[ Golden Gater Online - December 4, 1997 ]
THIS IS THE PLACE...
Wendover, NV.
All neon and steel, he stands just off Interstate 80 on the Nevada side of one of the most inhospitable and comfortless places in the country.
His name is Wendover Will, and at 64 feet tall, he is the world's largest mechanized man. His friendly wave, chummy wink and dangling cigarette serve as a beacon to the survivors who have endured the drive west on 80, across a horribly forsaken stretch of earth known as the Utah Salt Flats.
Since 1937, Will has been greeting those forlorn souls and luckless drifters that have lost their faith, lost their wife, and are about to lose their money in the stateline gambling town of Wendover, Nevada. Below his feet is a sign that reads: This Is The Place.
Ironically, just over 100 miles to the east, in Salt Lake City, another statue -- this one of Brigham Young -- stands. At his feet is the same inscription: This Is The Place -- making it painfully obvious that Will's depravity is there to mock Young's morality.
Wendover Will is one of the two things that make this town famous. The other is the nearby Bonneville Salt Flats, the 26,000 acre terrifying expanse of pure white space where land speed records have been made and where the crew of the Enola Gay trained before dropping the atom bomb on Japan in 1945.
Not exactly the heppest spot on the planet.
This, my fellow swingers, is the story of how Mr. Lucky -- your immoderate host of superfluity, leisure and debauchery -- spent his Thanksgiving.
I am here right now, in the soulless expanse of the desert, sitting at a video poker bar amidst hard-luck losers and crumpled sports-book bets from college games long forgotten, scribbling notes on a pile of Keno tickets with a black grease pencil.
It is when you are in a town like this that you realize that a bartender is nothing more than a pharmacist with a limited inventory.
Unlike other gambling towns, the craps dealers in Bendover are not real friendly, the blackjack dealers are not funny, and the cocktail waitresses are not good looking. That is because unlike other towns, they don't have anything to look forward to after their shift. They won't be heading to the slopes like the suntanned casino workers in Tahoe, and they won't be swingin' at any of the glitzy bars, restaurants, or amusement park rides that Las Vegas has to offer. In fact, when it comes to the sleek and oily gaming meccas of Nevada, Wendover is a town that makes Reno look like Babylon.
No, these dealers are a pasty and sour group, and seem annoyed at your very presence. They make up almost all of Wendover's desolate population of 1,626. Most of them live in dusty mobile homes and serpentine trailers on the outskirts of town, perhaps to express their noncommittal attitude of not wanting to live or invest in anything that resembles permanence.
Bet you thought Disney made a lot of money. According to the American Gaming Association, Americans blew $47.6 billion on gambling last year, which is more than they spent on movies and theme parks combined.
As you might guess, the extravagant Mr. Lucky, dressed in the requisite colorful polyester shirt and Italian leather boots, stood out from the spent and despairing blue-hairs and desperate Bud-swilling cowboys.
Earlier in the evening, in a foolhardy and rash attempt to liven things up, Mr. Lucky stood behind his piles of chips at the craps table (remember, even if you don't plan on losing that much cash, you need to look like the high roller if you want all that comped stuff) and having grown tired of trying to explain the rights and wrongs of martini mixology to the waitress, decided to switch to scotch.
When a less-than-glamorous baby, looking like she was at the tail-end of a three day heroin bender, approached, the cocksure Mr. Lucky decides to pull the "Swingers" move:
"I'll have a scotch on the rocks. Any scotch will do, as long as it's not blended, of course. Any single malt. Glenlivet, Glenfiddich, perhaps. Any Glen. Tell the bartender to go easy on the water."
Amazingly, the waitress was nonplused. Not so amazingly, what I ended up getting was what tasted like some Black Jack bar scotch. Plenty of water.
So here I sit, at the bar, drinking myself sober and listening to bad covers of "The Rose" and "Delta Dawn," trying to decide whether or not to head back up to my stuffy room and curly up with Gideon's Bible.
In 1995, the number of household visits to casinos was 154 million, an increase of 23 percent from the previous year, and up 235 percent since 1990.
As I fade in and out of consciousness, I dream of sitting at the Sands in Vegas in 1958 without a worry in the world; a perfectly blended gin martini in one hand, and my arms around a beautiful baby. Tony Bennett is on stage fronting the Count Basie Orchestra and swooning "Just In Time."
When I awake the next afternoon, I feel refreshed. On my way out, I glance at a hapless and bitter blackjack dealer. I will be leaving Bendover, but this guy will still be here next year when I return.
"Do you know any card tricks?" a gin-soaked geriatric asks the dealer as he shuffles the deck.
"Yes," the dealer smiles wanly, "I can make your money disappear."
If and when you ever check into Wendover, make sure it is only for one night, and don't tell the concierge that "Daddy wants the 'Rain Man' suite," because they simply won't understand.
[ Golden Gater - December 4, 1997 ]