dedalus_1947 | Entries tagged with primm

How many a year has passed and gone,
And many a gamble has been lost and won,
And many a road taken by many a first friend,
And each one, I’ve never seen again.
(Bob Dylan’s Dream, by Bob Dylan: 1962)

In gloomy silence, Greg drove slowly away from the speed trap. A fog of thick depression seemed to envelope us. No one knew what to say or how to console Greg about this second speeding ticket in one month. As we floundered dumbly in search of a topic to ignite some new conversation, John finally erupted in the back seat.
“Yah know, Greg,” he rumbled, “that was screwed. Don’t take this lying down. I’d fight it! You got nothing to lose by challenging the ticket. Patrick got a speeding ticket when he was driving through San Luis Obispo, on his way home from San Francisco. He claimed residential hardship and postponed the court date two or three times, hoping that when he did finally appear the police officer wouldn’t be there. If the arresting officer is not present, the case is dropped. It worked out that way for him. I’m telling you, it’s worth the trouble. Come on Greg, I’ll come along and we can stay in Vegas for a night or two and make a weekend of it.”
“I think it’s worth a try, Greg,” I added. “I’ll come along too! We’ll try the Craps table again at a Vegas casino. What do you say?” I held my breath, praying that Greg would rise to the bait. The idea of Greg in a funk for the remainder of this trip was troubling. So far he had been the glue that bound us together, and kept us motivated.“Yah know John,” he announced, “you’re right! I shouldn’t just pay the fine and let this screw up my driving record. I will fight it! We’ll just plan another trip. So come on Tony, snap out of it! Check the map and tell me where I make the next turn.”

None of us had ever visited Hoover Dam before, and I naively betrayed my excitement by asking too many questions about the sights along the way. The communities on Interstate 215, from the southern outskirts of Las Vegas to Henderson were surprisingly upscale in appearance, with elegant, residential homes, gated condominium complexes, and mega-stores like Super Wal-Mart or Home Depot Warehouses anchoring glistening, new giant malls. Gradually, the area along Nevada Highway 93 to Boulder City became more and more rural and desolate as we gained altitude through barren mountains and then descended into a provincial looking Boulder City, located in a basin at the outskirts of Lake Mead. We caught a brief glimpse of the southern shores of the lake as we ascended into the mountainous, canyon region that is bisected by the Colorado River, and separates Nevada from Arizona. We began getting hints of the massive size of the dam by the increasing number of large concrete buildings, towering girders, and spanning electrical cables and conduit that we passed. But even with that preparation, we were struck dumb by the looming appearance of a mammoth, overhead highway bridge, as we turned a wide curve.
“What is that?” I whispered, finally breaking the spell.
“I think that’s the Bypass Bridge they were building when the 9/11 Attack stopped construction,” Jim explained. “We’re on the old highway. Eventually, cars won’t be able to get this close to the dam and Highway 93 will be detoured above us”.
“Wow,” Greg declared, looking at the spanning roadway. “That’s something”.
We slowed as the highway narrowed into a two-lane street that wound its way around the edges of Black Canyon and suddenly became a part of Hoover Dam. We were actually riding on top of the massive dike, crossing from Nevada to Arizona. I mentally isolated myself from my comrades, and became lost in a state of wonder. I felt we were entering the black and white world of the 1930’s. I imagined we actually drove into the past, into the middle of the Great Depression, the days of monumental public works projects that reshaped the nation. We had driven from a modern era of speeding tickets and futuristic super highways, into the Dust Bowl period of Model T Fords and The Grapes of Wrath.

As soon as we parked the car I fell behind and separated myself from the others. I dawdled along the walkway, gazing up, down, and across. Holding tightly to my camera, I calculated the photos to take, and framed each picture in my mind. The gigantic drum gates fascinated me, and I visualized how they could steer overflow water into the cavernous mouth of the Arizona Spillway Tunnel. I stared at the Intake Towers, with their art deco design, mystified by how such large and functional structures could look so delicate and stylish in the water. I couldn’t conceive of the time and effort it had taken to make them so aesthetically pleasing that they seemed to float on the water. Even the breathtaking view of modern Bypass Bridge didn’t detract from the concrete works below. The flying bridge that spanned the sky was impressive, but it looked like a practical, tinker toy construction compared to the fluid and flowing cement structures created 73 years before. I put off staring down the arch-gravity wall-face of the dam for last. It was like looking down an ocean of grey concrete, and spotting a narrow string of fresh, blue water, seventy-two thousand feet below. A wave of dream-like unreality seized me as I leaned over to photograph the power plant below. I felt an overwhelming compulsion to keep leaning out for the perfect shot, and then dropping my camera, so I’d have to dive after it - tobogganing down the face of the cement wall until I reached it. I shook myself awake and pulled away from the mesmerizing drop. Hoover Dam, and its adjacent buildings and monuments took my breath away for the two hours we explored the area. I will never adequately describe what I saw that day, depending, instead, on my photos for a detailed explanation (see Flickr album: 2010-03-06 Hoover Dam).

