New Steps Dance on Old Footprints

Pioneer Saloon, Goodsprings, NV

35° 49′ 57″ N, 115° 26′ 3″ W

“This is bat country” I mutter from the corner of my mouth that is closest to the passenger seat. The seat is holding the preoccupied Bug twirling a lock of hair lazily with freshly painted fingers. She gives no indication of hearing me, as I shift my eyes over in her direction. The paint is translucent with golden specks throughout, and she is quite pleased with the final presentation. Her toes are a clashing green as they catch the desert air of I15, the lone highway that connects Los Angeles to Las Vegas.

I pick up the green Peroni bottle and take a healthy swig, draining its contents.

“Will you be so kind dear?” I ask holding it in front of her with unturned head, focused on the long strip of asphalt stretching through these low hills littered with sage and cactus ground-cover. A blown tumbleweed skitters across dirt plains like it’s being sporadically tugged by an invisible cord.

She obliges, and taking the bottle, opens a red collapsible funnel, inserts it in the mouth, and then refills the vessel.

With wry smile and tucking some unkempt hair between ear and hat “Whatever gets you to drink more water” she says.

Refilling beer bottles with water has become my recent, personal life-hack. The right bottle acts as a governor for the output flow. The results are a pure and simple pleasure of the water drinking experience, earning a couple a place within my cupboard at home. Not to mention I can crush a 12 oz bottle of beer water like it’s, well, let’s just say: fast.

“Now this is recycling” I say before pulling off the bottle, quite pleased with myself. Engaging in the practice while driving may not be my wisest decision, but these are the types of calculated risks that I’m willing to take these days.

The distance between Los Angeles and Las Vegas is 270 miles. The expanse is filled with desert flora carpeting wide open spaces that stretch out to low lying mountains that rim the distance. The sedimentary rock pushed up from the earth’s crust stray closer and further from the wavey highway which navigates the passage. Up close, the canyon reveals itself bare to the sun of day, and chill of night. Light and shadow play off the cliff faces as we zoom by. Our furry companion in the backseat is up enjoying the whooshing air, his ears and long coat blown backwards at the onslaught of the opened window as he squints forward and chatters his lower jaw happily.

“Our destination is Goodsprings” she informs me at a holler that whispers through the wind. This living ghost town was to be the rendezvous point with our attorney.

“Is Rey already there?” I reply over the fading turbulence while I close the windows. Failing to adjust my voice to the sudden silence, the rodent capitalizes on the opportunity by unnecessarily mock yelling back “I DON’T KNOW, LET ME SEE” before pushing my arm playfully and lowering her head in a full body giggle. I smile along, glancing down, driving a traffic-less 80mph that feels in slower motion. She quickly manipulates her phone, and the sound of ringing fills the car. “Hey Bug!” an energetic yet refined voice answers.

“You got me and Wara here” she says looking over at me.

“Hi, you two, are you getting close?”

“and Gus” she adds.

“Ah, old floofy lips” Reys voice transforms into a coo.

“Rey, we’re about 20 min from Goodsprings, are you already there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I love this place! I haven’t been here since the party bus in law school. It’s so charming. Less than 200 residents here.”

“Wait! ‘the party bus in law school?’, like full of attorneys drinking to and from Vegas??”

Goodsprings was 38.5 miles from Las Vegas, ample time to become righteously polluted.

“Meet me at the Pioneer Saloon and I’ll tell you all about it. It’s the oldest bar in Nevada.”

“Nuff said” uttered the rodent with head slow shaking yes and Robert DiNero frown animating her face.

An illuminated parapet burned like a beacon in the absence of the sun, rising above a corrugated metal canopy upon which, “Pioneer Saloon” is advertised as we make our dusty approach to the establishment. It is dark, there is not much by way of lights down below here. The nights horizon had drastically constricted as if to swallow us whole. The quiet and cold surround the saloon and us along with it, a pinprick of light flickering lonesome in the wilderness. Through the boards and rising nails leak the muffled signs of life, light, and warmth. Every step down this planked walkway feels like a cowboy drama and the expansive silence, tainted with the suppressed common house merriment, in addition to our own exaggerated boot falls was filling in the soundtrack. A single sconce bulb burned bravely under the shelter of timber supported awning. Down, past the sitting bench is another light and further a third. Loose boards groan and shift under the weight of our advancements and I eye a “no spitting on the sidewalk” sign nailed to the siding like an old “WANTED” poster.

