Fast Tracks to Reno; The Drunken Baffoon

Fast Tracks to Reno and The Drunken Buffoon
By: Joshua Bingham

There is a house in New Orleans…
They call the Rising Sun…
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy…
And God I know I'm one…
                             --The Animals

         That song always seems to play when your down on your luck—when God hasn’t passed you your card; on your way to Reno you see many people like you, but than others have gotten their draw. I was sitting about in a small café in Carson City; across from a gent I met hitchhiking out of California. When we first met I convince him: “California is dead from any luck we want out of life, my friend. The real ticket is Reno, far from the spectacle of Vegas, but no farther than the excitement were after.” He nodded and we found ourselves running a muck out of the state, avoiding speed limit signs and going about seventy-five to our sudden destination.
         We felt childish for once, laughing and listening to old time rock and singing along with the ones we knew. Between commercials we talked, introduced ourselves, and talked more gibberish of the death of our dreams, like it was so true and without imprecision.
         “When we get to Reno, what are our plans?” Tom said, blowing smoke inside to car to fish bowl it. He spoke with candor, even though I had just met him only twenty minutes ago. We had formed a relationship quickly, as if we knew each other for a time.
“Well, I’m going to hit the casino—win some of the Indian reservation back for my bank. I owe them too much to be gambling, but also too much to be living. If anything, it’s all on God now.” I said, muzzling my hand into my coat to get my pack of Marlboro. At first I couldn’t find them, until Tom moved his head towards the dash, where I found them instantly.
         “Well, first thing on my agenda is to find some room and board. Knowing myself, it would be an impossible notion to come back from the bar, drunk beyond compare, to no place to crash.”
         We started to accelerate to ninety on the barren wasteland that is Nevada and opening all the windows to feel the rich air in throughout the car, blowing my papers about in some dark diluted frenzy. The music was blaring too, the bass was all the way up and nothing could be understood to what or who was singing. At that point, Tom was screaming nonsense, drinking out of pint bottle of southern comfort and bragging about how fast his Bronco was flying down the road. I wasn’t sure if I was in a car chase or some deranged alcohol fueled ‘circle jerk’.
         “You feel the rush? We’ll be getting higher than this when we get to Reno! Shit, the whores will be screaming our names as we leave the town!” He laughed as he talked and lit another cigarette, that within a minute the wind took away and he began screaming louder at God, the almighty, like he was playing poker and he caught a cheater.
         I wasn’t too sure about my new friend at this point, I began to ask myself: “What have I gotten myself into?” This man should be locked up; he was too freakishly horrid to be a lone survivor of this drunken orgy in Nevada. When I get to Reno, I’m leaving him for the vultures to feed—and he’d be lucky to get out with only one eye left. If you feel the wind in your hair and smell puke you may have a problem, Spiro Agnew.
         When we reached Carson City we found this small café’ called the ‘Outskirts.’  He spun the Bronco in to a parking space, and before I had gotten my chance to run, he put his arms around me trapping me in for more of the worst. Outside there sat two burnt out hippies smoking a make-shift joint and the sounds of The Animals filled my senses with the horrors of being beaten down by crazed truckers looking for a fun time—and oh I would let them have their fill if they’d take me out of this situation.
         I nodded to the old timers on the bench and Tom hustled me into the door, pushing me in first and following in after me.  He sat down at a booth next to a dirty window, than the waitress came over and I ordered a coffee.
         “…And for you sir?” The waitress asked Tom; her tone was impeccable and her face, like a fish.
         “Are you telling me just coffee, look here give this man a grilled cheese and I’ll have the same; oh and a glass of orange juice, doll.” He said and as she went to get our order. She walked off kicking her foot back, like a bull.
         It was two hours later and still I couldn’t loose this ex-patriot Nazi. He kept talking about his wife and kids and yelling at the top of his lungs about: How marshmallows, should come with the chocolate. None of this made any sense, but I went along with the non-sense up until he reached the arch of Reno and within seconds of seeing it, we both started singing, “Oh lay. Oh lay. Oh lay...Oh lay!”
         The first thing in Reno, instead of finding room, we drove past the motel and found ourselves looking down the barrel of a gun, at a local casino. I rushed inside and Tom went staggering up to the teenage boy saying, “You’ll never be nothing!” and taking the ticket from him. The ushers gave him a large smile pushing him into the madness. They were glad to have him; in this town the safest bet for a casino is an inebriate. I kept an eye on him, but I was still hiding from him.
I was behind the slots, next to an obese sheriff and his fat wife with a Nickel-Back tank top (They played down the street—it was on a sign as we drove past). They didn’t pay a mind to me, to them this was normal; to see a buffoon hiding from anything was second nature in the town of sin and doubly so if I was drunk, but I was cool headed.
         Tom looked blindly around this circus looking for me, than decided to go to the bathroom and I lost track of him. “Are you lost, sir?”
         That voice came up behind, it was a midget with a large bowtie. He freaked me out at first and I started screaming, “Holy Jesus!” I could see in his eyes that he was appalled and turned and walked away. I couldn’t feel sorry at all. It wasn’t my fault he was dealt that card, nor was it that I was startled. I can only describe that experience as freakishly ghastly.
I stood up after the hog woman hit me with her arm and apologized.
Tom was playing cards at the blackjack table. He was playing alone and I could see he was ready to strangle the life out of the dealer. He tilted his head from side to side, like a penguin in the midst of curiosity. He got dealt a six and a jack and the dealer had a ten showing.
         I turned my attention away from his game to see a short-skirted waitress blink an eye at me, but before I could act I heard an eruption from behind me.
         “What the Hell, are you doing! I know what your up to, you fascist pig!” The screaming was Tom voice, I was sure of it. He was flipping out on the young buck dealer over a bad hand. Behind him were two beefed up men, ready to pounce on him, whispering calming words into his ear. I’m not sure what they said, but within a moment Tom was in rage knocking the table over and punching the biggest one in the head, knocking him on his ass. I could hear him yelling out meaningless gibberish as they pulled him away and as he was kicking and screaming like a child.
         “You no good scoundrels and you!”
         He punched an old woman and her dog before he was finally subdued outside. The bouncers got their fill of him, kicking him until he puke. They laughed and spit on him, as I watched just inside the glass doors. I can’t feel bad for him, he deserved it all, he was not the man I though he was. His dream died along time ago and mine was just down on its luck. The only real regret out of this whole encounter was that I didn’t grab his keys. I had no way of getting out of this city and I did want to. They knew I was with him and soon they will be after me. I must skip town before they beat me down as well.
         I turned and went to the bar, where the beautiful waitress gave me another wink. I sat down smiling and asked her when she got off.
         “Eleven.” She said.
         “Eleven, hah? That’s about the same time I’m thinking of leaving.”