By the time I made my way back to the car, Jim was hunched over a road map, with Greg standing over him.
“So Jim,” he was asking, “how does it look? Have you figured out a route back, or do we leave the way we came?”
“Don’t you think that would be a little boring?” Jim shot back. “I found an alternate route, but I don’t know if there’s anything there worth seeing. Have you ever heard of a town called Searchlight, Nevada?”
“Searchlight,” Greg repeated, “you’re kidding, right? How can we NOT consider visiting a place called Searchlight? We’ve got to find out what it looks like. Come on Mr. Sulu,” he said, calling Jim the name of the helmsman of the Starship Enterprise on Star Trek, “steer a course to Searchlight and then back to Primm.”
Greg was in full exploration mode now, and it soon infected Jim, John and me. As Greg drove along, we speculated about what we’d find in Searchlight. This was before Sarah Palin made it notorious as the hometown of Harry Reid, the Democratic Senate Majority Leader, and the site of a Tea Party Rally on March 27. We anticipated it would be a ghost town resembling Randsburg, or a small-scale mining town like Johannesburg, two tiny hamlets off of Highway 395 in central California. However, despite it curious name, when we arrived at that the tiny town (population 576), and saw that it offered nothing of sightseeing value, we simply transitioned from Highway 95 to Highway 164 and continued traveling east to the California border at Nipton. Between those two points on the map, there was nothing except hills, highway, rolling dunes, yucca and Joshua trees, and far off mountains. We loved it. There is a rugged beauty to desolation, with its sparseness of fauna and flora. A desert is actually a vital, balanced, and self-sustaining ecosystem. One just needs the eyes to see it as such, and not an empty wasteland. Our ride through the Nevada and California desert gave us another chance to savor the simplicity of desert beauty, and an opportunity to let your minds wander, encouraging us to speak about any topic or idea that occurred during the long, uninterrupted drive. Then, when crossing the state line and descending into a wide desert valley, we noticed a small patch of green on the narrow band of highway, and a curious dark pipeline off to the left of the desert floor. The closer we came to the green dot, the more distinct the dark line became.
“It’s a train,” John announced from the back, “and it seems to be heading for the same place we are, that green patch straight ahead.”
“That’s got to be Nipton,” Jim added. “There’s no other town or community around here. It sure is tiny, though.”
“Greg,” I shouted, grabbing for my camera, “can you get there before the train? I want to get some pictures of this.”
“I’m trying,” Greg grimaced, as the SUV bounded forward. “Just keep an eye out for CHP, will ya.”
We were in a race with a long black train from the South, as we sped down the hill, along the narrow, black highway. We ignored the flashing terrain and concentrated on the lone speeding object, constantly judging its distance from the green patch - which was fast becoming a grove of trees, around a small, rustic hotel, beside a marked railroad crossing.
“Just stop on the road near the crossing, Greg.” I commanded, holding tightly to my camera. I leapt out of the car as soon as he stopped and ran up to the train tracks. I had a few moments to get my bearings and raise the viewfinder to my eye when the giant locomotive pounced and blew past me. On and on the carriage rolled, with box after box of freight, produce, and cargo rumbling by. I had never been that close to such a huge, fast moving, thunderous object before. The looming, continuous wall of flashing metal was almost alive and bursting with power. The sensation was timeless, exhilarating, and frightening. I finally lowered my camera and stared longingly at the receding caboose, as the wind and noise faded and whispered a soft farewell. I turned to rejoin my friends who were already inspecting this crossroads town, with its lone, frontier hotel and store.

