US 2: What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas

McCarran International Airport, Nevada, lay baking under crystal clear skies. I reckoned that, when I stepped onto the tarmac in the middle of the afternoon, the ambient air temperature had just about peaked at around 104℉ [40℃]; a far cry from the bitter cold I’d left behind some 20 hours earlier. Private jets were parked in echelon order on the airport apron like cabs in a city taxi rank. The sky was a cloudless faded azure; a heat haze shimmered above the runway in the distance; and, as I walked towards the Terminal, the tarmac returned the scorching afternoon heat with interest. I was about to see whether or not ‘what happens in Vegas stay in Vegas’.

My brother had arrived in California some ten days earlier in order to catch up with long time friends living in San Diego. He’d purchased, online, a used 100th Anniversary metallic Silver and Black 2003 Harley Davidson FXDL Lowrider out of Delaware; and arranged for it to be trucked to San Diego Harley Davidson.

His motorcycle purchase had been finalised solely on the basis of pictures posted on Ebay; so, he’d decided it would be prudent to have the bike checked and serviced before setting off on a road trip. This idea had never occurred to me though, after a few days on the road, I would have occasion to wish that it had.

A place to stay

Before leaving Canberra, I’d made a booking for our accommodation on Saturday and Sunday nights at the Palace Station Hotel and Casino. Although this august establishment was not on The Strip, it was very reasonably priced and not far away.

Mel was planning to ride north from Chula Vista on Interstate 15 through Escondido, San Bernardino, and Bakersfield. Then, he’d ride across the Mojave Desert south of Death Valley to meet me in Las Vegas on Saturday afternoon.

On arrival at McCarran International, if this is a new experience, you’ll discover that Vegas is not coy about its raison d’etre. In the terminal concourse, poker machines occupy all available space from the arrival gates to the baggage claim area.

My luggage was amongst the last to be spewed onto the conveyor in the claim area; probably because I’d checked in so early in Los Angeles. In fact, the luggage took so long to emerge, I began to worry that it had been left in LA or consigned to parts unknown. 

But, my goods did finally arrive and, after a little over twenty hours, I was bone weary. With eyes that felt as though they’d weathered an extended dust storm, I headed for the exit.

At curb-side, a smartly attired attendant ushered me to a cab; waited for me to get in; and slammed the door.

The Palace Station Hotel and Casino

‘Where will it be, Buddy?

‘Palace Station Hotel and Casino please.’

‘Hey, you Australian . . . right?’

‘Yep.’

‘What brings you to Vegas my friend? . . . Lookin’ fo’ a bit of action? Feelin’ lucky? What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas . . . you knows dat?’

I laughed.

‘Already married, Mate . . . too old and tired for sin . . . and lucky? I don’t think so.’

‘Well den . . . what you be doin’ here?’

‘Picking up a Harley, catching up with my brother, and doing a road trip for a month or two.’

‘No shit . . . where you plannin’ on goin’ ?’

‘Sturgis, Milwaukie, Route 66 . . . and I guess we’ll make the rest up as we go along.’

‘Cool . . . wish I could do that.’

‘You could, you know. Like the Nike advertisement says – Just Do It!’

We’d taken the freeway off-ramp and he’d pulled in under an expansive Reception Portico. 

‘Well . . . here you is Buddy.’

A massive maroon suited Afican-American was approaching.

‘What’s the damage Mate?’

‘Say what?’

‘The fare . . . what do I owe you?’

‘Oh yeah . . . that be $14.50 Sir.’

I peeled off two ten buck notes and told him to keep the change. In Sydney, twenty bucks would get you into a cab and, if you were lucky, just about out of the airport precinct. The concierge opened the door and, shaded from the glaring afternoon sun by the very large portico, I got out. Then a sudden thought occurred to me, and I leaned back into the cab.

‘A bit of advice from an old bloke from Down Under,’ I said. ‘If there’s something you really want to do, you’d better get about doing it. Leave it too long, and it’s never going to happen.’

Old and tired

The Station Hotel and Casino had probably been quite a place back in the day. But, by the time I got there, it was a bit like me; tired and a tad worn around the edges. The grandeur, if it had ever existed, had well and truly faded. The front of house staff, though, were efficient, cheerful and welcoming.

With credit card swiped ‘for incidentals’ and complementary gambling vouchers in hand, I followed posted directions towards my allocated room; which, I hasten to add, was not in the Executive Tower. I swiped the card, opened the room, and dumped my helmet and bag. It was time for my first decent smoke since leaving Tom Bradley International. 

