When Bold Was Gold (Cigar Smoke 2-7-08)

I just got back from a little trip to Reno — the one in Nevada, not Janet’s house. I thought I’d tell you about it for two reasons: First, it was very ordinary, and I like ordinary. And second, it rewarded me for being semi-bold.

Yes, I went up there to be in another damn Scrabble tournament, but that’s not what I’d like to relate to you. Two juxtaposed things happened to me, and I, probably falsely, just thought you might be interested in a little juxtaposition.

It’s about nine hours from LA. I drove up on Highway 5 and you can’t get more ordinary than that. There are literally hundreds of miles of not much. And for some reason, I seem to like that. Just a straight-ass road going to nowhere. Nothing to see out the window. It was cold. And as far as I can remember, nothing happened. Nothing good, that is. And nothing bad either. No flats. No accidents. No problems. Just smooth and uneventful.

Then I turned off on Highway 80 eastbound and headed for Reno. That road was a little scarier. Portions of it were iced over and I felt funny going by Donner Pass. In hindsight, I wish the Donner Party had killed me and eaten me so I wouldn’t have had to play Scrabble. But, of course, if they would have eaten me, that probably would have been less ordinary than what I’m relating now.

I got to Reno safely and pulled off the exit ramp and went directly to my hotel, the Nugget. It was simple. It was easy. It was ordinary. And I liked it like that.

The Nugget Hotel was perfect — just one of those old-time Nevada gambling casinos that wasn’t trying to be anything it wasn’t. It had everything I needed: a pretty good room for a pretty good price and a lot of places to eat and a deli and a Starbucks and poker machines next to bars where singers were singing and the music was loud and I could easily observe people who were drunk. Like I said, it was perfect.

And every morning I’d eat breakfast at Rosie’s Cafe. Even the name was right. And after a couple of days the waitress knew what I wanted and would say, “Coffee and small OJ, huh?” And I would smile, sometimes to her and sometimes to myself. And I would order my bacon and eggs or my French toast and be thankful that I didn’t have to wait in any damn line and could just come down and sit down at a counter and eat breakfast. Ordinary? I don’t know.

And then every day for four days I would go up and play eight hours of Scrabble, and then go back to my room and call room service and order a gun. Then I would go back down to Rosie’s and eat a spaghetti dinner or a chicken fried steak. And one night I went to a bar that served appetizers and I had a shrimp cocktail and some rolled prime rib goodies on sticks and a bottle of Sierra Nevada ale. If it gets any more ordinary than that, I may tear up.

I did not leave the Nugget in four days. I never saw Reno. Or Sparks. I never went to a movie or a game. I never went sightseeing. I just felt comfortable being where I was. Most of the time, I don’t do that well. I usually get somewhere and then try to figure out where the hell I have to go next to start having the damn fun. I could fly 15,000 miles to Bali and be in a grass shack with coconut drinks and roasting pig on a spit, and I’d ask some guy, “You know any good places to eat around here?”

Well, not much happened at the Nugget. Oh, I did fall down the last two stairs in the Sports Book area one day. Ended up upside down on the tile floor. A few guys looked up from their TVs for a second to see if I was dead. I wasn’t. So they went back to the Patriots game. I went over and got my beer and hot dog for $1.50.

So, after four days, I went out to my car to head home. The entire car was under snow. I guess four days of snow buildup will do that. But because I am an ex-Boy Scout, I had brought a special glove with me. It had a scraper built into it. So I spent a half-hour or so scraping off the snow and ice. Then off I went, headed back to LA.

Well, not exactly. As soon as I turned out of the Nugget parking lot onto the street, I hit a patch of ice and did a complete 360 — just spun that sucker in a complete circle. Nobody got hurt; I didn’t hit any cars. But it did get my attention.

I sat there in that snowstorm, sitting in a spun-out car, and kind of wondered if I should drive 500 miles right at that time. I couldn’t quite make up my mind, so I decided to ask an expert. I went into a 7-Eleven and asked this Pakistani dude, “You think the roads are open to LA.?” And he said, “Coming from which direction?” Ah, that Pakistani humor. You gotta love it.

So this is where I considered being bold. I asked myself, “Is it safe for a 66-year-old guy to drive out in a snowstorm, alone, with no chains, where in the old days they couldn’t get through these mountains and ended up eating each other?”

It did make me pause. But in the end I fell back on a philosophy that has usually worked well for me. I said, “Aw, screw it!” And then to confirm it, I remembered what Johnnie Cochran once said to me: “If you’re cold, you must be bold.”

So I drove out into the snow and the ice and the cold. Into the mountains of death. Into the jaws of cannibalism. Into the maw of stupidity. It was dark and lonely. And it smelled like a maw.

And you know what? After 30 minutes the weather cleared up. No more snow. You could see for miles. Nobody else on the road. It was one of the most beautiful little three-hour stretches of driving I’ve ever had. Pristine, beautiful. Incredible.

Bold was gold, baby.