I always knew, intellectually, that there were people in the world, and yes, even in this country, who didn't follow politics. I've known people who didn't care about politics, or didn't vote, but never anyone who just plain knew nothing about it.
"You've got your job cut out for you," Devrim said. "They won't even know who he is down there."
She grew up in Vegas. I guess I should have listened more closely.
It was the third day of driving around, looking for a place to live. Everywhere we went, it was the same drag-and-drop houses. The same mirrors, the same bathtubs, the same floorplans. Up the street, with a little luck, there was a cut-and-paste mini-mall with the same parking lot, same satellite buildings, the only difference being which corporate mega-chain filled the main storefront. The streets were all 6 lanes, the houses always behind the same 5 foot high cinderblock wall. I was riding with Eric's realtor friend. She was helping us out, letting us into properties. "Why Vegas?"
"Well, we were already looking at Vegas, and I got an internship with Barack Obama's campaign down here."
"Who's that?"
"Barack Obama?"
"Uh huh?"
I guess Devrim was right. The work is certainly cut out here.
On our last night, we ate at a classy restaurant in Summerlin. The room was low-lit, modern, all white, black. Two translucent panels suspended with stainless cables hung between the front door and the dining room, playing Casablanca. I've never seen a panel like them before, but they were certainly cool, and certainly pricey. From our table, the films appeared backwards on the screens. The waiters wore bistro aprons, black with white pinstripes. The menu was updated daily, printed on heavy stock recycled paper, presented on clipboards. The most expensive bottle of wine rang in just under five thousand dollars. And the whole bar was lined with inset video poker machines.
On the way to the airport, the strip sparkled. The light from Luxor punched into the sky, waiting for aliens. The new Trump Tower glittered gold. The Rio's purple and blue, the MGM in green, Bellagio's fountains, the dark, brooding arc of the Wynn. Above it all, the needle point of the Stratosphere.
"It's weird coming to Vegas and not going to the Strip," Brie said. "Usually, it's off the plane, straight to the hotel, and never leave the Strip."
I was in Vegas for four days, and never even heard the dice rattle. Never heard a roulette number called. No blackjacks. No Asian businessmen, no drunk frat boys on bachelor parties, no Mexicans snapping flyers for call girls outside the Imperial Palace.
Just a vast expanse of development blocks, stretching ever out from the towering hotels. Just cinderblock walls, lava rock landscapes, bulldozers and tower cranes. And sunshine. Four straight days of 80 degrees and sunshine.
