Even Nicky smoked in Vegas in ’59. Man, everybody smoked in Vegas in ’59. Cancer was like drawing to an inside straight, something that happened to the other guy. Besides, no one in Vegas in ’59 wanted to live forever. All those mushroom clouds on the horizon didn’t spoil anybody’s action either. In Vegas in ’59, Armageddon was jive only when the bar ran out of ice or the pool man put in too much chlorine.
So Nicky smoked a whole pack of KOOLs (of course!) as he paced the Stardust parking lot that December 23 in ’59. Dusk was about to blow and the font of the Stardust, with its 216 foot long incandescent galaxy, was about to make the scene. When it lit, Nicky spit out his butt, and in the shimmer of that neon and Plexiglas solar system, he stared in awe and said only:
“Yeah.”
He turned then and gazed down the Strip as the hotels, in a nutty kind of succession, began to light, firing up the night sky. Nicky gasped with each, all the way down to the glint in the eye of the Genie above the Dunes. He almost felt like clapping, but, man, if that wasn’t square, so he matched another smoke and muttered:
“This is the most.”
Nicky wasn’t much of a hipster, though he tried. He wanted to create, had eyes for the cool and crazy, but he thought his history had become a drag, leaving him without any action, without any score. This dad’s act was down, man, and the expectations of him solid. So he chased his wants to other places and other people and chased himself to Freudsville. He had been far out before, but, here, now, Vegas, ’59, tonight, was the outtest. And that was out with an extra T, man.
Watching The Strip turn on, Nicky longed for the poetry of it. That had been his trip for awhile, to lay a little verse on the scene, pick up on it with his own meditative wail. But what the switched-on Strip looked to him, finally, was nothing so much as if the world’s tallest Christmas tree had fallen, short-circuiting as if only patches of light strings still shone. You know, in its own kooked up way, Nicky’s image wasn’t without being with-it, but to Nicky it was just so much Christmas in his wig and he had come to dig that nothing was more uncool than Christmas.
The smoke from his cigarette dogged his eyes then, so he turned to once more groove on the rays of the Stardust. We’re talking electric stars and comets and planets and the thing is, Nicky always had a thing for the cosmos. Maybe the only sacred lyric he still held was this riff he shared with the heavens. But now the rest of the world seemed about to swing with the only action he truly felt was his and his alone. Nicky was scared, down for the count with Sputnik-phobia. He stared at the outer space on the Stardust sign and then beyond it to whatever was left of the real deal above the lights. When doubt the great destroyer blew by, Nicky put out his smoke and split, heading for the bar in the Aku Aku restaurant at the end of the Stardust parking lot.
Inside, jungle drums were trying to play ‘Winter Wonderland’ and the joker behind the bar wearing the red and green plastic lei couldn’t get over how much Nicky looked like the guy he really was. It got him a couple of Zombies gratis and he got to keep the skull mug. He downed them, went into one of the grass hut phone booths and called Frank.
In his pad at the Sands, Frank had just hung up on Western Union when Nicky’s call came in. Frank lit up a Chesterfield and listened to Nicky’s sad opera through two more butts, finally telling Nicky to take five. He said he would pick Nicky up at his room at the Thunderbird and to be ready at dawn, which in Vegas in ’59 meant midnight. Frank rang Dean in his suite at the Sands.
“What is it, a raid?”
Dean answered the phone, lighting up an Oasis cigarette.“Wake up, Sam,” Frank said. “Nicky’s blown in. AWOL.”
“Away without lovin’? Man, that’s a sadder state to be in than Utah.”
“You got it, pally. This guy is a walking Gordon Jenkins arrangement. And you know he’s gotta make a gig. So I strung him along that the three of us would go out tonight for a little hey-hey, but you know what song is playin’.”