“Entering this wild west bar is gonna take a ‘here goes nothing attitude’” Bug says to me while keeping pace.

We stand in front of the closed door for a moment and look at each other.

“Fuck it”

A strong back-draft ushers warm air and loud impassioned vocals into our faces as we step inside. Just like a one winged dove….sings a song…sounds like she’s singing…whoo…whooo…whoo… Apparently, it was karaoke night. There was a jockey set up in the far back corner, neon contrasting lyrics scrolling on the overhead TV, even mobile lights set up, creating glamor to the “stage” where the current performer belted out her chosen anthem.

The room seated a healthy crowd of what I’d assume to be locals. No one seemed dressed in clothes one would pack to travel with anyway, and there was a settling in at their stations that only comes from familiarity. Let’s just say, if there were coffee tables, boots would be up on them. One rather heavy-set woman with wilted, curly hair took a quick, expressionless look at us while absently singing along. The show had most everyone’s rapt attention. Others gave an initial glance as if they were waiting for someone specific to come through, but we weren’t them.

From the primary passageway, one gets a clear view of this establishment. This was a wild west bar alright with a handsome bar center right. The liquor’s backsplash reflects a functioning potbelly stove with its zig zagged exhaust pipe reaching up through the ceiling. Both walls and lids are clad in ornate metal squares, in many places dinged or corroded, with planked wood floors below. This place is old, and some dilapidation has been accepted as part of the charm, the way a hockey player refuses to fix missing teeth, or a body builder prizes her callouses. Wonky ceiling fans circulate the air and lazily aggravate some of the peeling paint hanging from the pressed tin overhead.

I followed Bug to the right and entered a dining room of absolute hodgepodge. It was as if a decorator crab had overseen the decor. There were historical altars laid out on card tables and handmade scrapbook displays framed in bare pine, screwed to the wall right through the wood. Inside these exhibits, DVDs and inserts were pasted on construction paper, also photos of movie stars with printed out descriptions that had the margins scissored away. All around was crowded artifacts: newspaper clippings about the bar and surrounding area, a proclamation from Clark county celebrating 100 years in business with matching stained glass window, a Vegas knights jersey just hung from a hanger, balancing on the door trim, a New California Republic flag, with its two headed bear, tacked in the corner. Displays were laid out on tables showcasing old-time scales, phones, and radios with vases of fake flowers mingling throughout. We had the run of this junk drawer dining room, chronicling a century of press, cameos, and eclectic brick-a-brac. Everyone else was crowded in on the bar side waiting their turn to sing.

“It is only a matter of time before we are going to hear somebody sing Creep by Radiohead” I mused to B as we found a booth to settle into. It was a sound prediction which materialized a mere three songs later. It was prior to this, thick into Carrie Underwoods ballad to a sweet revenge doled out to a cheater, that Rey slipped in and joined us at our seat.

“Wow, she’s really going for it” was her greeting with genuine approval animating her face. Her eyes were bloodshot and there was a smell of skunk afoot.

Our bartender was over again. He was bored and therefore absurdly punctual. His bleach blond hair was cut short on the side and styled above with a neo-combover. Some type of product had made it frozen wet with a high gloss sheen.

“How are you doing buddy?” he asks me in his effeminate way. I shook him off with eyes closed and gave him a half ass thumbs up, a universal sign that I required nothing further at this time. He laboriously closed his eyes and when he opened them again, they had rolled over to Rey. “How are you love? Need anything?”

“Same as them” she smiled with frozen anticipation.

“A good choice, Shiner Bock is most delicious” I report happily before taking a nip as proof.

There were four staff members on shift as far as I could tell. Apart from Bruce here, there was a mid-forties live wire of a woman tending bar, a young, taller john boy looking yokel with tee tucked into jeans, and a wire rimmed glasses girl that ran around, quite literally, in a lanky way, with torso bent forward stomping white sneakers in full abandon. Was she of working age? She was a confusing mystery who stayed in the back mostly, but at times would rush out to talk to the others. When she talked it was like a sugared-up child scolding a playmate in that confident yet sheepish way one would in front of the grownups, complete with the lowered head divulging secrets and shifty eyed side glances that don’t quite reach their target eavesdroppers.