The following day we got an early start on an unseasonably wintery Sunday morning. The change of climate signaled a new phase and a different mood in our trip. Gone was the heightened excitement of the casino floor, and our bantering and joking around the green felt gaming tables, now we were facing a long and weary day of desert travel in separate cars. Jim had plotted a course for today’s trip to that included two California locales we’d never visited. They had exotic sounding names and were located in the middle of nowhere. We’d stop at Kelso and Amboy, and then a drive through the Joshua Tree National Forest to Pappy and Harriet’s Palace in Pioneertown for lunch. We had explored Boulder and Nipton in bright, sunny weather, a stunning contrast to this new day. The sky was grey and overcast, with ominous, low-lying mists clinging to the feet of far off hills and mountains, and dark clouds billowing from their summits. We split up for the journey, with Greg and Jim leading the way in the white SUV and John and I following in the roadster. I agreed with John to keep the convertible top down for as long as we could stand the cold, but I regretted that agreement almost as soon as we started. We retraced our path from the day before toward Nipton, but then turned south on Ivanpah Road. On that road we commenced our Southerly trek across the Mojave National Preserve to Kelso, CA. Our only halt was a brief photo opportunity and bathroom break along the Morning Star Mine Road, where Jim insisted I take pictures of the desert floor sweeping up into the far off mountains. We were curious about Kelso because of its interesting name, and having heard of its history from a Huell Howser California Gold episode on PBS. Officially classified as a ghost town, the train depot was closed in 1986. However, in 2005 the remnants of the Union Pacific depot building were renovated as the official Visitors Center of the Mojave National Preserve. I fell in love with its isolated beauty the moment we saw its “California Mission” building style. Camera in hand, I wandered off by myself, leaving my comrades to fend for themselves as I explored and photographed the adjacent railroad crossing before inspecting the depot. In the silent embrace of the desert, I again experienced a time machine moment and imagined these sights in the black and white world of the 1920’s, when railroads and telegraph were the essential means of travel and communication (see Flickr album: 2010-03-07 Barstow, Kelso, & Amboy).

By the time we got back into the cars, the wind was up and storm clouds were gathering. I’d never driven through a desert in a rainstorm. The sensation is like riding through a narrowing tunnel. You see a wet ribbon of asphalt between rhythmic windshield wipers, and the soggy roadside through foggy windows. Sheltered beneath the snug, convertible top, John and I listened silently to the stereo player as we drove along, interrupting our meditations only to ask if we had a musical preference for the next CD. There wasn’t much to see or do in Amboy beyond its few nostalgic attractions, and we didn’t stay long. Amboy is considered another Mojave ghost town, the remnant of a thriving community, which once attracted a lot of business and tourism until the modern Interstate 40 opened in 1973. There we stopped to visit Roy’s Motel and Café, a famous Route 66 landmark and take some pictures. Roy’s was known for its “retro-future” architecture and some of the original buildings were still standing (see Flickr album: 2010-03-07 Barstow, Kelso, & Amboy). There are also two extinct volcanoes nearby, but because of the unstable weather, we ignored them and decided to drive through the Joshua Tree National Forest in the rain to Twenty-nine Palms and Pioneertown, before completing our day’s journey in Rancho Mirage. By the time we arrived at Pappy and Harriet’s Palace, we were tired, hungry, and cold - and ready for a drink. The rain had stopped and once we had something to eat, and a chance to talk and relax, we would be on the road again.

I wish I could end this story with some tense and climactic scene, to balance the emotions we felt at being caught in the speed trap near Las Vegas. Unfortunately, 44 year-old friendships don’t follow convenient plot lines. There are always conflicts in a friendship, and plenty of arguments, but relationships that manage to endure, do so because they keep rolling along - like a mountain stream, flowing towards the valley below, meandering around the rocks, boulders, and fallen trees that sometimes get in the way. I first heard Bob Dylan’s Dream sung by Peter, Paul, and Mary on their Album 1700, in 1969. The song saddened me because it predicted the inevitable endings of friendships as campanions came to natural crossroads in their lives. In 1969 I was on the verge of graduating from college and on the brink of being drafted into the military. Friendships seemed very fragile things then, and I readily agreed with Dylan “that the road we traveled would shatter or split”. Fortunately, that has not proven to be the case. Except for the loss of one high school friend, the four of us have managed to stay together all these years. It hasn’t always been easy, but it has always been fun, and each of us has contributed in some way in keeping us together. This trip was filled with nostalgic landmarks and locations that were best visualized in black and white. These sites complemented the retirement theme that christened this journey from the start. But the most enjoyable moments were in living color when the four of us came together to eat, talk, laugh, and travel. Bob Dylan sang of those joyful moments in his song, but he let them pass away. Despite our inability to win any money at gambling, and our occasional arguments and disagreements, I suppose we are luckier than most people in keeping this friendship on four wheels and the road.