Some six months earlier, while trolling through Ebay, I’d found what seemed like a good deal; a low mileage 2003 FXSTD 100th Anniversary Softail Deuce. I’d submitted a bid and, a few days later, had been somewhat shocked to discover that my bid had been successful. So, I’d transferred about 80% of the purchase price to a bloke named George in Henderson, Nevada. With copies of email correspondence and a record of funds transfer in hand, I’d considered the deal done; and fully expected the said motorcycle to be on hand when I arrived. 

Did I actually have a motorcycle?

While smoking, it occurred to me that it was time to give some attention to my To Do List. And, top of that list was the important business of working out exactly where my motorcycle might be; or perhaps even whether I actually had a motorcycle. It might have been true that ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’; but I was not at all sure what was going to happen in Vegas.

Then, about half-way through my cigarette, it dawned on me that all I had was a phone number for a bloke called George who lived in Henderson; no Business Name or Registration; and no address. What if there was no Deuce and no George really living in Henderson? If that turned out to be the case, I was just a tired old bloke in a second rate hotel waiting for a brother for whom I had no contact. I felt decidedly naive and more than a little vulnerable.

With rising panic, I flicked the cigarette stub into the carpark; hurried back to the room; hauled out the card where I recorded the number George had given me via email; and dialled the number.

The call was picked up almost immediately.

‘Aaah . . . gidday. My name’s Lester Lemke.’ 

And, before I had time to say another word the bloke who’d answered responded.

‘Hey . . . How you doin’ . . . been expectin’ your call . . . want to pick up the Deuce now?’

‘Hey George, if it works for you, I’d prefer to pick it up tomorrow. I’ve just got in after a hell of a long flight; and I’m bloody knackered. Would tomorrow be OK?’

‘No problem . . . I’m home all day . . . here’s where you can find me,’ and he rattled off an address. 

‘The Deuce is good to go . . . see you tomorrow.’

Where the hell was Mel?

I cradled the receiver; cranked up the air conditioner; and, with more than a little relief in the knowledge that I actually had a motorcycle for the aforesaid road trip, lay back to await the arrival of my brother – and almost immediately lapsed into a dreamless semi-coma. 

When I woke, the afternoon light had taken on a distinct red-gold hue and there was still no sign of my brother. I’d just started mentally ticking off a list of things that could have happened to him when I noticed a little red light flashing on the room telephone. I picked up and the call automatically went through to Reception.

It turned out that Mel had arrived a couple of hours earlier. He’d let reception know that his brother was a guest at the hotel and requested a key. The efficient people in reception said they could not confirm or deny that I was a guest. But they did offer to accept a message; which, I guess was a confirmation of sorts that I had checked in. Reception had probably called immediately but, after twenty hours of  travel, I was out for the count. Mel, had been cooling his heels for a couple of hours by the time I got to Reception,

The Mojave Desert

The ride from San Diego, he said, had been hotter than hell; and I’d believed him because his sunburned face and arms were glowing red.

After a dip in the pool, a coffee, a bit of a yarn and a lot of laughter, we retired to our room. Mel spent the next half an hour under a cold shower. 

When he emerged, he’d cooled down and was keen to get something to eat; so we headed off in search of one of the Hotel’s restaurants. I guess we were both more than a bit excited; until this point, I’m not sure either of us actually believed that this road trip would ever happen. But, here we were with a day in hand for some rest and relaxation before getting on the road for a seven or eight week gallop around the US. 

I’d arrived with some serious misgivings because we hadn’t spent any real time together since we were kids. I knew there was every chance that we’d find we had grown too far apart; that we’d see the world from perspectives that were just too disparate. The risk was that, by the end of our trip, we might have discovered that we were just too different; and would both retreat into our own lives to continue on as brothers in name but not in essence. 

Night on the town.

That however, was a problem we would solve, or not, over the days and weeks that lay ahead. Once Mel had assuaged his hunger, he was ready for a night on the town. I, on the other hand, not so much. I was still buggered from twenty plus hours of travel and wasn’t keen. In fact, I felt worse than I had before going to sleep earlier in the afternoon. But, given the hours Mel had spent cooling his heels, I decided that it would be best not be a complete ‘stick in the mud’.

So, two-up on Mel’s Lowrider, we headed to The Strip to see what was going on. We were off to see what happens in Vegas and whether or not it stayed in Vegas

Both sidewalks were packed; as only sidewalks in Vegas can be on a Saturday night. It was noisy with shouted conversation against a constant background roar of traffic. The crowd was moving at little more than a shuffle and it was stifling hot. Sweat beaded on my shaved head before streaming in rivulets down my face. I suggested that we look for a bar or coffee shop where we could sit for a while in air conditioning. The subtext here is that I don’t like crowds; they cause me to feel claustrophobic and generally push me to the edge of panic. 

