FEATURE: Scenes from a Boulevard

Betcha can't find him.

Go on, look around. Turn the entire paper upside down, shake it, shake it hard, see if he tumbles out.

(Maybe he's clubbing with Digital Tony, or hitting on Sonja, or laying low near the adult classifieds. Just for the massage.)

Can't find him, can you?

Because he's not here. Hal Rothman is not here. Nor are his peerless sociological insights or informed historical perspective or erudite cultural critiques, delivered in measured professorial-ese.

Much as we love Hal—and we do, Hal, honest, let's do lunch next week, buddy—the UNLV history department chairman, prolific author and mega-media maven who's forged his reputation by taking the anthropological temperature of this town isn't along for this ride.

Nope. Just you and me.

Here's the assignment: I've been asked to traverse the entirety of Charleston Boulevard and record sort of a mini-travelogue—but not an annotated doctoral thesis, mind you. This is about leisurely sightseeing, not clinical sociology, though if we reach a few profound cultural conclusions along the urban/suburban trail, we can always pass them along to our pal Hal.

Why Charleston? Well, it stretches from the foot of Sunrise Mountain to the cliffs of Red Rock, nature's breathtaking bookends to a simmering stew of divergent neighborhoods—multiethnic subcultures to the east, funky arts district heading west toward a booming restaurant row paving the path to tony Summerlin—a veritable Vegas Mini-Me.

Could be cool, but what's fun by one's lonesome? I could use the company, you could surely use a getaway. We'll write it on the run, scribbling as we go. You can experience how we in the media do this gig. (Well, those of us not named Stephen Glass, Jayson Blair, Janet Cooke or Jack Kelly.)

Slide in on the passenger side … Wait, lemme clear this crap off the floor … Playboy, August 1997? Hmmm … You want these leftover fries from my lunch at Arby's on Wednesday? They're still a little warm … OK, hop in.

Are you diggin' this? Gorgeous, huh? I never thought any residential areas on Charleston were this elegant, but here—where are we, Charleston and … Hollywood? Yeah, just before Sunrise Mountain slopes upward. This is some impressive, well-heeled shit. And so Q-U-I-E-T. Candlelight Estates. Che Chichi, right? Let's pull into this development over here. "Solitude," it's called. You bet your ass, solitude. If I coughed loudly around here, they'd measure it on the Richter scale.

Damn, man, just look at these homes. Must be five or six bedrooms, every one, coated in these soothing palettes, all eggshell-white and pale pink. OHMYGOD. Dig the view! It's like Oz overlooking the Emerald City.

Hey, see that guy over there? Him, the one hosing down his sun deck. Do me a favor, roll down your window.

"Excuse me, sir? Can we have a word? Great. What's your name? … A.J.? You a retiree, A.J.? Cool. Two years here? From Chicago? We can see why you like it."

"You know, when I moved here, my demands were, I didn't like to be in a house where I could be sitting in my bathroom and shake hands with my neighbor sitting in his. That pushed me toward this kind of big piece of property. This is a half-acre. Anyplace else you go, you're looking at practically less than a quarter of an acre. People have made comment to me who live on the west side who say, 'You live on the bad side of town.' I don't see anything bad about this side of town, and these homes aren't exactly inexpensive. That one over there just sold for almost half a mil."

"Geez, Louise! Do you shop around here too, A.J.?"

"Not really. Just for my food. There's really nothing in the shops on Charleston that appeal to me. I mostly go to the Boulevard Mall."

"Thanks, A.J."

You write all that down? Notes are vitally important. Why can't I take 'em myself? Hey, I'm driving.

Whooooooopsie.

Comin' down the mountain a bit, and there's the Strip rollin' into view. Always a sweet-lookin' skyline, don't ya think? Phyllis Drive. Barely a couple of blocks down, and gorgeous gives way to ... nice. High-class to working class. We're back in the Valley, amid strip-malled, suburban street life—an Albertson's peering over a Cold Stone Creamery; the clean, modest Orchards housing complex anchoring Tree Line Drive; a lumpy, bulldozed lot pockmarked with tufts of grass and weeds at the corner of Spanish Drive ...

