Monsoon Madness
There’s a sound this time of year that rattles me: the air conditioner, running without pause, day and night. During monsoon season, it gulps filters like snacks, demanding more every week, and still it drones like a jet engine parked on the roof. I swear it growls if I reach to adjust the thermostat. When I was considering putting it down for a nap, Anne filled the office doorway, arms akimbo, with her annual August decree:
“We’re going to do articles about California redwoods and coastal beaches. I booked us a week in Crescent City. Pack your bags.”
Her idea of bags was two matching roll-around suitcases already staged in the hall. One held clothes. The other? Let’s say Ulta would call it a warehouse. My idea of luggage was a brown grocery sack — stuffed with a change of socks, a toothbrush, three cameras, a knot of chargers, and enough cables to wire a small radio station.
“We’re leaving Sunday morning,” Anne said. “Reservations start Monday night in Crescent City.”
I did the math out loud cause — that’s my department. “Freeways, we can be there in two days.”
She nodded. “Fine.”
“But if we take 93 north, stretch it to three days, we could scoop up a couple of ghost towns on the way. Maybe even Reno for dinner.”
Anne shrugged. Driving and mileage are my problem. If I wanted to turn it into a backroads scavenger hunt, she wasn’t going to stop me.
Moby, the big Lexus, sat in the garage — roomy, comfortable, built for the open road. Instead, we crammed ourselves into the Corolla econo-box. Why? It saved us seventeen bucks on gas. Never mind that the inside looked like a rolling storage unit — cameras, Anne’s suitcases, a couple of coolers, bags of snacks, and enough odds and ends to qualify as a rolling kitchen. At least we wouldn’t waste time at McDonald’s.
Northbound on 93
We pointed the gutless wonder north on US-93 just as the sun cleared Four Peaks to the east. The stretch between Phoenix and Kingman, we could drive blindfolded. Thirty years ago, it was a two-lane daredevil run, white-knuckled and death-defying. Now it’s primarily four lanes, crowded with people eager to lose money in Vegas, blasting past at criminal speeds until the pavement pinches back to two and everyone stacks up like cattle in a chute.
But for us, the trip doesn’t really begin until the far side of Vegas. Out there, the road empties — mile after mile of desert sage, sky bigger than the map, hardly a soul in sight. On the west side of 93, the signs all promise wildlife refuge this and preserve that — acres fenced off for sheep and tortoises. The east side looks the same, but the clues are different: concrete chicanes at the exits, security gates, motion detectors strung along the fences, and town names that sound more like warnings — Indian Springs, Mercury, Sedan Crater. It’s almost like they’re keeping something hidden in this area.
Both horizons appear identical, but one claims it’s saving lives while the other practices ending them. Maybe the wildlife is just an act of contrition.
Check-In at the Atomic Inn
By the time we rolled into Beatty, the sun was already angling low, and the semis were tangoing through the four-way. We pulled in slow, scanning for our motel — and there it was, glowing like a Cold War punchline: The Atomic Inn. Yes, that’s where Anne made the reservations.
We checked in, tossed our bags inside, and immediately split up. I grabbed my cameras and headed for Rhyolite, hoping to get a few shots before the sun slipped behind the hills. Anne, naturally, went in search of antique jewelry at the local curio shops.
I spent a couple of hours wandering Rhyolite, watching the light slip across broken stone and bottle-glass walls. On the drive back, the landscape was to die for, colors shifting every mile along the empty road into Beatty.
When I opened the motel room door, Anne was gone. On the nightstand, a note: Bar across from the casino.
The Bar Across from the Casino
So I walked back to Main Street in the dusk. The neon buzzed, the semis groaned through the four-way, and the air smelled faintly of dust and fryer grease. I pushed through the door and stepped inside a bar dimmer than the twilight I’d just left.
At first, I couldn’t see much — just shapes. As my eyes adjusted, the room came into focus: gray, paneled walls slapped together from old shacks, gaps wide enough for the smoke from the back barbecue to seep through. The paneling glowed under animated beer signs. Love Shack playing on the juke box through the speaker wires drooping across them like vines. The ceiling sagged under dollar bills tacked corner to corner.
There were only a couple of tables inside, and four barstools at the counter. Three were already occupied — Anne, a whiskered man, and… a burro. The fourth stool sat open, waiting for me. Other than a man in the corner eyeing the room like he’d been followed, the place was empty.
I slid onto the stool beside Anne and waited while the bartender finished shouting drink orders to the patrons on the porch. Her voice carried just as strongly out there as it did inside. Then she turned to me, smiling.
“What can I get for you?” she asked, her Filipino accent lilting every word.
“What beers do you have?”
She rattled them off in one long practiced breath: “Coors Light, Bud Light, Miller Lite, Michelob Light, Busch Light, Natural Light, Keystone Light, Amstel Light… and Shiner… ”
“I’ll have a Shiner,” I said. “Shiner Bock.”
From outside came a burst of German voices, clinking bottles of Bud Light like it was Champagne.
Meet Harlan and Deborah
Anne set her glass down as I settled in. “Jim, I want you to meet Harlan…” She hesitated a beat, then added, “…and his friend, Deborah.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. Harlan gave me a slow handshake, heavy as a sandbag. Deborah just snorted through her nose, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sneeze.