Bob Dylan’s Dream:

While riding on a train going west
I fell asleep for to take my rest
I dreamed a dream that made me sad
Concerning myself and the first few friends I had.

With half-damp eyes I stared to the room
Where my friends and I spent many an afternoon
Where we together weathered many a storm
Laughing and singing till the early hours of the morn.

By the old wooden stove where our hats were hung
Our words were told, our songs were sung
Where we longed for nothing and were satisfied
Talking and joking about the world outside.

With haunted hearts through the heat and cold
We never thought we could get very old
We thought we could sit forever in fun
But our chances really were a million to one.

As easy it was to tell black from white
It was all that easy to tell wrong from right
Our choices were few and the thought never hit
That the one road we traveled would ever shatter and split.

How many a year has passed and gone
And many a gamble has been lost and won
And many a road taken by many a friend
And each one I’ve never seen again.

I wish, I wish, I wish, in vain
That we could sit simply in that room once again
Ten thousand dollars at the drop of a hat
I’d give it all gladly if our lives could be like that.

As easy as it was to tell black from white,
It was all that easy to tell wrong from right.
Our choices were few, and the thought never hit
That the road we traveled would ever shatter or split.
(Bob Dylan’s Dream, by Bob Dylan: 1962)

“So, what did you do to erase the speeding ticket from your record?” John retorted from the back seat of the car.
“I took an online computer class,” Greg answered, laughing and shaking his head. “I managed to finish the whole thing in a few hours while working at the office. It was relatively painless. God, traffic school is such a pain in the ass!”
“Yeah,” I agreed, looking over from the passenger seat. “I despise those classes too. I’m glad you cleared the ticket. I haven’t gone to traffic school in years. I think the last time was in 1993. I took the 210 Freeway through Sunland-Tujunga, and there were places along that route that almost begged you to speed up. I got nailed there one afternoon on the way home”.
“Yeah,” Greg lamented, “I hadn’t gotten a ticket in a long time either. I guess my luck finally ran out last week.”
“Well, you sure had a long run,” John interjected from the back. “You’re so lead-footed when you drive, I’m shocked you haven’t gotten more tickets by now.”
“Have you ever taken one of those comedy classes after a ticket?” I interjected, steering the conversation away from the topics of speeding and tickets. I’d been on the verge of repeating the old wives’ tale about ‘tickets coming in sets of three,’ when I had an irrational premonition that if I did so, something bad would happen. “Kathy took one of those courses and thought it was pretty funny,” I said instead.
“I think those comedy classes are a waste of time,” responded Jim curtly, from the rear of the car, where he was sitting next to John. “Either watch your speed or do your time in traffic school, jokes don’t make a difference”.
Jim’s remark drove a stake through the heart of the conversation. We were silent until I asked Greg if we were driving through Las Vegas before turning off towards Boulder City.
“I’m not sure,” he answered, keeping his eyes and one hand on the steering wheel as he reached up to his visor to take down a printed page of Google-map directions. “Look it up for me, will you?”
“Sure thing,” I responded, sitting up and reaching for my reading glasses. Looking at the map, I answered my own question aloud. “We won’t be passing the city. We continue North on Interstate 15 and then turn off at Exit 34, Interstate 215 North. That’s just South of the Las Vegas Airport”.
“We should be seeing Las Vegas pretty soon, then,” said Greg, as he steered the BMW SUV between a set of desert hills, through an elevated pass. Turning downward and beginning a speedy northward descent into a wide valley, we saw the glistening shine of the city in the far horizon. Whizzing by a glover-leafed, over-pass, I heard John’s warning.
“CHP at 3 o’clock!” he barked.
Looking quickly to my right, I saw a police motorcycle, along side of a California Highway Patrol car, steadily rolling down a parallel onramp and picking up speed.
“Damn,” muttered Greg. “Do you think they spotted me?” He quickly slowed the momentum of the car, and we all kept our eyes glued to the approaching motorcycle, praying it would pass us by.
“I thought I saw him putting down a radar gun just before he started moving,” John volunteered. We all held our breath until the motorcycle pulled up next to the car and the officer signaled with his gloved hand for us to pull over to the side.
“Oh shit,” muttered Greg, “he’s giving me a ticket!”
A black silence descended over the car as we slowly lost speed, while Greg looked for a safe place to park. We passed one, and then another vehicle on the shoulder of the road with a police officer standing next to it.
“It’s a fucking speed trap!” John declared from the back. “Oh man, we drove right into it. We didn’t have a chance”.
We came to a halt along the wide, center divider of the freeway and awaited the approaching police officer.
“Reach in the glove compartment, will you Tony?” Greg asked in a strained, but calm voice. “My registration should be in there.”
“Sure,” I replied, guiltily. Gazing up at the cement highway ahead, I saw a line of three or four interspersed cars ahead of us, parked along the center divider and the side of the road, with police officers next to them. It was truly a speed trap, and we were helplessly caught. I felt as though a band of uniformed thugs were jumping and beating up Greg, while his three friends stood quietly to the side, watching it happen. My premonition about multiple tickets had been right, and I felt partly responsible for this turn of events. A fog of despair settled over us, and I feared it was going to dampen Greg’s spirits, and cast a deadening pall over this day’s adventure. So far, Greg had been the chief organizer, guide, and cheerleader of this trip, and he had maintained a delicate balance of enthusiasm and cooperation among us. The writing of an expensive speeding ticket shifted the fulcrum of emotions, and the success of this trip was now at a critical tipping point.