“I’m kinda busy at the moment with Chuck Connors, Frank, so I don’t know.” “Chuck Connors?! What’s he doin’ in town?” “No, on TV, I’m watching The Rifleman.” “Dammit, I forgot that was on tonight! That fucking ABC! That network can’t do anything fucking right.” “It’s a great one, he woke up with a snake in his bedroll.”“Yeah, that’s what she said. Listen, we don’t cut out’ ‘til happy hour, capiche? Set your second hand, paisano. Later.” “Hey, wait a minute, Frank. I just called down to room service and can you believe it, they’re out of bourbon phosphates.” “Save it for the stage, Pedro,” Frank said, hanging up.
Frank and Dean drove up to the Thunderbird right on time, so they passed it by, lit up fresh smokes and prowled for another hour. Frank’s short was a new ’59 fire engine red Cadillac convertible, massively chromed and grilled, with tail fins rocketed 42 inches above sea level. Driving it, Frank looked more swallowed than Fay Wray in Kong’s mitt, but he didn’t know that and if they couldn’t guarantee Khruschev’s safety at Disneyland, who the hell would ever risk laying on Frank how ridiculous he looked. At one point, as he and Dean navigated the Strip, Frank gave a break to a guy in a Ford Falcon pulling out of Wilbur Clark’s Desert Inn. When the guy didn’t even wave his thanks, Frank eased the Caddie alongside him and gave him the “LOOK”.The guy and his car spontaneously combusted.
Nicky was renting curb outside the T-Bird when Frank and Dean finally cruised by. He eagerly scaled the back seat. All three cats were smoking and wearing tuxedos. Dean had a cowboy hat up top, though no one knew why, no one asked and no one cared. Solid. Frank pedaled liftoff and the Cad hit the road swaggering, nearly tossing a couple of plaid-backs crossing the sidewalk. “Goddamn tourists,” Frank said.
“Don’t they know that no one walks in Vegas?” “Hang on, Nick,” said Dean. “Frank learned how to drive from Liberace’s prom date.” The car beat down the Strip, the casino lights sliding off its polish. “So, fellas, I mean, guys, what’s the action tonight?” Nicky asked. “Good episode of THE RIFLEMAN,” Dean said, torching another butt. “Me and Irving here took over dealin’ blackjack on the floor of the Sands,” Frank said. “You guys were working as dealers?” “It’s how we show our solidarity with the repressed proletariat of Greenland,” Dean said. “There’s no repressed proletariat in Greenland.” Nicky said. “So the filthy Reds would have us believe.” Frank said. “Maybe we meant Catalina?” Dean said. “How’d you break tonight?” Frank asked Nicky. “Well, uh, I played some slots. Uh, then I took a nap.” “I wish I could find the energy to take naps,” Dean said.
“Hey, kid,” Frank said to Nicky via the rear view mirror,“don’t worry about it. You’re in for a gasser. The goombah and I are blastin’ you to the REAL Vegas. Most of this town is Suckersville City. Jerkwater on the Gobi.” “A waste in the sun.” Dean offered. “We blow this route.-what would you say, Smitty?,” Frank asked, turning to Dean, “two or three times a week, ain’t it?” “Now where’d I put that abacus?” Dean said. “Yeah, rots-a-ruck.” Frank said. “Uh, um, will there be….” Nicky coughed up wrong way smoke. “Don’t hurt yourself on those high notes.”Frank told him. “I’d offer you a Smith Brothers,” Dean said, “but I lent my last one to Little Richard.” “I was just wondering…” Nicky said, hesitantly. “Will there be any ladies. I mean girls, I mean chicks where we’re going?” “We’re goin’ to see Seven Sisters.” Frank said. “Wow,” Nicky whispered and then started coughing again.
Nicky cooled a bit, but his world was flipping equators. Sisters. Seven sisters. Probably showgirls. No,show CHICKS! Frank and Dean and Vegas, the REAL VEGAS, Frank had said. Man, this was Nicky’s dream coming up for air, the whole fine and frantic mostness of instability. All those cold lonely moons he had wailed for this stream of Muse at the last chance gas. And yet….
Nicky shivered and thought his memory of those sad nights was putting the shift on him. He noticed the speeding blackness around them and the chill of it and figured the dope. They had long passed the Strip and were heading out of the “Greetings From” range. He first thought they were steaming toward Freemont Street and downtown, but not one bulb insulted the night anywhere around them. The unknown flight had Nicky a little heeb-jeebed, but minds will play their own sax.
