Day 31, Part 1 – Kingman, AZ to Las Vegas, NV (102mi/164km)
There are many fine establishments in Las Vegas, organized in two strict very hierarchies: cost and quality. Generally speaking these have nothing to do with each other, except, of course, in the case of McDonald’s. One can see that since industrial production of nutriment paste is subject to laboratory controls a McCheeseburger or McFlurry will not differ with location. Compositionally as well, these two “food” items are quite similar; but that’s for another time.
Operationally, the McDonald’s Corporation consists of franchise-, affiliate-, and corporate-owned stores, and each branch manager has immense power to re-imagine the restaurant’s decorative palate, provided it is red, yellow, and white. And so, at one particular McDonald’s in one particular corner of Las Vegas, one particular vassal has woven his lord’s colours in a tried-and-true pattern: nostalgic Americana.
So do not be fooled by the stainless steel surfaces, the plastic vats of soy-bean oil, and the state-of-the-art refrigerated ice crushers that can dispense McShamrock Shakes (TM) in under six seconds. These are but the fever dreams of over-zealous chemical engineers and small-minded health inspectors. Forget the pabulum, and ponder the walls. One finds framed and inexplicably signed pictures of Marilyn Monroe, posters of Elvis shooting his five-cent smile, and a gaggle of black-and-white male movie stars, hair combed with what seems like engine oil.
Beneath the mounted miniature replicas of Harley Davidsons and clunky red Chevys are booth-style tables, on either side of a lane which ends in a perpendicular corridor leading to the lavatory. This t-intersection offers the single most precious resource in the entire restaurant: electricity. Now, one would expect this above-average franchise to offer its patrons more than a two-socket power outlet. Were this the case, however, I and the gentleman in the booth across the aisle from me would not have spent half an hour shooting dirty looks at the homeless lady with lip-sores simultaneously charging two cellphones. Talk is cheap, but information is money, which buys lip-sore cream, so who am I to judge?
Fortunately the situation lasts slightly less that our laptops’ batteries, and upon the lady’s departure both the fellow and I rush to claim our socket (pick-up artists and feminists, I expect a generous reading). Ensue half an hour of internet silence, but eventually our furtive, evaluatory glances meet and the fellow strikes up a conversation.
First, however, a description. The fellow is in his early 50’s, white-gray hair, white stubble, dressed in simple but well-cut clothes: blue jeans, a stripped dress-shirt of white and pastels, tasteful shoes, a wristwatch just the right size. On the table lies a late-2000s Toshiba laptop, the dangling and gnarled power-cord ruining his otherwise subtly fastidious look. In the booth bench opposite him rests a large shopping bag of medium-thick plastic, the type one finds in middle-brow apparel stores. The bag has a square appearance, as if containing boxes.
While intermittently slurping a small fountain drink the fellow pitches a few opening questions, then introduces himself as Gabriele Ruggeri, the heir of a leatherworking boutique in Catania, Italy. Of course, he has spent most of his life in Rome and Monte Carlo, where it really isn’t that expensive, unless you desire lodgings in the main square. Be prepared then for €20,000/month.
And speaking of gambling, there used to be only three places in Italy where one could gamble: Sanremo, Venezia, and Valle d’Aosta. Board a plane Friday, win and lose, return Monday, but nowadays the casinos in the Croatian Riviera compete quite aggressively. Never mind, Italy has the lottery and electronic parlour games. Gabriele once saw a woman at six in the morning compulsively inserting coins into an electronic slot machine while her infant fixed the air with a hollow expression. The real problem is when these people spend fortunes and their spouses find out after the fact.
Gabriele was actually born in his grandfather’s workshop, and the old man became famous making shoes for Rick Caruso. His mother had designed outfits for Jackie Kennedy and Gabriele himself is in America on business – a common occurrence. Just this morning he had received a call from a man lodging at a nearby casino who was interested in crocodile skin shoes and belts (money was not an issue). By the time Gabriele reached the hotel room the would-be buyer had lost it all and was busy arguing with another fellow.
At this point my curiosity is overwhelming. First of all, I’ve never actually seen real crocodile-skin goods. Second, if this Italian gentleman sipping Cherry Coke at a McD’s on Tropicana Avenue personally delivers luxury accoutrements to high-rollers he probably deals in very fine crocodile-skin goods. So naturally I ask to see his wares.
Gabriele puts the plastic bag (from Macy’s, it turns out) on the table and lifts out two shoe-boxes and six belts. Patiently he explains where and why the leather-glue is applied, how to tell if it’s fake, and what to do if you want more than one type of leather on your shoe. Everything is custom-made in the old way, and it takes forty-five days for the workmen to craft a pair of kicks. Price-wise, a pairs ranges from one to six thousand dollars. The former boss of Ferrari and McLaren used to purchase $12,000 pairs (he insisted on the skin of two crocodiles for each shoe) but the fellow was relieved of his duties after a shady deal importing cigarettes from China, so that line was discontinued.
While I astutely gauge the luxury goods (I remind the reader that at that moment in time I had not bathed for a week) we hear a loud flush from the lavatory, followed by the sound of the hand-drier. Gingerly stepping over our power-cords a man exits the bathroom, and seeing the exhibition he stops to inspect. The fellow is also in his fifties, and his dress reveals little. He picks up a shoe, gives it a twelve-point visual inspection, sniffs it, then declares it to be from China.
Gabriele grins generously, and assures that gentleman that it is not so. Retorting, the bathroom-man demands the price: $1000 a pair. He repeats that the shoes originate from China, shakes his head, and walks out the McDonalds. Curiously, I don’t recall seeing him order any food. Upon the gentleman’s departure, Gabriele informs me that had his grandfather assisted to the scene he would have killed the man, which I don’t doubt for a second. Some men, after all, think that just because God gave them a mouth they ought to use it – such men need correction.
But my couch-surfing host is soon to pick me up, and I start packing my bags. The conversation dies down, and Gabriele puts away the remnants of a once-proud reptilian, mentioning that he’s waiting for someone to pick him up as well. Still, one thing is clear: as far as food goes, McDonald’s has a predictable cost-quality ration. When it comes to high-end leather goods, however, it’s a jungle out there.
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All names herein are fake {PN} – pseudonyms. This post is {NC} – no contact with respondents. For more information, consult The Ethics Board – Notice of Compliance.
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The above is based on Nemo’s Anonymized Fieldnotes – Day 31, Part 2