Catching Up Part 2

Reno, NV: Land of Used Car Lots and Fat People Who Smoke

I had the recent misfortune to work a conference in Reno, NV, the Biggest Little City in the World. Once I had set up the Cyber Cafe, I took a little hike toward a coffee place I found online that was not a Starbucks and not inside one of the casinos. It took me about fifteen minutes of walking past many used car lots to get there. I arrived at 3:30 PM. They closed at 4. I did not see trying to order a drink, write something, and get out of there in thirty minutes. I turned around, walking back by most of the used car lots that I had passed on the way.

One used car lot had a bunch of people, sales people, men and women, young and old, but mostly young men. I heard one of them - he seemed the least like a salesperson - more like some random guy who hangs out at a used car lot - maybe the neighbor of one of the salespeople who hangs around hoping for an odd job to make some quick cash - he drank from an enormous convenience store cup - maybe purchased with money earned from some odd job given to him by his neighbor the salesperson - maybe he washed a bunch of windshields and used the money to purchase an enormous convenience store cup full of convenience store beverage. I was just walking by, so I can only speculate.

This guy looked out at the intersection to see that a woman waiting at the red light drove a red Ferrari convertible. "Damn," he said. "You know that bitch got money! With that Ferrari and shit!" He jumped and ran several steps in a semi-circle as he said this. He was younger than me, possibly younger than twenty-five, but certainly older than twenty-one. He wore bright, clean, white, expensive-looking sneakers, pressed, sharply-creased khaki pants and a sky blue polo shirt, its collar standing straight up. He had spiky hair. Maybe he had a meth habit. Maybe I should mind my own business and not write about the random people I see on Reno used car lots.

Very near this used car lot was a dive bar called Floyd's Fireside Chat. If any regulars at Floyd's are reading this, please know that I use the term dive bar with much affection. I love dive bars and seek them out in any town I travel to. Floyd's was totally my kind of place; dark and quiet, where people go to drink, but they're friendly and they don't take themselves too seriously.

Three guys sat along one end of the bar, all drinking light-colored beers. Two were long-hairs, one just slightly older than me. The third guy had a full goatee and a widow's peak. He wore navy blue coveralls with a company logo embroidered over the left breast pocket - I couldn't make out the logo from where I sat around the corner and several stools down on the bar. All three of them seemed like smart, working-class guys. I suspect at least two of them were electricians. The guys were trading work war stories. "The day I catch somebody's house on fire is the day I get out of the electricity business," the older long-hair started. He went on to tell about the experience of another acquaintance, who was not in the bar, who had set somebody's roof on fire while doing some wiring work. Apparently he had slid down the ladder and gone running. "It looked like a cartoon!" The man said this while pumping his arms in the manner of his cartoonish, fleeing acquaintance. I smiled at this, enjoying the story.

I ordered a shot of Jim Beam and a pint of Michelob Amber Bock. Apparently they just changed the keg and the pint came out extra foamy, so rather than mess around with it, the bartender gave me the foamy pint with half a pitcher of foamy Michelob Amber Bock. I sipped the whiskey while the beer settled and then the association manager called to tell me that the Internet Cafe was all fucked up - the stupid Speak & Spell machines had struck again. I chugged the rest of the beer and went running back to the resort.

Anna showed up later and we had a fun weekend, both sincerely and ironically, in the Biggest Little City in the World.

Thanks for playing.