The Four Amigos were on the road again - this time commemorating a major milestone in our lives. Jim, Greg, and I had already crossed the 60-year threshold in ages, and John’s was fast approaching. But this journey wasn’t to mark our ages, instead it reflected our current and pending retirements from work. Although John was the youngest of the group at 59, he had retired early from the Fire Department in 2005. A 28-year career of bending, lifting, carrying, and ministering to emergency patients as a paramedic and firefighter had taken its toll on his body, and he walked away from the job while he still could. I retired as a principal from the Los Angeles City Schools in July, after 35 years. Greg would be ending his career as a superintendent with the Evergreen School District on June 30, 2010. So we scheduled this trip on the first day of Jim’s retirement from the Western Union Alarm Company. Coincidently, all four of us had once worked at Western Union Alarm during various times in our lives after high school, but Jim stayed on to finish a 44-year run in operations and sales. So, on Friday, March 5, 2010 we were traveling to celebrate this turning point in our lives with a weekend visit to Primm, Nevada, at the state line between California and Nevada. Primm, you wonder, and ask, why Primm? A very good question! I can answer it in a compound sentence. Jim wanted to visit Primm for a weekend of gambling, traveling through Joshua Tree National Park, and then spending Sunday night in Pioneertown. That sentence also contained the seeds of pending disaster, and promised to wreck this retirement road trip before it ever left the curb.

In past blogs I’ve tried encapsulating the essences of my three friends and me, into the characters of a Scientist-Accountant (Jim), Soldier-Medic (John), Seer-Visionary (Greg), and Scribe-Photographer (me). I think these characterizations are convenient, and they seem to manifest themselves when we get together for reunions and trips to different parts of the State. While we’ve been friends for 45 years, the four of us still remain distinct individuals with different emotional, cognitive, and interpersonal styles. Our relationships have changed and evolved over the years, with interpersonal alliances forming, changing, and then dissolving as we matured, married, and raised families. But we’ve always stayed friends and managed to stay in touch through these trips and reunions. At our last get-together at Pioneertown in October (see Flickr Album: 2009-10-03 Pioneertown), Greg took the lead in organizing and planning this latest trip to Primm. Since it was scheduled on Jim’s retirement date, we agreed that he and Jim should develop a proposed itinerary. John and I were happy to leave the planning to them, and we trusted Greg to make it work. However, when I received Greg’s first email with Jim’s suggested travel route and accommodations, I threw the first monkey wrench into the planning mechanism, and John soon tossed the second.

