Las Vegas – Page 2 – Pickpocket Bob Arno

How to cut down a tree; Requiem for a tree

[dropcap letter=”I”]t was a mesquite, 35 or so feet tall, graceful in an awkward way. Craving light, the poor thing crooked its trunk this way and that, having been stupidly planted under a roof and beside a wall. I’ve liked the tree a lot all these years, for its lush green foliage and shade—rare commodities in Las Vegas.

For various reasons, it had to go. And there was only one man for the job.

My brother-in-law, the self-proclaimed Swedish Okie and country bumpkin whom I’ve written about before, single-handedly brought the tree down.

Now you can’t just take a buzz saw to the trunk of a tree in close quarters and yell “timber!” There’s no safe place for the tree to fall, and it’s weight is enormous, full of life juices and wearing a lush canopy of green. There are windows in the proximity, fences, landscapes, tiles, other trees, all of which would suffer damage.

How to cut down a tree

Brother-in-law started with the canopy, removing all the light branches and a great deal of weight, using a hand saw. He did this while standing on a 10-foot ladder he had strapped onto a 16-foot ladder. Each branch was tied, cut, and lowered to the ground. Bob threw them over the wall. I bundled. When I began, the mound of branches was taller than I am. When I’d tied up a dozen bundles, the mountain of branches was just as high.

When it came to the hefty limbs, the lumberjack needed an assistant. The tree was to be dismantled from the top down in bite-sized chunks. A limb was tied, and its rope wound around a lower piece of trunk, pulley-fashion, and Bob was to keep pressure on the rope until it was cut through. When the new log was free, Bob lowered it gently to the ground with the rope. Brilliant system.

My brother-in-law knows all this because, like any good Swede who has the time and money, he has a country house. That is, he built a house in the forest outside of Stockholm. After clearing the land. Most of it he did himself. He’s still working on it, bit by bit, every summer.

The trunk of the mesquite was sawn into 23 gorgeous logs.

Something seems a little missing from my front courtyard now, but only a little. Other than the trunk, the tree’s glory was above the roof. I miss it anyway.

Criminal on the loose

Why am I compelled to run outside every time I hear the police helicopter hovering over my house? If there’s a criminal on the loose, isn’t it possible, at least remotely possible, that he’ll run into my yard to hide? My eyes are riveted to the helicopter, but I watch the brick wall, too.

criminal Las Vegas

When courtesy is exhausting

Had to go to the Apple store in the mall last night, and it turned into a long visit while Bob sorted out some issues with windows on his Mac. I left and wandered around the mall, an activity I normally detest.

It wasn’t crowded at all, despite the time of year. No surprise. What surprised me was the aggressive behavior of the sales people, especially at the kiosks that litter the walkways. A glance at the wares piled on the carts and in the booths, even while on the move, garnered at least a beckoning call. Veering too close guaranteed a come-on. But some sales staff were worse. I heard one man ask a long-haired woman if she used a blow-dryer. The woman wasn’t even looking at his kiosk, just walking past. She stopped and answered the man (positive reinforcement of his behavior).

By the time I’d gone to one end of the mall, I was fed up with being accosted. Walking back, I looked at no one and nothing. I wasn’t grouchy but I probably looked it. I just didn’t feel like being harassed. Then a bright-eyed man took a few fast steps toward me.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked with urgency, as if I could suddenly enlighten him.

“Absolutely not,” I replied with spirit, not slowing down at all.

The mall in Las Vegas is like being in a third-world market, where every stall owner begs for the attention of passersby. I feel for them. And many of the sales people are from struggling nations. We are now a struggling nation, too. So I guess the hard-sell is the new rule. You don’t want to be rude to the ropers and the barkers. You start off smiling and polite. But after five minutes, or an hour, or a week, depending on your tolerance, it becomes exhausting. Courtesy becomes exhausting.

Las Vegas shopping

Foreigners in Las Vegas

My Swedish brother-in-law came to visit us in Las Vegas. While Bob and I were off on a trip, he decided to upgrade our garden. He drove our car to the local nursery to buy some plants. As he approached the nursery, driving slowly, the car was suddenly rushed by a gang of shouting Mexicans. My brother-in-law went cold, he told us later: cold sweat, pounding heart, racing thoughts. The Mexicans were all shouting as they surrounded the car. “If I stop, it’s all over,” my brother-in-law thought, “I’ll lose the car.” So he inched forward, knuckles white on the wheel, staring straight ahead.