Anne lifted her glass and caught the bartender’s eye. “Another chardonnay — and this time, could I get a proper wine glass, please?”
The bartender froze mid-pour, leveled a glare across the counter, and kept right on filling the same stubby stemless glass.
“Boy, I’m hungry,” I said to no one in particular. “Are the burgers any good here, Harlan?”
“They usually are,” he drawled. “But the supply trucks haven’t shown up in a week… and the bar’s still flippin’ burgers. Wouldn’t you know it, Deborah’s sister went missing the other day.” He set his glass down and leaned closer. “So if I were you, I’d steer clear of the burgers.”
Deborah gave a little snort through her nose as if she agreed. Nobody else smiled.
I scanned the ink-jet printed menu and looked at the bartender. “What’s your soup of the day?”
“Homemade clam chowder,” she answered proudly.
“Ooo, my favorite. I’ll have a bowl of that.”
She scribbled on a ticket, clipped it to the wheel, gave it a spin, and shouted, “Order up!” A slight blur reached up and snatched the slip away as the wheel kept turning. From behind the thin paneling came the thud of a pot hitting the stove… followed by the unmistakable whir of an electric can opener.
Beatty’s Second Fiddle Years
Anne leaned toward me. “Harlan’s lived in Beatty his whole life. He knows all the stories.”
“Great,” I said. “I’d love to hear them. What’s with the closed casino across the street?”
Harlan swirled his glass slow. “That was the Exchange Club. Town’s centerpiece, once. COVID killed it. Shame.”
I grinned. “I would have loved to toss 20 bucks away just to poke around inside.”
He shrugged. His voice came out in a gravelly drawl, slow as desert dusk. “We’d have gladly taken your money. Beatty’s always played second fiddle. Rhyolite had the gold; we just hauled the freight. Later, when the bomb boys came through, the scientists stopped here for drinks while the brass stayed in Mercury. Then Vegas lit up, and we just watched the traffic roll by.” He nodded toward the four-way. “These trucks out here? That’s the floor show now.”
I flagged the bartender. “Let me buy you a round. What are you drinking?”
“Cosmo on the rocks,” Harlan said. “And Deborah here’s got a Vodka Cranberry.”
The bartender set down two glasses that looked identical, except Deborah’s came with two long straws. I must’ve stared, because Harlan leaned in and explained, “Well, she can’t just pick it up with her hooves, now can she?” (Thanks, Joel.)
Deborah crossed her legs then, and I noticed her hooves were neatly manicured — polished, even. It made me wonder who in town offered that service, and how much they charged.
Nobody made a joke. Not in front of Deborah. Harlan might’ve called her his “friend,” but from the way the bartender shot her a quick glance, I figured she was more than that. Around here, Deborah was a big shot.
The Ghost Rider of Rhyolite
Anne asked, “So how were Rhyolite and Beatty connected?”
Harlan swirled his Cosmo. “Rhyolite was the boomtown; Beatty was just the depot. Always been that way — second fiddle. First to Rhyolite, then to the bomb tests, then to Vegas, then as a truck stop along 93, then with the Exchange Club across the street. And when I-11 cuts east of town, downtown’s finished unless they sell themselves as the gateway to Death Valley.”
Harlan set his glass down and leaned closer. His voice dropped so low I had to lean in, too.
“My mama… or was it my grandma… worked the hotel over in Rhyolite. Every night, she rode her Schwinn the four miles down to Beatty after her shift. Then one night… she didn’t make it.”
He let that hang in the air.
Anne asked softly, “What happened?”
Harlan rubbed a hand over his whiskers, eyes fixed on the glass in front of him. “Folks said she was run down by an illegal alien.”
I blinked. “Mexican?”
He shook his head slowly. “Na. One of them little gray fellas. Came slidin’ down the canyon road in a flyin’ golf cart. Had it wound up faster than hell. She never saw it comin’. Passed so close she got sucked into the whirlpool trailin’ behind.” He paused, voice dropping lower. “Dragged her thirty yards down the gravel. Left half her Schwinn in the sagebrush.”
The bar had gone quiet, except for the hum of the jukebox wires overhead. Even Deborah had stopped snorting, her ears pitched forward.
“She was real pretty,” Harlan said, almost tender. “Sunday dress, ribbon in her hair. But you wouldn’t recognize her now. Folks say she rides that stretch every night — draped in white, like a shroud… or maybe a cape. Some swear it’s a wedding dress that trails out behind her, floatin’ in the wind. You’ll hear the pedals creak before you see her.”
He drained the last of his Cosmo, set the glass down gently, “’ Cept Wednesdays. That’s her bath night.”
Deborah slid off her stool, her hooves clicking against the wooden floor, and gave a little snort of goodbye.
“Big day tomorrow,” Harlan said, standing slowly. “Got business to settle in Pahrump.”
They shuffled toward the door, out into the desert night.
Anne and I stared at one another, mouths agape, while Love Shack started up again on the jukebox.
Till next time, keep your spirits high, and your humor dry — the spirits prefer it that way.
jw