By Owen Dion
Like a mirage in the heat of a desert, a copper-toned gate emerges from surrounding fields of dried-up, flattened earth. Picture the Arch of Constantine— if the Romans had favored beige stucco and palm trees over marble and grandeur.
Inside, a gated community of color-coordinated, rust-toned McMansions and streets that end without reason. One of these plots was my childhood home for four years.
Zoned as a Nevadan suburb, this house sat just far enough from Las Vegas proper that I could see the city’s lights flicker through my childhood bedroom window, yet still hear the coyotes howl throughout the night. The strobe lights became my nightlight, the coyotes my alarm.
Between us and the city were these vacant fields of flattened earth— land proposed for housing projects that halted with the 2008 financial crisis. These plots were littered with silica crystals and sheets of dried mud that would crack under your feet. When Grandpa came to visit, we’d harvest these crystals, drill holes in the top, and string them into necklaces to give to Mom as presents. Merry Christmas, Mom.
This was Henderson— a town big enough for a Walmart but small enough so a guy selling homemade plastic lanterns on the side of the road could make a living off it. The type of town where green grass for country clubs is the highest priority at the peak of a state-wide water shortage.
My brother and I went to a private school here. Located right off the main drag, they mandated a preppy uniform so as to hide the clear wealth divide of the area. Once in class, they’d start each morning by praying to forgive the sins of the area, most of which we didn’t even know the definitions for.
In my brother’s grade, there was a kid named Cash. Named not for luck in the gambling scene, but because his dad was an Elvis impersonator, always sporting 4-inch-long sideburns and a syncopated speech pattern. He’d often chuckle and say off-beat things like, “Uh thank you, thank you very much.”
***
Every time a friend of my parents would visit, we’d have to make the same three stops— our family’s church, the Hoover Dam, and the world-famous Las Vegas Strip. It seemed like the addition of our church into this itinerary aimed to prove we were “staying clean” from this crazy scene. While visitors knew the Strip for its vibrant nightscapes, my elementary-aged self knew it for the M&M Factory, Coca-Cola flagship, and New York-New York roller coaster, which stayed mostly closed due to killing an 18-year-old maintenance worker in the year of our arrival.
On these local-eyed visits to The Strip, even a simple lunch came with a show. The Rainforest Café would secrete “rain” all over your food while animatronic gorillas and leopards roared through a simulated storm. Servers at Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville would twist balloon-made hats around my and my brother’s heads to distract us from a bikini-clad woman who would slide into an erupting volcano on the hour.
The year before we moved here, they outlawed glass-lined trucks whose cargo was an upright 6-foot metal pole and a bleach-blonde stripper who swung from it. A clever marketing scheme from your favorite neighborhood night club.
Now, please refrain from picturing Thompson’s idyllic portrayal of the town and instead imagine a crotch-height angle of loud-noised street performers, pungent aromas, and open-aired substance abuse. The sidewalks were coated with cigarette butts and business cards for the local dancers— soon replacing the slots in my baseball card collection with names like Cherry, Amethyst, and Cashmere.
I now joke that the day I grew up is when I saw a life-sized Mickey Mouse rip back its mask to swig from a brown-bagged bottle of liquor.
***
To pass a 100+ degree summer day, Dad would often take us swimming at nearby, famous resorts. Most notable was one with a waterslide moving through a shark tank. Its name was the Golden Nugget, and I hated sharks.
If it was deemed even too hot to swim, we’d go to our local air-conditioned theatre. To get there, of course, you’d have to pass through the lobby of a fully functioning Vegas casino. My brother and I would shove our t-shirts over our mouths and run in, fending off the lingering cigarette smoke and other inexplicable smells to a seven-year-old. While smoking wasn’t allowed in the theatre, it sure as hell was everywhere else.
“Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching-Ching” blared the passing slot machines, each with their own corny themes of conquesting pirates or wish-granting genies. Row after row, these machines seemed to inhabit every building they could fit into.
In fact, these machines were everywhere— right when you got off the plane, right outside most restaurants, right when you checked out at the grocery store. Their loud-voiced narrators and neon lights posing as Sirens for passersby— luring them into shallow pools of hopeful desperation.
It’s a good thing most establishments would steer my brother and me way clear of these glowing money boxes as our pockets were much too shallow to start playing at their intended lifelong addiction.
I remember being shocked the day I learned that most casinos don’t display clocks or allow natural light so people will stay longer. Trapped in these smog-filled chambers of loud sounds and jarring light displays, holding on to a suspected promise of “striking it big.” Do the substances help you win or just keep you there longer?
On your way out of town, IV and oxygen bars would send you off. Small booths the size of shoe-shiners where Spirit-Halloween-dressed “doctors” would prick your arm with fluid or strap a gas mask to your face. All to ensure a natural climb to homeostasis after a restful weekend getaway.
Much too young for my personal use, I remember the looks from people sitting in these stalls. Drilling into my eyes with theirs to catch a reflection of their own, questioning where the time really did go.
***
As a kid, I didn’t think much of this place— it was what I knew. My parents kept us away from most of it, yet certain realities remained. Through every moment that made them exchange a worried glance, my brother and I were only eager to get back to our new Wii games at home.
Now reflecting on my experience, it makes me question what truly lingers in people’s minds. What memories they choose to cling to and which they silently vow to forget. We’re all just observing these daily interactions and trying to make sense of it all. Does our childhood preconceive our view or is it up to us now to realize we can shape it?