I love Las Vegas. Yes, it’s fake, overpriced, and marinated in a thick cloud of cigarette smoke, but there’s something about the vibe that keeps me coming back. Maybe it’s the unpredictability—a place where Elvis impersonators might share a slot machine with a billionaire or your Uber driver doubles as a philosopher-santa. Case in point: my latest trip.
My Uber driver was Ralph, a proud veteran (as his Tesla’s license plates informed me). His signature move? Opening the door for passengers and actually helping with suitcases—a rarity in the wild world of ride shares. “Front or back?” he asked as I slid into the front seat, curious about the man behind the gentlemanly gestures.
Ralph looked like a Santa Claus on sabbatical: mid-sixties, long white beard tied into two Rasta-style ends, and rocking a Hawaiian shirt that screamed “Maui 1985.” If Santa ever gave up the North Pole for surfboards and aloha shirts, this would be his prototype. Ralph was chatty in the best way—equal parts storyteller and listener.
“Where are you from?” he asked, like every service worker in Vegas does to figure out how much small talk they need to endure. “Kansas,” I replied, bracing for the usual awkward pause. But not Ralph. “Been there plenty,” he said with genuine enthusiasm. Turns out, Ralph was a former trucker who’d crisscrossed the U.S. more times than I’ve flown to conferences. “Kansas City? I’d hit it either on I-35 or I-70. You never know where you’ll end up, though. Breakdowns can keep you stuck in some places longer than planned.”
Naturally, I asked if he ever slept in the truck. “Mostly, yes,” he said. But if his rig was in the shop, it was motel life for him. “I’ve lived in 49 states,” he added casually, like this was a normal life achievement. Hawaii, of course, was the exception—although judging by his outfit, I suspect he’s spent quality time at its airport gift shops.
Ralph had the rare ability to make small talk feel substantial. I mentioned my Denver Uber driver, who also owned a cement truck on the side. Ralph was delighted. “That’s a great hustle!” he said. “Hard work, though. And you probably bring a little cement home with you, whether you want to or not.”
As we rolled along, Ralph pointed out remnants of the recent Formula 1 race in Vegas. “You missed Max Verstappen becoming world champion again,” he said, clearly unimpressed. “They say they tear up and replace the track every year, but I doubt it. Probably just bury the new asphalt under the old stuff until it all becomes one bumpy mess.”
Everything was going smoothly until Ralph veered into dreaded territory: politics. “So, what do you think of the election?” he asked, with all the subtlety of a blackjack dealer asking if you’d like another card on 20. I froze. Politics, sports, and other bro-heavy topics are my conversational Kryptonite. “I’m in denial,” I said, hoping to dodge the topic.
No such luck. Ralph launched into a monologue about the Beast vs. the Communists, with a brief detour into divine intervention. At this point, I activated my trusty Jolle Phase-Out™—a mental superpower that lowers all external stimuli to a dull buzz while I occasionally toss in a “hmm” or “ah, interesting” for good measure.
Finally, we reached my hotel. Ralph jumped out, opened my door, and ceremoniously retrieved my suitcase. “Wait!” he said, lifting the mat in his trunk to reveal a box filled with pamphlets. “Kiss our freedoms goodbye!” the cover declared, alongside “Welcome to Las Vegas.”
Ah, Vegas. You never know what you’re going to get.
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