I had two issues with the original plan. First of all, I hated gambling. Throwing money away on gaming tables or machines was abhorrent to me. I have never been lucky at games, and spending two nights in a second-rate casino on the outer fringes of the state of Nevada was not going to provide enough alternative entertainment. I was also tired of Pioneertown. We had stayed at the sole motel there on multiple occasions, and despite its proximity to the wonderful, Pappy and Harriet’s Palace, its rustic and old-fashioned accommodations were a hardship. I felt there were newer and more comfortable places to spend the last night of our trip. John had a different issue. He had grown weary of being the designated driver of our road trips, and always carrying the load. In a pique of frustration, John fired off an email stating that he was not a chauffeur, and wouldn’t be going on the trip. Jim let Greg handle this blooming mutiny, and after making a few phone calls he unruffled our feathers and brokered a deal. Greg convinced John and me that a 45-year friendship was a fragile treasure requiring our patience and willingness to compromise.
“Trust me,” he said, ending his conversation with me. “I’ll make this work.”
So we went along with him, and the road trip was on – barely.

On a gorgeous Friday morning, John arrived at my door in his BMW roadster convertible to drive us to our first rendezvous point at Peggy Sue’s Diner, in Barstow, California. I had not driven in an open convertible for any extended time since my senior year in high school, when Russell Dalton picked me up in his Corvette convertible to drive up Pacific Coast Highway to see the Pink Lady Mural on a canyon wall of Malibu in 1966. It was an inspired idea to bring the sports car. The two-seated roadster made for a fabulous, open-air ride along some incredible scenic routes. John had alerted me the day before to bring a cap, jacket, and sun tan lotion. I also brought my camera to digitally record our drive and the trip on a beautiful, crisp, and sunny day. Between merrily, snapping pictures of the L.A. Aqueduct Water Cascade on the Golden Gate Freeway (Interstate 5), the snow covered peaks of the Angeles National Forest along Pearblossom Highway (Hwy 138), and the endless desert vistas on Highway 18 and the Mojave Freeway (US Interstate 15), I questioned John about his wife and sons. When I mentioned his change of heart about the trip, he said it was no big deal, really.
“I never had a problem with driving,” he explained. “After talking with Greg, I realized that I got annoyed at Jim’s backseat driving. His directions would get under my skin and I was letting them fester and spoil these reunions. I just decided to eliminate the friction by bringing the roadster and letting Greg do the caravan driving”.
“You were inspired!” I complimented him. “I love the car, and this drive is wonderful.” (see Flickr Album: 2010-03-05 Road to Nevada)

Jim and Greg were waiting in the parking lot of Peggy Sue’s Diner, just outside of Barstow, when we pulled up. To my surprise, we each ordered moderately proportioned lunches of soup, grilled cheese sandwich, or salad. It was clear that our youthful days of high calorie, bacon and cheeseburgers, with fries, and multiple beers were over. During the meal, Greg reviewed our plans and discussed the itinerary changes for the weekend.
“So I figure we do a little gambling at the Primm casinos for two nights,” he began. “We can drive to Hoover Dam on Saturday, and then leave Sunday by traveling through Joshua Tree National Forest. We can make some scenic stops along the way, and finish up at Pappy and Harriet’s Palace for lunch or a drink. I couldn’t make reservations at the Pioneertown Hotel because they have a new owner who’s renovating the place. So I booked us into a new Indian casino in Rancho Mirage, near Palm Springs. What do you think?” he asked.
“Great”, “good job”, “excellent,” we chimed in together.
“Now you just have to overcome my aversion to gambling,” I challenged. “If you can do that, this trip will be perfect.”
“I’m working on it,” Greg shot back with a smile.

