COLUMN: Wendover: Vegas meets West Virginia
I had some grand plans for this semester’s one-day Spring Break and then I remembered I had already failed to accomplish all I had planned to do during the Frozen Tundra Olympic Break in February.
Whether that was because of my inability to motivate myself to achieve anything besides eating Doritos and languishing on our Davy Crockett couch in my Old Cloney lounge pants or because of the zero-below fiesta Mother Nature belched on Cache Valley I can’t remember. The important thing to note is that I rearranged my plans for March 29 so I spent my glorious break from Tedium 1010 in Wendover, Nev.
I say Nevada, but in truth, Wendover is the ugly love child spawned from a sweaty one-night stand between West Virginia and Las Vegas. To be more specific, if you open Wendover’s Yellow Pages, there are only four listings – pawnshops, liquor stores, casinos and trailers. That is the extent of the thriving metropolis of Wendover. You drive into town and it’s trailer, trailer, cheap motel, casino, casino, trailer, liquor store, trucker’s lounge, casino, nothing.
Despite the blandness and dueling banjos feel of the city, it is possible to have loads of fun in Wendover. That is if you enjoy being repeatedly spanked by the devil.
Wendover’s hell can only be sliced into segments of anguish and misery, and the first whiff of depression floats upon the demented Nevada-bound travelers like stale, brine air skimming across the Great Salt Lake. To put it metaphorically, if there is a seventh circle of hell, I am sure I-80 from Salt Lake City to Wendover is part of the toasty experience.
You pass the airport, and then nothing. If I was an alien and I was looking for a fun place to abduct earthlings, I would do flybys along this monotonous stretch of interstate and pluck human beings by the thousands. Of course, my spaceship would be full of truck drivers and folks who belong in gambling anonymous.
Let’s put it this way: With about 14 miles until we reached Wendover, I was so tired that I rolled down my window and sang Lady Marmalade at full voice. Not a pretty sight, but we made it safely.
The first casino we visited was the Peppermill. I dropped some money in a slot machine and lost. In fact, because the theme of the night was losing – and losing fast – they took my picture and stuck the Polaroid on a wall. The caption read, “Lost $100 in three minutes.”
Hungry after the long drive and losing money, my sisters and I decided to enjoy a nice, relaxing meal in the Peppermill’s main eatery. I don’t remember what it was called, but I’m positive the word “grease” was in the title. One word of advice: Don’t ever – under any circumstances – eat three over-easy eggs, lard-filled sausage, hash browns and two butter-topped English muffins, moreover, do not consume this meal at 1:30 a.m. My stomach was doing somersaults for the remainder of the evening.
Later, around 3 o’clock in the morning, we stopped by Chevron – the only store that was open – and bought two jalapeño hot dogs, beef jerky and two cokes. Every once and awhile it takes a near-death experience to reform one’s eating habits. While I was driving the porcelain bus – if you know what I mean – an angel visited me and laughed. This was revelation enough, except I wasn’t sure if I’d eaten too much sausage or if the angel really was wearing a sombrero and toting a mule. I guess that’s another story.
To make a long, long, long narrative come to a quick end, let me advise any readers to thoroughly plan their Spring Break vacations and to never listen to your family. Ever.
Now, I’m poor, ulcer-filled and afraid to drive. Don’t even get me started about my abduction; I’ll save that for later.