“Inkadentally,” Dean said, pulling out a telegram from his jacket, “treat yourself to what I got today.” “What are you kiddin’ me?” Frank said. “Another one?”“Every month or so,” Dean said, turning to explain to Nicky, “I get one of these. Ever since I did that picture with Marlon I been getting’ telegrams signed by a skinny comic I used to work with. And it’s always that he’s working on some production with some renowned thespian. Listen to this: ‘Have signed Olivier as co-star in a Tashlin adaptation of Shakespeare entitled “MELVIN THE FIFTH”. “Wait a minute,” Frank said. “Wasn’t there another Shakespeare bit a few months ago? “That time he was supposedly starring with Ralph Richardson and Anita Ekberg in “SPAMLET". Last month said he was in pre-production with Jason Robards in “LONG DAY’S JOURNEY INTO NUT.” “Someone is yankin’ya, amigo” Frank said. “Yeah, but I don’t think it’s my old partner,” Dean said. “He’s more subtle.” “I wouldn’t put it past Smokey,” Frank said. “That Charlie would do anything for a laugh.”
Dean flamed the telegram with his cigarette and let it smolder in the car’s chimney of an ashtray.
“As long as you’re up,“ Frank said to Dean, “how about checkin’ out a little rhythm?” “That’s what she said.” Dean said, switching on the radio. “What’s your pleasure, Nick?” “Anything but Christmas music,” Nicky said. “Maybe I can find some Pat Boone.” Dean said. Frank gave him a glance cast in overcast. “You really are a sick Dago, you know that?” The radio shoved out Elvis doing “Here Comes Santa Claus”. “Volume that!” Frank yelled. “Sorry, Nick.” Dean laughed, crescendoing the radio. “Just what I didn’t need to hear.” Nicky said, sliding in another smoke. “Relax, dad.” Frank said, lighting a smoke of his own. “This cat deals this song so jack, it’s like a Catholic schoolgirl ridin’ a motorcycle for the first time.” The song played in a gust, then did the gone bit. “But Frank,”
Nicky said,
“I had heard you hated Elvis. I heard you hated all rock and roll.” “Listen to me, apple-boy,” Frank said. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with rock and roll that a Nelson arrangement couldn’t fix.” “I wish Nelson could arrange my life.” Nicky said, softly. “I’ll take anyone but David Seville.” Dean said, flicking an ash on the dash. “Man,” Nicky said, “all that press about you hating Elvis.” “And you believe all the muck they write about you? ”Frank asked Nicky. “Let me spell it for you, Al. We’re talkin’ reporters here, get me? These guys are nothing. Nothing that is but the last defense of everything that’s right and true about this country. The very foundation of our freedom is based on these unsung, unselfish, unbiased, untiring heroes that have persevered throughout the history of this great nation. So now and then they misspell a name or mix up a fact, they’re only human and you gotta forgive such rare mistakes and remember that their beacon shines above all else.” “Has John Philip Sousa signed with Capitol?,” Dean asked. “Wow!” Nicky said. “I had heard you hated reporters with a passion. I mean, all those stories about….” “Never keep your expectations too tight.” “But,” Nicky said, his thoughts jiving the maze, “what about other people’s expectations of you?” “Loosen them up for them.” Frank answered. “If you’re playin’ in a groove, you can do it your way.” “Fuck ‘em, if they can’t take a jerk.” Dean offered. Frank turned the car onto some paths that wound them tighter in the dark. On the radio, The Fleetwoods smoothed, “Come Softly To Me”. “I love this song,” Nicky said. “Hey, you jokers ever give songs to certain girls?” “Dedicate, you mean?,” Frank asked. “No, not really. I mean, like, you hear a song and you think about a certain broad or you’re reminded of someone and then every time you hear that song, you think about her, you know, the same broad?” “So who’d you give this song to?,” Frank asked.
