grocery store in town but there is a whorehouse; 9. The whorehouse never seems to get any business; 8. The elevation is greater than the population—and the town is a stone’s throw from Death Valley; 7. You can’t even be bothered to think of seven more reasons.
In Death Valley itself, we took several short hikes not even short enough for me. Suffice it to say there’s a bug in the desert so disgusting, I still don’t know how it can stand itself.
“I know I always say you should get out more, but maybe that’s not such a good idea,” Tim was forced to concede.
Nevertheless, he did entreat me to accompany him on a “technical” hike through a rock formation. Not really understanding the word in the context of actually doing anything, I assumed “technical” meant I could simply, as always, tune out the details that didn’t interest me. I started the hike in my usual attire: capri sweatpants, pink sneakers and sweatshirt, Chanel sunglasses (just because I hadn’t bought new clothes didn’t mean I threw out the old ones). As I arranged myself, all the while shooting dubious looks at the nonexistent path, Tim shook his head.
“It’s known as Nail Breaker Canyon. Are you sure you’re up to it?”
To our mutual shock, I actually enjoyed that hike. It wasn’t the usual endless, mindless meandering over identical scenery, but much more interesting—challenging even, what with having to discern the best route over a constantly changing landscape of jagged rock formations. It kept my brain occupied, rather than emptying it out even more. At first, Tim tried to guide me, but quickly backed off when he realized how much I enjoyed figuring it out for myself.
At one point, we had to traverse a huge granite slab wedged into the ground at a forty-five-degree angle with nothing on either side for support. It was easy for my long-legged husband to simply bound through in one giant step. But for five-foot-two me…I studied the situation, taking into account the distance, the slope, and, most important, my attire. Not wearing hiking boots turned out to be an advantage, for I simply planted my feet together, hunkered down into a squat, and slid down the slab on the slippery soles of my sneakers, halting my descent by grabbing the trunk of a tree which conveniently jutted out from the ground below. Tim beamed his admiration.
“I was wondering how you were going to manage that!” He gave me a kiss, and for the first time in our relationship I understood the pleasure he derives from working with his hands, from puzzling something out and making it right. I even managed not to spoil the moment, keeping to myself my chagrin that the maneuver had, in fact, caused me to break a nail.
Of course we took other, less pleasant walks as well. I’ve never been a big fan of bugs. (Here Tim feels the need to interject, “But you’re about to tell a spider story. They’re not bugs. They’re arachnids.”
“They’re bugs to me, sweetie.”)
When we still lived in Tucson, our friend Butch came over one night to pick something up. I’d neglected to inform Tim, who was at the back of the house, that we were going to have a visitor. When the doorbell rang, realizing it was Butch, I opened the door…and let out a bloodcurdling scream. An enormous tarantula stood at his feet. (Actually, I think it was almost up to his knees.) Meanwhile, all Tim heard was the ring of the doorbell and what appeared to be the sound his wife would make if she were being brutally murdered. He ran to my rescue, realizing his last thought on this earth might very well be “Oh, God. This is really, really gonna hurt.”
By the time Tim arrived, fists at the ready, I was in a crumpled heap, crying on the floor.
I don’t like bugs.
Tim had to fetch what Butch had come for, but before he left, the poor man, who worked at our psychiatric hospital, mind you, was heard to murmur in a tone bordering on admiration, “Wow. I’ve never seen anyone lose it like that before.” For the next year, I’d periodically find plastic spiders in my mailbox at work.
So the huge, buzzing flies on Death Valley’s Salt Creek Trail (which we only bothered to traverse to see the endangered pupfish. And really, those things could disappear from the universe and no one would miss them) nearly did me in. One landed on Tim, then buzzed around me. Since I wasn’t aware of any handy-dandy safety tips where flies were concerned (i.e., were you supposed to back away like with bears? Stand your ground like with mountain lions? Duck and cover like with nuclear bombs?) I reverted to my old trusty standby: screaming, crying, and running. I can report with confidence that none of that helps.
Since we were about to pass a group of children, Tim felt the need to perform his civic duty and warned me not to scare them by losing it again.
“Now, as we pass these kids, I want you to get ahold of—”
“Great idea!” I interrupted. “I’m sure that fly’d rather have a smaller, more manageable target.” And I rushed over to my new decoys.
The completely bugless Scotty’s Castle in the northern end of the park was much more my speed.
Scotty had been a huckster since he was a kid, leaving his home in Kentucky in 1883 at the age of eleven just because he thought school was a waste of time. To support himself in the Nevada desert, he sold donuts to railroad passengers until the restaurant at the depot ran him off. Getting back at the owners in true Scotty fashion, he tricked their customers into rushing out without paying by yelling, “All aboard.” Then there was the time he got a local girl to whoop and holler at one end of the station as the train was leaving, so that when the male passengers poked their heads out the windows to see what the ruckus was all about, he could run up behind them from the other end,
whacking their hats off with a stick. He then sold them to men on the next arriving train for two bits apiece.
His creative methods of supporting himself didn’t end when he became an adult, and that’s how he met Chicago insurance magnate Albert Johnson. Scotty managed to get investors, including Johnson, to shell out money for his “mine” in Death Valley by showing them gold nuggets he’d gotten from a real mine’s tour. After hearing from Scotty for years about the many calamities preventing the delivery of any gold, all the investors pulled out—except Johnson. Instead, he decided to come to Death Valley to see the mine for himself. Scotty figured that after a few grueling days in the desert, the city slicker would give up and go home, but Johnson, sickly since a childhood accident, saw his health improve in the dry climate and stayed a month. By the time he realized there was no mine, he didn’t care: He was smart enough to understand the value of what he got from his charming friend and call it good. He so valued their friendship, in fact, that when he decided to purchase property in the desert, he and his wife invited Scotty to stay. Of course, once Johnson started building the estate, Scotty told everyone it was his castle, but Johnson didn’t mind that either; amused as ever by his colorful companion, he played along, telling folks he was merely Scotty’s banker.
It seems that some of Scotty’s bravado rubbed off on Johnson, who fought with the government for years over whether or not his castle sat on federal land. According to our tour guide, the two sides finally came to the agreement that Johnson could own the home during his lifetime as long as he didn’t sell it. Since he had no heirs, Johnson agreed. But after his wife died, he founded a charity and willed the abode to it. After he passed away, the charity took care of both Scotty and the castle.
My psyche stripped naked to the core and my closet down to the bare bones, was it such a stretch that we stay at a nudist RV park? Although as a psychiatrist Tim is very much in tune with unconscious drives, hidden meanings, and deep-seated motivations, he is also a typical guy. And typical guys want to go to nudist resorts. Not being any type of a guy myself, I had always informed him I would never, ever, EVER, not in a million…Oh, what’s the use? By now I had clearly lost any semblance of free will. I was, after all, living in a bus for a year. I didn’t stand a chance. Not that I was nonchalant about this, mind you; I’d started Atkins in anticipation—just in case—as soon as we left New Orleans. I need not have bothered, for as I discovered, nudists are incredibly low-key. Unless, that is, you’re trying to get into one of their parks. Then they can be just as big a pain in the ass as any prudes.