Subculture Shock
Sometime in the wee hours during our final night in Oakland, a burglar stashed some castaway items among the debris in our driveway that accumulated from remodeling — and clearing out 10 years of residency.
A fake Rolex, an iPhone 4, a brass drill bit, and a crumpled dollar were tucked near a heap of roofing scrap. The logic, I assume, was that this evidence would be scooped up during the necessary dump run. A little later, I found a baseball cap buried under an inch of dirt nearby (the brim was slightly visible). This I understood less: tucked inside were a sheaved 8-inch knife, women’s jewelry (no gold), and that most standard of burglary tools — a flat-head screwdriver.
Since I didn’t have time to play Sherlock (who could play him better than Benedict Cumberbatch anyway?), I kept schlepping boxes to the car. But 36 hours later as I-80 straightened over the Nevada desert, it got me thinking about subcultures and how we get accustomed to the bubbles we live in.
The Bay Area bubble includes not only a begrudging acceptance of property crime, but electric car ownership, for example. I was struck driving through Nevada’s treeless landscape that, had I acted on my first choice of a new car in 2017, I’d have run out of power a few hours past Reno. I’d have had to park my Leaf on the side of the road after the battery ran down and, I guess, walked the rest of the way to Wisconsin?
In Oakland, Leafs (Leaves?) and Teslas are as common as rain in March when you’re trying to paint your house. But just 7 hours to the east they’re mere rumors. Gambling, on the other hand, seems as normal as breathing.
Every gas station has a few slot machines, and eventually I decided to try my luck. While filling up east of Battle Mountain, I walked through a barely marked door in what was otherwise a quintessentially unadorned gas station.
Inside was a kind of sports bar vibe with darker lighting to emphasize the rainbow array of slots. Macklemore played over a surprisingly nice audio system, helping me feel a little more at home. A woman who looked a bit like my aunt asked if I wanted a drink. “Is this your first time?” she asked not pejoratively, but to support (enable?).
There was nothing sophisticated about the slots. but I couldn’t even figure out where to insert money. One said 25¢ so I pulled a few quarters out of my pocket. The woman gently informed that the machines don’t take coins. She must’ve been skilled at not embarrassing first-timers because I normally would’ve fled by this time. Instead I pulled out a dollar bill and inserted it.
The machine rejected my crisp bill. I took this as a sign and retreated to the safety of my gassed up vehicle. It turns out I have a gambling problem — I can’t understand how to do it.