Check it out, over there on the right, at Lailani. The Casablanca Bar & Grill. How 'bout a refreshing beverage? Nonalcoholic, of course. I can't let ya get pickled on the company dime.

Clean, spacious, unpretentious ... dark. Peppered with beefy construction workers from the site across the street. Your garden-variety, brewskie-after-workskie joint, wouldn't you agree? Let's introduce ourselves.

" 'Scuse us, barkeep?"

"Hi there."

"What's your name, ma'am?"

"Toni Herchik."

"Toni, we're from Las Vegas Weekly, and we're just getting some impressions of the neighborhood for a story about Charleston Boulevard. Excuse my friend here taking notes, but it's part of the job." (Smile, will ya!) "New on the job, you see."

"I like this area for the diversity. We get people here who live right around here, but we also get the people who have those bigger homes, and we get the construction guys. You know, I have grown children who've moved to Summerlin, and they say, 'Why does Mommy stay in the ghetto?' But I don't think it's like that here. I never have to throw people out of here, that doesn't happen. They're neighbors, they take care of each other. Some things have changed, though. Six years ago, I worked the graveyard, and I'd watch the coyotes run across the street. All you see are houses everywhere now."

We drank, but we didn't shovel grub into our pie holes. That's why God created McDonalds. Spare me the gripes—you're a cub reporter, not the winning Apprentice. Whaddaya expect, Wolfgang Puck?

Only another few blocks down, and the human rainbow expands from predominantly white to black and Hispanic, Hawaiian and Asian. In the spacious, whitebread mall, not far from the quaint scrapbooking shop, a Mexican restaurant alters the nonethnic flow. And the sounds of suburbia turn more urban, English streaked with Spanish for emphasis, as mothers scold rambunctious children.

And on through the Golden Arches.

Well, isn't this intriguing. You don't get it? Clearly, this area is growing more ethnic, but don't you find it a bit, I dunno, tense, the way the demographics break down in here? I mean, look: left of the counter, Hawaiian and Hispanic customers. Right, all white. And the counter itself is like some neutral border town, the staff fluent in both English and Spanish. United We Stand, Divided We Eat. But maybe, a generation or two from now, we can finally realize that dream of all people, no matter their color or creed or religious convictions, Chicken McNuggeting together in peace and harmony.

Funny, but if you squint from Charleston and Nellis, you can still see Solitude in the rearview mirror. But it seems miles away, especially when that ugly urban blotch—graffiti—mars the faded walls falling into view around Yew Avenue. You can practically feel the landscape shift beneath the car wheels, can't you? Exciting, and a little ominous.

Let's pull in here, at the Charleston Indoor Swap Meet. Looks like the shopping crossroads of this neighborhood. What is that language? Spanish, English, Chinese … Spanglishese?

I detest this cliché with all my heart and soul, but truth is truth: Charleston's most culturally rich region is also its shabbiest. Scan the vendor listings on the outside window panes: Edith Toys (B-3) and Musica Del Pueblo (E-3). J.J. Fashion (B-1) and Casa Medina (D-5). Who sells "SUNG ASSES?" Oh, I see. The "L" has faded away. And if I'm totaling up the missing spaces correctly, "KIM' TERATIO" is actually … "KIM'S ALTERATIONS."

C'mon, let's see what they've got.

Look at all this. Rows upon rows of cheap jewelry under glass. And a few not-so-cheapie pieces. Furniture booths with on-sale bunk beds. Trinket shops, wig outlets, luggage and belts. Muffled Latino music drifting out of a Hispanic hair salon.

And far more lonely vendors than curious consumers, lending it the faint whiff of despondency.

Listen, I'm gonna chat with Steve Kim, the man running the car stereo booth over there, soon as he finishes a sale. Toss me the notepad, will ya?

"I've lived in town for 18 years, primarily here on the east side, and I think it's getting tougher, crime-wise. I see a lot of gang-banging people coming over from California and New York, and they're moving into this area because it's cheaper housing. Once you drive toward Nellis, and past Nellis, you hear about stolen cars and cars broken into every day. I live near Sunrise Mountain, so there's no problem there. I live in a gated house, and I plan to send my kids to a private school, not public school."