“Ava Ga….”The car backfired. “I didn’t catch that,” Frank said. “Eva Gabor,” Dean said, narrowing a glare at Nicky. Hmm,” Frank said, you know I think I prefer Zsa Zsa myself.” “I gave “The Ballad of Davy Crockett” to Magda.” Dean said, stubbing his cigarette into the ether. The car continued pushing through obscureville. Frank seemed to be letting it drift with the sandy wind. They finally touched down on a dusty sweep and slowed to a stop, the radio itching in static. Frank cut the motor and the whole dialectic jazz of the desert at night rushed the air. Scamper and slither rumbled all around.
“Welcome to the Valley Of Fire.” Frank said. “THIS is the REAL Vegas?,” Nicky asked.
“150 million years ago,” Frank said, “this joint bought life. The Big G earned his paycheck. Shoving dunes and layin’ down faults and lettin’ it all erode into the sweetest little soul on this whole kooky planet. I’m talkin’ red sandstone islands of rock, Nick, all around us, like some kind of cool riddle shanghaiing the Earth. And listen to the sound, Nicky pal, the resonance of it, the swing of it. Talk about your full dimensional stereo. We’re in nature’s own pad, Jack.” “The REAL Vegas?” Nicky muttered, looking at the creeping silhouettes of rock in the night around them.
“Listen, paisan, this whole turf used to be reptile central. Every Saurus you can think of hung out here. Later on came these Injun cats called the Anasazi. You ever hear of these guys? They up and took a powder a long time ago and nobody can figure it.” “No showchicks?” Nicky asked.
“Ancient and sacred, B.C. like and I don’t mean Before Como.” Frank said. “Copa girls will ball you from now ‘til doomsday, but this Valley is a hard way roll of Heaven that may never come up for you again. Get with it, chum. May Sam Giancana strike me dead if Mother Nature ain’t the REAL kicks in this koo- koo life.”
Nicky dug on the sky then and was crushed by all the stars. He’d almost forgotten how many there could be. Frank kicked up the car lights on the strange rock mix just ahead of them. The stone arched in a rare and looming jag.
“They call that The Seven Sisters.” he said and dimmed the lights before too many bugs went blotto on the beams. “I shore do hope ‘dere,” Dean said in an Amos and Andy take, ‘‘dat ‘dere brother am not at home ‘dere.”
Frank cut out of the the car and Dean and Nicky took the cue. They all lit up smokes and walked to a clearing in the shadowville of the seven rock babes. They each staked a place to sit on some of the lesser known stones.
“Every time the crocodiles are at our asses, Sylvio and me head out there and do the cool it bit,” Frank said. “Who’s Sylvio?,” Nicky asked. “I’m pretty sure he means me,” Dean said, “but even I lose track.” “The only place I need frantic is in my rear view mirror,” Frank said. “Out here I got the earth and the sky. If you want more in life than that you may as well buy the big casino now, buddy-boy, cuz you ain’t never gonna book joy in this orbit. Go take a look at all the jokers headin’ out of Vegas and tell me there ain’t no such animal as unnecessary complications. You don’t sweat the big picture, you respect it.”
“I think I missed something.” Nicky said, pitching his cigarette into a sad bush. “What was that about needing frantic?” “Hey, kid,” Frank said to Nicky, “this desert doesn’t need your garbage. What? Are you tryin’ to start a fire?” “Sorry, Frank.” “Remember,” Dean said, “only you can prevent Forrest Tucker.”
“I tell ya though, a campfire might not be a bad scene,” Frank said. “This desert at night comes with ice.” “Feels kind of warm to me.” Nicky said.
“Hey, pardner,” Frank turned to Dean. “you got your lighter handy? Let’s score some heat.” “I’m still workin’ on that merit badge,” Dean said, tossing his lighter to Frank.
“There’s some dry branches here,” Frank said, rigging a pile. “But we could use a starter.”
“Oh look, Frank,”Dean said, tilting toward the ground. “Look what I found under this rock: It’s an Eddie Fisher album.”
“That’ll do it.” Frank said.
The small fire walked up the dark, stretching orange eclipses across the red rocks.
