At half past noon on Tuesday, about a dozen bleary-eyed members of the Clark County Growth Task Force are wiping their dribbling chins—boxed lunches from Jimmy John's restaurant—and looking at a cryptic map covered in smushed-together red, yellow and green dots:
"What does the yellow mean?"
"Yellow is mixed development two."
"That's a one."
"Oh, excuse me. The yellow is the highest mixed-use area ... and so in these areas you could do a mixed-use project where the height is unlimited if—"
"What do the red dots mean?"
"That's your most intense suburban area. Base height of 100 feet with a special permit ..."
"Blue?"
"Code—"
"In the red area—"
"The blue and the red and the yellow and—what color is that? Green?"
"Obviously I haven't had a chance to read this yet ..."
They convened in April. They've been sitting here in the Winchester Community Center ever since, having meals brought in, quarantined for months until they figure out how to accommodate the growth of the city. They're bearded and slumped over, sometimes letting out an occasional groan, a plea for it all to end. One woman has grown hair past her knees. Another is Rain Man-quoting growth-speak in the corner: "Amend land use plans, yeah. Amend Title 30, yeah. Mixed-use development, yeah. One-point-seven million people, yeah." Their families can only send messages in via news reporters. Their careers—lost in the morass of paperwork, Power Point presentations, boxed lunches and closed circuit TV cameras.
OK, not exactly. They've left and come back periodically, sitting through meetings that might as well have been going on for months, moving at a glacial pace as they are. It's a classic Biosphere II-type study of the human reaction to being put into a large committee in a sedately lit room to "meet." To come up with "recommendations." To discuss "growth." To discuss "discussion." (Didn't the Biosphere II tribe suffocate?) Meanwhile, the population of the city outside is multiplying like bunnies. Literally, meanwhile.
Let's just take a month in the middle: September. In September, the greater Las Vegas area grew by 7,385 new residents—and that's only the ones who applied for driver's licenses—according to UNLV's Center for Business and Economic Research. Broken down, that's 246 people a day, or thereabout. Of course other people leave, others don't apply for licenses, others don't cancel their licenses when they leave—life's complicated. But at any rate, we're working with 246 new people a day.
Including this day. This Tuesday, wherein the Growth Task Force is set to accomplish the following agenda—wait—let's take a minute to consider the use of the word "force" here. One definition of force is "to exert beyond the natural limits or capacity; strain." Another is "the power of a person to act effectively and vigorously." And another: "To cause to develop or grow faster by artificial means." Why is this relevant? Well, because it's interesting. To me. Not to you? Who's in charge of this meeting? That's unclear. Let's vote. Wait. Doesn't someone need to make a motion for us to vote? Can we just move on? Does anyone else have any comments?
So it's half past noon on a Tuesday in the Winchester Community Center, and—what, about 115 people have moved to Las Vegas so far today? Where's the light rail? Where's the extra water, the affordable housing, the schools?
"In newly developed areas, we're going to come up with a fee structure," one Growth Task Force member says into her microphone, which lights up with a little red light when she turns it on to speak. Now another little red light comes on across the tables.
"When we started this committee, we said we were seeking attainable housing," another member says. Red light off.
New red light on: "Well, we currently have a $487 public facilities fee per single residential unit." Red light off.
Red light on: "Well, then, we have gas and electric ... this is going against what we started doing." A conundrum, this, nine months into the process.
Another man accidentally (presumably) turns his mic/light on and whimpers aloud. Turns the mic off. Wrings his hands. Lays his forehead on the table and begins banging it repetitively. Says something about his happy boyhood. Someone across the room begins saying the Lord's Prayer. Onward.
Time. Ticks. By. Another dozen people are unpacking their La-Z-Boys in their new suburban homes outside: "I love Las Vegas!" "Great use of natural resources!" "Where's the light rail?"
For a refreshing change of pace, the Growth Task Force moves to a new visual aid. Up on the screen it says, "Potential Strategies for Discussion." At the risk of slowing this down, of getting off on a tangent, which rarely happens, shouldn't someone note that since the recommendations of this committee are due to the County Commission at the end of the year, we might have discussed how to discuss a few thousand new residents ago? Red light off.
A big fat family of 12 moves in near Jones and I-215; a shrewish couple buys a home near Ann Road and Rainbow. Thirty-two kids scoot over in a portable classroom somewhere to make room for one more. I go home and water my 2-foot-by-2-foot lawn on the wrong day; devil horns sprout, my ticket to hell arrives in the mail. Construction crews pull a brand new apartment complex out of their pockets. The Growth Task Force keeps working.