The chords of the Folsom Prison Blues started up from the adjoining room, and a new singer was clearing his voice. Bug and I sat across from our attorney, a Vegas native.

“So, let me tell you the last time I was here” said Rey, leaning forward. “It was law school and a party bus, Oh yeah! A bus full of attorneys and legal interns and LOTS of booze. So, I swear to god, one of the old ladies here didn’t have enough money to pay her tab, so she came back with a puppy, and the bar took it as payment! “

“What?!” exclaimed Bug with delight “a local?”

“Oh yeah, we heard the whole thing. She left to get money and came back with a puppy. Then the unbelievable happened. She successfully bartered with the barkeep, who settled the account and took possession of the dog.”

“What in the hickory dickory dock?” I laughed.

Rey gave a quick nod with eyebrows risen in acknowledgment while eager to continue.

“So, now there’s a puppy in the bar. And eventually, one of our attorneys asked the bartender how much the tab was that the old woman couldn’t pay. It was a hundred bucks. She then asked, if she paid the tab, could she take the puppy, and with a shrug, he agreed.”

Now she leaned back as we sat frozen there in amazement before concluding.

“Yeah, so she paid the tab, and we took the dog back with us.”

This was a delightful image, I had to make sure I got the story clear.

“On the bus?… you guys had a puppy, on the booze bus… back to Vegas… that had been used as payment by the local drunk?”

Rey was nodding yes throughout, with sparkling eyes in remembrance, a broad smile having taken control of her face.

“Dog bless public defenders!” B said initiating a cheers.

It wasn’t too long before we had company again. It was our server, Bruce. He asked if he can sit before sliding in next to Rey. Her posture is one of bated welcome and B also looks on with expectation. He seems intent on breaching the service industry fourth wall and wields his personality like he’s on stage. I suspect he’s bored. He checks in with Rey as if they are old friends. “Is everything alright dear? Have you had a bad day?”

Rey exhales a stifled laugh, and amicably assures him she is fine. Pointing up to her eyes and leaning towards him as if he is to overhear a secret. She then talks to the center of the table in a stiff way, “these eyes ain’t red from crying if that be what you’re worried about”

“Oh my God, yes girl, you Go!” he presses his fingers to his chest in relief, and from his leaned back position eyeballs Bug and I, before turning and yelling over his shoulder “She’s fine Shay!”

Moments later, the other bartender is walking briskly to our table of increasing popularity. “I told you she wasn’t OK”

“No, she is ok, hell she’s better than we are” Bruce mutters with dry humor.

Shayla looked a bit punky brewster, a bit punk rock, and the belle of the trailer park. “What do y’all do?” she asks us brightly between gum chews.

“I’m an attorney” Rey offers.

We were all quite unaware of what reaction this would elicit from the bunch. Shayla was a gal in constant need of childcare and legal advice. Her ex had moved out, but he had just taken her stuff with him. He had even taken a lot of the kid’s things. There is an unstated glimmer of hope that our attorney may be able to fix everybody’s legal woes. As Bruce helps fill in Shay’s details, he explains his own failed plight to go to law school. The rejection letters just kept trickling in. John boy had drifted over, standing silent behind the bench, and looking mournful adds “it was hard on all of us when he didn’t get in.”

The silence told volumes.

Bug broke the reflective stares of the posse with “You can just never tell which way the pickle’s goin’ to squirt.”

“Speaking of lawyers” I chime in quickly. “Would you let me settle tonight’s bar tab…if I only had a kitten to barter?”

Bruce doesn’t miss a beat. “There are some port-o-poddies out back buddy if you really want to settle your tab real quick.” He thumbs the direction with one hand and presumably holds his belt buckle with the other, giving a look down to his lap. “What is it, a hundred bucks? You can pay for the tab in there, no problem.” His lewd eyebrows danced over staring eyes and he holds the saucy expression while he looks around to sop up any reaction to his indecent proposal.

“Guess I walked right into that one” I laughed not entirely sure the ratio of joke to sincerity. After all, someone had paid a tab with a puppy, seems any quid pro quo could be game.