“Alright, Nicky,” Frank said. “Ring-a-ding-ding, pal. Come clean on what the hell you’re doing here.” Nicky lit up a new smoke and trailed his exhale. “I sure could use a drink.”
Dean ambled over to the car and returned with a large thermos, all the while humming a medley of Perez Prado tunes. He poured a cup and handed it to Nicky, who took a sip and wrung his face.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “is that what I think it is?” “Well, if you’re thinkin’ it’s anything besides hot cocoa, you’re no Arlene Francis.” Dean said.
“Jesus!” Nicky fanned his tongue. “It IS cocoa! I don’t believe it!”
“You can alert Winchell later.” Frank said. “Now come on, I want the whole magilla on what you’re doin’ here. Well…. It’s like I told you on the phone, Frank. I’ve just been feeling so…lost lately. You know, like I’m not happening anymore.” Nicky laughed. “ As if I ever was. Man, the scene is changing. The action is at such a clip now that I just don’t know anymore.”
Nicky shrugged, glancing over to Dean, who was holding a stick above the fire with a marshmallow on the end of it.
“You better jump on.” Frank told Nicky as he lit a smoke with Dean’s lighter. “Once our man Jack is in the White House, the world is gonna spin so fast the equator’s gonna snap.”
“Not as fast as your man Jack unsnaps his pants,” Dean said. “You know,” Nicky said quietly, “yesterday it was splitting atoms. Now they’re swinging in outer space. And here I sit in relicville.”
“I didn’t know Ernie Kovacs was splittin’ Adams,” Dean said. “Where do I get in line?”
“I mean, look at me,” Nicky said. “I’ve never lived anywhere except nowhere. I’ve been married to the same woman forever.”
“The radiation anniversary.” Dean said. “I guess I just feel like I’ve been missing out on the party.”
Nicky continued:
“Trapped in Square-City. I hoped that if I rode with you guys, I’d pick up on the score. Maybe enough to start a new gig somewhere.” “You’re at the track with us right now.” Frank told Nicky. “Yeah, but man, it’s all been so diff…” “I know what you’re sayin.”
Dean said, looking into the fire.
“A few bourbons ago I was feeling the way you are now. I’d just cut out on what had once been the gasser of a lifetime, but had gone bad on me and it was time to split. Still, once I was flying solo I wasn’t sure where or even how to navigate the tempo. I felt like there was either too much action or not enough. Either way, I didn’t feel a part of any of it. I felt I was enroute to being crowned in chumpdom.”
Dean ate a toasted marshmallow and continued:
“Then one day, I can’t remember where, exactly, because drinkin’ tends to refine my photographic memory, so let’s just say the dull side of the moon, Ohio. I’m still tapped by the daze, above and beyond my everyday daze, and I wind up in the barber shop of this little joint on the map. Nobody knows me and it makes me grateful and worried at the same time. There’s a single barber, an old bald guy like all barbers, and there’s a guy sittin’ in the chair and a kid maybe 12 or so waitin’ near the magazine rack. And I just notice this kid slip one of those nudist magazines off the rack and quickly insert it into a Life Magazine, so it’ll look like he’s reading Life.
Later, Dean continued,
“the kid carefully puts both magazines back, gets his haircut, and when he’s headin’ toward the door, what do you think the barber says to him? He tells him ‘Happy Birthday.’ And the kid looks a little scared, but the barber is smiling and then the kid smiles back and he leaves. So the barber had seen the kid or somehow knew the bit with the magazines, but he let the kid have his action. And by sayin’ Happy Birthday, he let the kid in on it that he knew all along. He gave the kid his moment, his place in the shade. And by doing so, he allowed the kid to grow up a little.”
“Man,”Dean said, “I tell you I walked that little town all day, thinking about that barber and the kid. And finally I started thinking about my old man and then my son….” “How did that help you?, “ Nicky quietly asked. “I stopped thinking about myself.” Dean answered. “You can find it on any greeting card in the nickel and dime, Otto.”
Frank said.
“You don’t have to be given an order to give.”
He flipped Dean back his lighter.