"Thanks, Mr. Kim."

So what did you get from that guy over there? What's his name, the bald guy with the kung-fu beard operating the cell-phone booth? Eddie Molina, is it? And he lives right behind the Swap Meet? Lemme see your notes.

"Twelve years I've been in this neighborhood, and I like that everything is so close, like the freeway and everything. But there's a lot of robberies and stuff like that, a lot of crime. The cops are here every day, man. I think it's getting worse, because I never used to witness all this crime at once."

Sounds sadly familiar. Let's get back in the car.

One block away and ... Oh, my ... Doesn't that break your heart? ... In an empty field adjacent to a Burger King ... a circle of goods for sale, a woman and two small girls leaning against their parked car, anxiously watching the traffic that zooms by, never slowing to eyeball the goods. Be thankful for what you have—whatever you have—for no matter how little you think it is, it's a fortune to someone with less. And there's always someone with less.

They're filling out forms, chasing screaming toddlers, waiting, ever waiting, to be summoned by a number, gazing blankly into space, a few with their heads cradled in their hands, eyes squeezed tight in exhaustion. Or God-knows-what-else.

C'mon. They've got enough to deal with without nosy reporters poking around their lives. Let's leave these people be.

So despairingly low-rent here, pushing westward on Charleston from Eastern Avenue. Rickety rows of low-slung strip malls taint the landscape, furniture for sale stacked 8 feet high in weedy yards, looking more like public eviction than private business; ramshackle wood huts hawk carpeting and cleaning services and window tinting and upholstery and antiques and $2 "gifts," barely cordoned off from one another by slumping chain-link fences caving in on themselves. Bleak visual reminders of weak fiscal realities. Yet somehow, shot through with Vegas sunlight, even the near-desolation, the barely-getting-by-ness of it all, seems oddly … optimistic.

Despite the defections of the mall-rat-infested masses to Chain-Store America, the small-business spirit survives on these streets. But not by much.

Bet this looks familiar, huh Skippy? Gotta love any part of town with a theater marquee reading Schtup a Nafka. Know what that means? "F--k a Whore" in Yiddish. Honest to God. … What? "Schtup. S-C-H-T-U-P. Schtup." … Right … Anyway, it's a weird little play by the Test Market Theatre Group, which operates out of the Arts Factory over there. Lots has been written about the arts district in this part of Charleston, whether with the advent of First Fridays, it's got the juice to lend Vegas any cultural cred, or is the neighborhood still more frightening than funky?

Eerily empty in the middle of the day, don't ya think? It just feels so … lonely. Where are the art-loving lunch throngs? Let's pop into the CAC—that's Contemporary Arts Collective—and see if we can locate an actual living, breathing, working artist.

"I moved here about two and a half years ago, from Los Angeles."

"Lemme get your name, first. Timothy Caldwell, is it? And you're a painter, photographer and CAC board member. … Yes, you were saying?"

"One thing that's interesting is, I don't think it's really being gentrified around here. I don't think you're going to see a Starbucks in this neighborhood. It seems like it's becoming culturally quite interesting. When I moved here, I thought this was kind of a vacant space, Las Vegas itself. But when I discovered the Arts Factory and, in particular, the CAC, I found there were thousands of people in the city who cared about the same things I did. It made me think twice about living here, and I ended up buying a house. The CAC was giving me a different viewpoint of the city. It doesn't shine as bright as the Strip, but it certainly is culturally enriching. I'm even doing a play next door."

"With the Schtup a Nafka
people?"

"Yeah, it's called Lions Lost in Translation, and it has some interesting ideas about postmodernism, and I didn't think I'd be finding a play like that in this town."

"But is the arts community making any meaningful progress, you think, in attracting people beyond hard-core arts loyalists down to this part of town?"

"I think every city equates Downtown with bad. The skid row area of downtown Los Angeles has not been addressed at all. It's frightening down there. You practically get eaten by homeless people. That's a completely different thing than here. Here, someone might walk up and ask you for money, but that might happen to you on the Strip or anywhere else in Las Vegas, so I don't think people should feel anything strange about being in this neighborhood."