The Mexicans fell back and my brother-in-law turned into the nursery, parking safely. He leaned back and let out a huge breath, wondering how this could happen, or almost happen, in Las Vegas, in broad daylight, in a busy street. He sat in the car for a few minutes, gathering his composure. As another car approached the nursery, he watched the scene repeat itself from a comfortable distance, and realized that these were men seeking work. Choose me!, they must have been shouting, in competition with each other. Let me dig your hole!

He now goes into hysterics remembering his misinterpretation of the incident.

It’s not for nothing that my brother-in-law calls himself a Swedish Okie and a country bumpkin. This is the man we brought to a Chinese restaurant once, who scrunched up his face and pulled “some trash” out of his mouth when eating a fortune cookie.

brother-in-law claes Las Vegas

Lock ’em up!

Kim Thomas, a Vegas cop, posted a telling comment on crime statistics, and criminal rehabilitation vs. incarceration. Detective Thomas is the author of Vegas: One Cop’s Journey; a Novel from the Streets of Sin City. I’m calling attention to his comment since it is attached to a post of 2/23/08.

crime crime statistics Las Vegas prison Thieves

Looking up

My Mac’s power cord is stretched taut. I’m on my patio on a glorious spring day. Just a little too windy for my taste, and it could be warmer. Careful what I wish for, right?

I’ve got a perfect view of the spaceship-like top of the Stratosphere Casino, with its fun-fair rides 900 feet above ground. I can also see a police helicopter hovering somewhere between the Stratosphere and me. Closer to me, of course. There are sirens to match, as usual.

A wild cat just landed behind me, jumping down from a tree. It must have come over my roof. It trotted quickly to my side gate, looked up toward the top of the five-and-a-half-foot wall, then glanced back at me. Did I appear threatening? Then it used its paw to pull open the heavy wooden gate the full three inches it gives without being unlatched, and slipped through. The cat’s obviously been doing this for some time.

Bambi Vincent Las Vegas

Criminal on the loose

Evening. A sudden, deafening heartbeat jars my bones, and a vague anxiety revisits. The helicopter is back. Hovering low, its searchlight swings over my window, invading my private space with public urgency. I feel consumed by the thrumming and vibrate with it. The beam of light passes over my window again before it flies away, but it doesn’t go far. It circles, again and again, as usual.

Police helicopter “Criminal on the loose again,” I say. This happens at least twice a week, sometimes twice a day. If it’s daylight, I feel compelled to run outside and stare up at the police chopper, or look for glimpses of it between the trees and rooftops. This is the nester in me, the homeowner afraid for her safety and security. And it’s the thiefhunter in me, trying to triangulate the position of the fleeing perp, guess the scene of the crime.

If it’s night, I mentally confirm that all doors are locked. Who is being hunted? What did he do? Where is he now? Where would I go, if it were me? My neighborhood’s a good one for hiding, with all its mature trees and shrubs and shadows. Lots of walls to leap over. Did I leave any lights on to light up the yard? Sometimes Bob and I turn on a police scanner, but it’s never interesting. Sometimes we only get valet parking attendants, or something to do with golf. We haven’t learned how to use it properly.

Sometimes the helicopter is accompanied by sirens on the ground, but not always. Today the police cars actually drove onto the street behind my house. There, they always turn off their sirens before entering the neighborhood.

I don’t live in a war zone, but in a city center. Having grown up in suburbia, I can’t ignore these incidents as life-long city-dwellers might. The searches are never resolved to my satisfaction. I never learn what happened, or if the subject was caught. In fact, I’m always left with the vague assumption that the helicopter just gave up and left the criminal on the loose. It’s always a criminal, by the way. Never a suspect. In my mind.

I lived in Atlantic City for a year and heard more sirens there. Many, every day. But no helicopters. Maybe it was just a budget thing. Maybe Atlantic City police didn’t have a helicopter.

Bambi Vincent Las Vegas