“Is that what you’re telling me?” Nicky asked Dean.
“I’m telling you, Nick,” Dean said, now toasting a marshmallow with his lighter, that any job worth doing, ain’t NEVER worth doing.”
Nicky looked at Frank, confused.
“I told you to watch out for Dean.” Frank said. “When he was a baby they accidentally dropped him on his hair.” “And I was the only baby in the neighborhood whose formula was on the rocks.”
Dean said.
The three cats continued to sit by the fire awhile longer, drinking cocoa, toasting marshmallows, smoking butts and being scared as Frank told the ghost story of the haunted contract. On the road back to the strip, Nicky dug dreamsland in the back seat. He was awakened a couple of ticks by Frank and Dean singing with the Christmas carols on the radio. He thought he’d died and was swinging in Heaven. Dean cooled on a Mantovani arrangement of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” and it was so bliss, all the coyotes on the trail stopped howling and quietly wept.
Back at The Strip, Frank docked the big car in front of the Flamingo. The white strobe of the champagne tower flipped them into a bulb dizzy. They each lit new smokes and watched the neon bubbles float up the sixty-foot sign.
“You know,” Frank said, crooking his head, “if you kind of tilt your head and angle your view, sort of upside down like, and squint real hard, damn if those rings on the tower don’t look like snowflakes falling upward.” “I’m way ahead of you.” Dean said.
“I don’t see it.” Nicky said, tilt-a-whirling his gaze. “But you guys know I’ve certainly seen my share of the real stuff. Man, you guys gotta wing up to my place sometime. The snow and sky. Man,sometimes it all blows such a lovely riff….” “Gettin’ a little homesick, big daddy?”
“I remember one time…,” Nicky said, “I don’t think I ever told you guys about it. I don’t think I ever told anyone about it. It was night and there was a soft snow falling and the sky was on green fire with the Northern Lights. It was so sweetly silent out there. It was like creation when it first plays in your imagination, like an idea or a revelation, a thought to birth all thoughts! I don’t know how to say it…like your soul at its most most. So I’m standing outside the factory watching this show,”
Nicky continued,
“letting the inspiration beat. And I think I’m alone and I’m actually digging this whole treat for my solitude and only my solitude, when I see something out of the corner of my eye…. It’s a polar bear, stopped not twenty feet away from me! But, dig this, he’s not looking at ME. I can’t even say he knows I’m there. What he’s doing is looking at the snow and the sky just like I am and I think he’s out here for the natural fever too. So there we stood, together for as long as it took, just two strangers in the night…”
You know, Nicholas,” Frank said softly, “that’s a pretty hip thing to say for someone who thinks he’s so four sided.”
Nicky smiled. He looked at the Flamingo tower again.
“No, I just don’t see it looking like snow.” he said. He put out his KOOL cigarette and got out of the Caddie. “Thanks for the lift guys.” He extended his hand to Frank. “Merry Christmas, Charlie,” Frank said, shaking hands. “Hey,” Dean said to Nicky, “you make sure you say hi to all the elves from us. And those flying antelope too.” “I dig.” Nicky said, shaking hands with Dean. “Happy New Year baby.” Dean said.
“Happy New Year, Dino.”
Nicky headed out of the pulse of the Flamingo neon, into one of the unlit patches on the fallen world’s tallest Christmas tree, the last blur of his red tux disappearing into the night.
“Well, that’s that.” Frank said to Dean. Dean pulled out from under his seat a martini shaker and out of the glove box, two martini glasses and a jar of olives. He poured the glasses and both he and Dean lit cigarettes. “To Alaska finally becoming a state.” Dean toasted with his martini. “Alaska became a state a year ago, Nanook.” “Hmm,” Dean said, checking his watch. “I must still be on daylight savings time.”
And so in Vegas in ’59, Frank and Dean saved Christmas for all us squares in the rest of the world. And there they sat in that big red Cadillac, smoking, drinking, watching the upside down snow on the Flamingo tower and talking about westerns and broads.
Creative Credits
- Written by
- Glen J. Grant
- Illustration
- Kendra Parker