Weird, the way the neighborhood shifts abruptly as we cross Rancho Drive. UMC Medical Center over here. UNLV's Shadow Lane Campus and future home of the School of Dentistry, Biotechnology Center and Cancer Research Center over there.

Las Vegas Dialysis Center, Cardiovascular Associates, Advanced Internal Medicine, Goldring Sleep Center, Pulmonary Associates, Allergy and Asthma Associates, Quest Diagnostics, Center for the Study of Hangnails, Acne, Foot Fungus and Postnasal Drip … OK, I made that last one up to test ya … But ya gotta wonder if we need to present insurance cards just to cross the street here.

On balance, it's a white-skin/blue-collar world west of Valley View, isn't it? Las Vegas Valley Water District diagonally across from Vegas' greasiest greasy spoon—and I say that with love—the immortal Skillet Cafe. Middlebrow malls, muffler joints, banks, bars, buzzed barflies.

Hey, how 'bout another whistle-whetter? Skinny Dugans oughtta do. Contented bunch of imbibers, wouldn't you say? Middle-class, middle-age and midway toward a promising TGIF bender.

See that quiet guy, alone, waiting on a brew at the end of the bar? That's Walt, a union carpenter, and the innkeeper here tells me he's lived his entire 49 years in this town, the last 20 on Charleston Boulevard. Why don't you sidle up to him and shoot him a few questions?

"My father still lives in the Huntridge area. That's where I was born, and I went to school in that part of town. I bought a HUD home just down the street here, and I've lived there 20 years with my wife. My children are grown and they live here also. It's been a good town to me. And there's a diversity of cultures and income brackets, which makes it interesting. You've got older homes, older businesses, but they still have their homespun feel. And new businesses are always coming here. People are able to start new businesses all over Charleston."

Pass me the notepad, please. Got some thoughts to jot down:

Past the traffic knot at Decatur, the controlled chaos at Rainbow, and on toward Buffalo, where streets widen, decibels diminish, rents rise and apartments transform into town homes, compulsively prefaced by "luxury." Past Durango, where Boca Park signals the gateway to more sophisticated shopping and fussier dining—Fleming's steak house, Carrabba's Italian Grill, Claim Jumpers—and a Barnes and Noble, aggressively homey with overstuffed chairs and a café of latte-sippers, reeks of bookstore chic.

The urban, multiethnic vibe of East Charleston has morphed into the middle-class homogeneity of West Charleston, affluence idling just up ahead.

Approaching Fort Apache, where Fabulous Freddy's transforms the carwash experience from chore to event, and a Pottery Barn cameos in the background, certifying a shift to onrushing Summerlin sensibilities—an encroaching exclusivity. An array of sculpted horses physically welcome you to—and psychologically bar you from—the shaded castles of Queensridge.

And there she waits, classy and a wee bit haughty; lying just beyond Hualapai Commons with its Atlanta Bread Factory and Scottrade financial services, her regal shopping arenas burnished by tasteful half-walls, establishment names aristocratically carved into the statuary, so even Taco Bell assumes an aura of privilege.

To say nothing of the nearly princely sight of a dignified, stone-framed Terrible Herbst.

Here, Charleston Boulevard, far from Restauracion En Cristo, sports an "information kiosk," and helpful signs pointing toward posh, manicured neighborhoods with sleek roundabout streets and names like Granada, Escala and Tierra Bella. And perhaps the most obvious status symbol of the effete elite:

Pretentious spelling.

"Corporate Pointe." "Center Pointe Plaza." "Summerlin Centre." "Canyon Pointe."

Can't these people spell "point" and "center" like the rest of us slobs?

Ya gotta join Hal and me for lunch next week. But first …

Charleston Boulevard meets its end in a blaze of God's glory.

It's called Red Rock Canyon.

Look around, soak it in, imagine clever, colorful, moving ways to describe it to our readers, then jot down one of the most frustrating facts any writer will ever face:

Some things are simply beyond words.