“Think we’d have to ring up quite a few more scotches for that trade to be equitable” Bug pouts into my ear, nearing me with a draped hug around the neck before delivering a puckered kiss on the cheek to break away.

Bruce was now a mainstay our table. He spent quite some time trauma dumping his relationship on us, quite unbothered with tending bar. The girls seemed to enjoy giving him advice. His name was called for Karaoke, and he sprang up abruptly, “wish me luck” he called over his shoulder. We were then serenaded to his rendition of Total eclipse of the heart.

“So you were in this bar with a bunch of public defenders getting rowdy?” B prompted Rey. “Did you outnumber the locals?”

“Ohooo yeah” she responded. “Though there are always locals here, which is what makes it fun. We were in and out, sprawled all over this place. Out back there is a fantastic outdoor area that accommodates grilling and live music and just a honkey-tonk blast for a sunny afternoon, all framed by the surrounding desert hills.” Rey was lively and animated in her reflections, though her voice remained balanced and self-assured. “The best part was we were on little missions. This one guy, Bronson was too serious all the time, but we could make him laugh, Tina and I, so it was an ongoing thing you know?? Oh, and this whole thing included a charity auction at my law school, this is funny, a couple tickets were won from the charity purchase, and we were going around introducing ourselves to everyone to find the winners. We were searching for the law students to make sure they had a good time, you know? And at some beautiful moment of inebriation, we discovered that it was us! There was a mix up on who paid for our tickets because nobody had, Tina had won them! We were the law students that we were looking for!”

“Oh my God Rey, that is so you” says B flatly shaking her head in a slow, faux disbelief.

“Sounds like it was mission accomplished” I added “making sure they had a good time and all. Perhaps there’s a formula here for self-love and care…”

“The valuing yourself the way you would another? Or the getting drunk part?”

“Yes!” Bug interjects.

Our table became the mustering point for this conglomeration of workers to sneak in a shot together. All except the dirty blond pipi long stocking spaz. Presumably she was sniffing pixie sticks in the back and finishing her homeschooling assignments. John boy tall jeans didn’t stick around quite as much either, I suspect he also did the cooking. Bruce first arrived with a tray of shot glasses, including our table in the revelries… He had mixed up a “pink starburst” and was doling out the goods. The name was apt, down to the waxy aftertaste. One thing was evident, this pack of coworkers were loyal to each other, and trusting of the other familiar patrons and apparently us.

Eventually, the main room prodded us over. An amateur rendition of Elton John was saturating the bar with Disney feelings. The questioner implores us as to whether we could feel the love or not this evening. He is standing, facing the screen of lyrics to guide him, in the makeshift stage that is cleared out among the tables. We can admire his side profile as he has turned his back to the bar, but not fully. His XXL checkered flannel shirt hung untucked like a lawn and garden trash bag poncho over comparably scrawny legs. His snow-white hair cascades into matching beard with thick goatee vibed mustache, and I suspect his looking for lyrical guidance is a farce so tender and polished his vocals are to the original.

What nights this structure has held over the years, a true relic of Nevada and stretching back to a time rooted in the Wild West of America. Song have been raised from the coordinates throughout the years, from old time piano men to drunk gun slinger sing songs, to L.E.D. illuminated karaoke. Multiple men have died in this very room, their blood soaked into the floorboards and ground beneath. Bullet holes still embedded in the wall from gamblers disputes. Raids from violations from the prohibition era have been conducted here, and yet the saloon endures. The tin clad ceiling held court for the likes of Clark Gable and numerous other Hollywood stars and served as location for many a silver screen production. By day, bikers and tourists visit this watering hole in the desert. Miners and prospectors, soiled doves and cowboys, all have had their evenings at this site. Lawyers too, students and party busses, drink to each other’s good health as they pass through Goodsprings. The light still burns, attracting wayfarers like moths to a flame as it has always done, indiscriminately awaiting the next tale be it blood or dance, song or calamity. For us, it was a run-in with the beautiful misfits who staff the establishment and an ensuing quartet (Bruce joined) of Santeria on Karaoke night we led the locals in sing- yelling. But what story awaits you in this post centennial common house? And by way of advice, creativity is rewarded when it comes time to settle your tab.