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North Las Vegas has always been a bit of an enigma to me.

Even though it is only about 3 miles north of where I live, it is the one municipality in the Las Vegas Valley which I visit least frequently.

The only times I typically go to NLV is to go to the airport and … well … that’s pretty much it.  It’s the only airport I fly into and out of for recreation (the only alternative being Boulder City Airport), but there just isn’t much else to do on the far north side.  At least not for me.  For the most part, the place is out of sight, out of mind.

For the last couple of months, however, I have been forced to become more acquainted with North Las Vegas than I might otherwise wish to be.

In April, a family friend from back east moved to an apartment complex adjacent to Nellis Air Force Base and I’ve had to make many trips to the far reaches of Las Vegas Boulevard at the behest of this particular individual.

Sometimes being the only Vegas resident a visitor knows has serious drawbacks, because you inevitably get the following phone call at least a couple times each month:

Me: “Hello?”
Slurring Idiot: “Yeah, ’sup homey it’s Steve Wynn. Hey listen, can you pick me up at Olympic Garden?”
Me: “What?”
Steve: “Look man, here’s the thing, apparently I owe the house like three hundred bucks or sumpin’ because I got talked into the VIP room by some skank who totally lowballed me, and I think they’re gonna hurt me if I don’t pay up. And here’s the other thing, I left my wallet at home and I took that Max thing ’cause I knew I was gonna drink, and I need some money and a ride home, can you help me out?”
Me: “You want me to bring you three hundred dollars and drive you back to f**king Nellis at 1am?”
Steve: “Yeah, man, I’ll pay you back … you should come over and check it out because they have this Asian chick working with like these huge titties and I think they’re real…”
Me: (click)
… ring …
Steve: “Hey man, we got disconnected, goddamn AT&T … so look, I’m at the Olympic Garden and they say I owe them some money ’cause …
Me: (click)
… ring … -> Voicemail
Voicemail: “Hey man, it’s Steve, I see what you mean about the iPhone, it can’t hold a phone call for shit, so look man, I’m in some real trouble here and I think there is a real possibility that I could die and I don’t know who else to call. You’re probably trying to call me back right now so I’ll hang up and wait for your call.”
NUMERIC PAGE: PLEASE CALL (718) XXX-XXXX Steve Wynn.
Text Message: Its steve I think somthg is wrg with my phone pls call me emergency!

Although names and details have been changed to protect the stupid, the above exchange is based on a true story.  A story initiated by my friend who is now a North Las Vegas transplant.  Have you ever noticed that people who work in and around the military have a higher-than-average propensity to get into trouble at strip clubs?

Even though I try my best to blow these types of things off (my motto is “if you ever need anything, feel free to ask someone else first”), I eventually relent when the situations become life and death.  Except for that unfortunate incident with Jamie.  I should never have let her take that complimentary Wynn Resort limo home.

Anyway, because of a new temporary resident, I have recently become familiar with every linear foot of North Las Vegas Boulevard, and now I know what Alice felt like when she entered the looking glass.  To say the place is strange would be an understatement.  It makes Rexville look like the set of a milquetoast John Hughes teenage comedy.

Picture this: You are driving along a nondescript stretch of road in what looks like the remote desert, and out of nowhere, a homeless guy pushing a grocery cart darts into the middle of the road, causing you to swerve and spare his life by inches.  After pulling off the road and getting out of the car to assess the situation, you see a space-aged looking bus stop to pick up the man with the grocery cart.

“That’s odd”, you say out loud as a tumbleweed blows by, “why is there a George Jetson spacebus in the middle of the desert?”

“I don’t know”, says your friend, “but can you understand the words that are written on any of these signs?”

You look around to get your bearings, and you realize that no … no you cannot understand the words written on any of the signs.  They are all in a foreign language.

As you are getting ready to get back into the car, two black helicopters buzz by your head so low that the wind from the rotors style your hair into a fruity Justin Bieber helmet-fro.

“We should probably get out of here”, you say, “I don’t feel comfortable in this place … besides, the fat guy in that lifted 1960 Chevy Truck is giving us a dirty look.”

You get back in the car and head north, praying that the black helicopters don’t mistake you for Osama Bin Laden, who is probably hiding in one of the nearby rundown motels.

Honestly, the North Boulevard is more bizarre than watching Zumanity on mescaline.  It’s the weirdest mixture of urban grit and rural nothingness you are likely to find anywhere this side of Jupiter.  For me, the most overtly strange thing about LVB North is the bus stops which are literally built in the middle of nowhere.  I mean, other than a cactus farmer, who would get off at one of these things?  There is just nothing around them.

In my dozen or so trips up and down this byway over the last several weeks, I have been trying to “get it”, but as of right now … I have not succeeded.  The place is peculiar, and it makes me more than a little nervous.

There is one saving grace that almost makes the weekly trip worthwhile, however, and that is the view from the Nellis portion of the road.  It’s both interesting and creepy at the same time, kind of like a Steve Jobs keynote address.

If you have yet to visit this stretch of road, I would almost recommend it for the novelty factor alone.  If your car breaks down, however, you’re on your own.  I now keep my speed up, my doors locked, and my foot on the accelerator.

As for my friend who will be living here for six more months, well, I’m hoping that his next assignment will take him to some third-world, crime-riddled, gonorrhea-filled cesspool.

After being stationed in North Las Vegas, he deserves the upgrade.

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