The escalator ain’t workin’

For those not familiar with Vegas, the city avoids the problem of pedestrians crossing roads at busy intersections – at least on The Strip – by having constructed first floor level pedestrian overpasses. I guess there is a benefit for the Casinos; you can move from one gaming floor to the next without the inconvenience of battling crowds on the pavement outside. Those already on the sidewalk are able to access the overpasses via escalators; these conveniently deliver pedestrians, effort free, from the sidewalk to the overpass level.

Now, as Mel and I inched our way along the packed pavement in search of an air conditioned coffee shop, we found ourselves at the lower extremity of an escalator. And there encountered a fifty something Afro-American couple of very ample proportions; the same height standing up as lying down. In the vernacular, you’d have said that both had been in pretty good paddocks – for a very long time. They were turned out in all their finery; he in bow tie and tuxedo; and she, with pearls and a shimmering gown. Both were sweating to beat the band; and clearly in distress because they’d discovered that the escalator from the sidewalk was not working

Turning to his Lady, the gentleman said: 

‘Ma Gard, Lucy . . . the escalator ain’t workin’.’

‘Ah know,’ she said as she stared in horror at the stationary escalators . . . ‘What we gonna do now?’

A warped sense of humour

It was an unbelievably hot night; and, the effort required to haul their ample bodies through the packed crowd would have been considerable. The sweat streaming from their faces was real as was, I suppose, their distress. Now, whether it was our accumulated fatigue or a warped sense of humour or both, I couldn’t be sure; but, we both just managed to beat a hasty exit to the closest Casino foyer before exploding with laughter. And, I suppose, the fact that I’m writing about all this undermines the notion of ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’.

Over coffee, tiredness seeped back into my body; and, I began fantasising about our air-conditioned room and a flat place to lie down. Mel, however, hadn’t reached anywhere near the end of his night out agenda.

‘Why don’t we go down to Fremont Street?’ he said, after a lull in our conversation.

‘Why? What’s at Fremont Street?’ I asked

Fremont Street

‘It’s the Old Vegas, Mate . . . the way it used to be. It’s where the Golden Nugget is – you know the place you see in the old movies. Fremont Street has a light show projected onto an electronic canopy which runs pretty much the length of the street.’

This street is actually downtown Vegas. It is probably the most famous street in the Valley apart from The Strip itself. Named in honour of the explorer John Charles Fremont, it is the address for many of the famous original casinos including the Four Queens, the Mint, Binion’s Horseshoe, Golden Nugget, and the Pioneer Club. Before construction of the Fremont Street Experience, the western end of the street was used in virtually every television show or movie that wanted to depict the glittering lights of Las Vegas.

So much for my sleep fantasy, I thought.. 

‘OK . . . Let’s do it.’ 

And, twenty minutes later we’d parked the Lowrider and were on Fremont Street.

When we arrived, it was going on midnight but, clearly, the Fremont Street party was just getting into full swing. The Golden Nugget squatted right there in all its brazen, flashy glory. The light show featured a low-level fly-over by a squadron of FA18s; it was loud and realistic enough to make me duck.  

The Country Rock Kid

About mid-mall on a raised stage a youthful and exceptionally energetic CountryRock Singer and band was thumping out a rhythm that rattled eardrums and reverberated in my chest. The singer’s musical talent was both raw and spectacular; at various times he played sax, base and lead guitar, keyboard and drums. When not on instruments he was making a serious attempt to splatter his tonsils all over the microphone; and all the while he literally owned the stage with his physical presence.

‘Bet you’re glad you didn’t have him in your Homeroom Group,’ Mel shouted above the din and general tumult.

‘Damned right,’ I said. ‘Anyone that talented, loud and full-of-life would have been trouble going somewhere to happen.’

Eventually we moved on to the end of the street; past the Hamburger Heart-Attack Joint. The T-Shirt Vendors were fighting a losing battle for attention with the CountryRock Kid and his band; they were still belting it out a block and a half away.

If you’re planning a trip to Vegas any time soon, do yourself a favour and get down to Fremont Street. It’s less glitzy than The Strip; generally younger with a more disparate demographic and absolutely alive with an earthy, vibrant and gritty bump and grind. If it’s true that ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’, you owe it to yourself to take a look.

It was just after 2 am by the time we got back to our digs. My mind-numbing tiredness had evaporated in the energy, life and vibe of Fremont Street. On the other hand, maybe 2 am in Nevada corresponded to daylight hours on Australia’s East Coast; and so, perhaps, my internal clock was beginning to wake me up. 

Just a thought . . .

Growing up is way overrated . . .

If you haven’t by the time you’re 60 . . . you don’t have to!

Click to continue reading: US 3 Pick Up and Shake Down