Primm is a gaudy, over-illuminated rest stop in the middle of the Mojave Desert on Interstate Highway 15. It is a strategically located mini-mall on the state line between California and Nevada that invites California residents to begin gambling there, instead of driving for another hour to Las Vegas, or playing one last slot machine before leaving Nevada. At first glance, the complex appears to be three separate hotels, built around a miniature amusement park, but they all belong to one syndicate called Terrible’s Primm Valley Casino Resorts. Each hotel had the same freshly painted, papier-mâché look of a false façade on some movie studio back lot. We were staying two nights in the least garish of the three hotels called the Primm Valley Resort and Casino. Resembling a pre-Civil War, Gone With the Wind mansion, it was next door to a Western saloon-looking Buffalo Bill’s Resort and Casino, and across the freeway from an Arthurian castle called Whiskey Pete’s Hotel and Casino. After checking-in and unpacking, we explored the casino floor and its adjoining store outlets. John continued playing the slot machines while Greg, Jim, and I doubled back to the bar, next to a Sport’s Book. A casino cop stopped me from taking candid photographs on the gaming floor, so I spent the remaining afternoon drinking complimentary beers as we played video poker at the counter. After an hour of feeding dollar bills into the video slot, we reconvened for an early dinner at the coffee shop. John had given up alcohol a year ago, so the prospect of further casino trawling and drinking did not appeal to him and he retreated to his room. We continued wandering around the gaming floor without settling into any particular game or distraction. The evening was becoming steadily more and more tedious, and I was on the verge of following John’s example, when Greg came suddenly to life.
“Okay,” he announced, looking around and rubbing his hands together, as if scrubbing up for surgery. “This place is dead. We need a change of scenery. Let’s go to Buffalo Bill’s for a change of luck and to get something going.” In Pied Piper fashion he led us out of the casino, through the parking lot adjacent to the theme park, and through the wide sliding glass doors of the neighboring hotel. The lobby looked down at a darkened canopy of fake sequoia trees that sheltered a vast, glittering floor of gaming tables, gambling kiosks, and slot machine centers. We walked down onto the floor and followed Greg as he cruised the roulette and card game areas.
“Have you ever played craps?” Greg asked, pausing at a half filled table.
“It’s supposed to have the best odds for winning,” added Jim, “but I’ve never played”.
“I did once in Tahoe,” I volunteered, “but I was with a friends who explained what was going on, and advised me as we played. I have to admit it was fun”.
“Well then, let’s play,” Greg announced. “Come on,” he encouraged, “how hard can it be? Let’s find an empty table. The table crew can teach us how to play!”

To this day, I’ll never understand how Greg suppressed our inherent male phobia of asking directions, and got us to play a new game. Before I had a chance to protest or resist, he spotted and made a beeline for a deserted craps table with a decidedly Asian-looking pit crew and a single African-American man in a tuxedo, standing around it. The Wingman Code required that we back him up, so Jim and I followed and stood by his side as he engaged the tuxedoed, African-American gentleman in conversation. He was the crew supervisor, or boxman, and he identified his crew as consisting of a stickman, who called the rolls and announced the bets, and two crap dealers, one at each end of the table, who converted cash for chips and made sure the bets were placed correctly on the table. The boxman smiled at Greg’s request and assured us that his crew would be happy to guide us through the game. Greg and I changed 20 dollars into chips and settled in to play this game for as long as the chips lasted. Greg started rolling first. The first roll in a Craps round is called the come out roll. If the dice total is 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, or 10, then the point is established. On the other hand, a roll of 2, 3, 7, 11, or 12 on the come out roll immediately ends the round. When the point is established, an “ON” puck is placed on the point number. Once the point is established, the dice are rolled continuously until the same point is rolled again or a 7. Greg kept rolling and rolling, and by doing so he created many, many ways of betting. Honestly, I never got them all straight in my head, so I restricted myself to only a few and hoped for the best. I would always bet on the Pass, in the hopes that the roller would score or make his point, but I also bet on the Field. A field bet wagers that the next roll will be a 2, 3, 4, 9, 10, 11, or 12. To place a field bet, the player places his chips in the Field bar. If the shooter rolls a 2 or 12, you get paid double your initial bet (2-1). If a 3, 4, 9, 10, or 11 appear, you get paid even money (1-1). You lose the bet if a 5, 6, 7, or 8 are rolled.

By the time Greg crapped out, five or six more people had joined us at the table. The pit crew kept explaining the game, but the noise level, enthusiasm, and our confidence was steadily building. I rolled next, and then the dice passed to a young woman at the far end of the table. As I became more comfortable with the game, I began dabbling in riskier, high return bets, called single roll bets. As the name implies you call out these bets to the dealer, before the dice are rolled, and the dealer places the chips on the designated location. My favorite call was aces (one and one), and it paid 20-1. The lucky lady managed to roll it enough times to guarantee that I would be at the table for three rounds of complimentary drinks. Thirty minutes later, the dice worked its way back to us, and we tried it again. We were at the table for about two hours, and left with more money than we started. Walking out of Buffalo Bill’s, three abreast, Greg began discussing our drive to Hoover Dam on the following day, and how fabulous it would be. I found myself smiling and nodding at his extravagant predictions of the sights and travels. I was beginning to believe, for the first time that this trip might work out after all.