The Long Road Home

If you happened to be traveling through Nipton, on the edge of California's Mojave Desert, on December 15, 2004, you may remember the sandstorm, and the strange heat that came with it. Nipton is a desert town of seventy-five hardy souls, ten miles off Interstate 15, sixty miles south of Las Vegas.

You might have seen Rolf, an overweight retired motorbike mechanic, setting off on his Harley that evening in search of what he called "the true meaning of American freedom." The sand turned him back before he got far. He headed for Reggie's Diner, the only place in town to get a burger.

At about seven o'clock, a tall young man in his early twenties, sand in his blond hair and a scarf over his mouth, walked into Reggie's. Ed McMahon, the diner's pony-tailed manager, greeted him at the bar.

"Looking for a bite to eat and maybe a place to stay," the stranger said wearily. His truck's air filter had given out in the storm.

He sat near Rolf, who asked where he was headed.

"Not really sure. I'm looking for someone," the young man said. "A guy called Jim Reeves, mid-fifties, tall, bit of a New England accent."

"Name doesn't ring a bell," Rolf said, resting his head on his hand. "What's the interest in this guy?"

"He's my dad. I haven't seen him in twenty years."

Rolf hauled his heavy frame out of his chair, came over, and shook the young man's hand. "The name's Rolf."

"Nick."

He handed over a faded, slightly out-of-focus photograph. Ed came by with a beer and looked at it too, promising to ask around, but no one recognized the face.

Nick explained: his mother had found old tax papers with his dad's social security number tucked in a chest, and a trace had turned up a PO Box in Nipton. She wrote but never heard back. Then she was diagnosed with cervical cancer, and by that time she was too sick to travel. She died a few months ago, and before she went, she asked Nick to find his father and deliver a letter.

"Sorry about your mom," Rolf said, leaning back in his chair. "If he's in these parts, he shouldn't be hard to find."

"You're not from these parts," Rolf added, catching the accent. "Connecticut, maybe New York."

"Danbury," Nick said.

"There used to be a motorcycle meet up there every year — guys gathered at a diner after Sturgis. Marcus Dairy Bar. Some fine-looking women, if I remember right." Rolf chuckled, then shook his head like he was pushing away an old memory.

Nick told him he worked as a computer engineer back east but had always wanted to see the West. Rolf had Ed call the hotel to get Nick a room, and they sat another hour, Rolf talking motorcycles and desert life until the beers made Nick sleepy. Rolf wrote down his number and told him to call if he needed anything. Nick made his way carefully down the sand-blasted street and checked into the Nipton Hotel for a week.

The next morning the air was crisp and clear under a cloudless sky, the storm gone as if it had never come. Sixty miles north and a little east, just off the Las Vegas Strip, a ragtag huddle of day laborers waited outside a 7-Eleven, hoping some local builder would drive by with an offer of a day's work. Most were Mexican, high-spirited, joking among themselves. Standing a little apart from them was an older man — grey hair thinning, face tanned and skin leathered by the sun. His name was Jim.

Trucks pulled up one after another. Drivers bargained for a few minutes, then two or three men climbed into each cab and were driven away. An hour passed. Jim was never one of the chosen. He retreated out of the brilliant sunshine to a low wall shaded by a bougainvillea bush, and waited some more.

That same morning, Nick was under the hood of his truck, trying and failing to get it started. He called Rolf, who offered to ride down, pick him up, and go with him to Vegas for parts.

They rode up Interstate 15 together, found an auto parts store at a mall on the edge of the city, locked the parts away in Rolf's carrier, then rode over to the MGM Grand, ate lunch, and fed a few dollars into the one-armed bandits. Around three they got back on their bikes. Had Nick looked to his right as they passed the 7-Eleven, he might have spotted an older man sitting in the shade. Instead, he and Rolf opened their throttles and roared onto the interstate.

Nick was beginning to enjoy this adventure. Since leaving Connecticut two months earlier he had traveled alone, most nights in cheap motels, crossing the Rockies, stopping at the Grand Canyon and Yosemite — but this was the first time he'd really felt the pleasure of it. Wind in his face, a warm crystal-clear day, riding through the High Desert beside a man who seemed to know every mile of it: life, he thought, doesn't get much better than this.

Back in Nipton they worked into the evening, disassembling the carburetor, fitting the new hoses, putting it all back together by lamplight in Rolf's garage. Sometime around eight, the old blue F150 roared back into life, and the two of them gave a high five and a cheer.

That evening Jim strolled down the Strip with five dollars in his pocket, earned helping push-start a stranger's car. He walked up the long drive to the Bellagio, past a parking attendant who eyed him warily but said nothing, and made his way to the sports bar in back, where his old friend Harry worked.

"Look who's back from the dead," Harry laughed. It was the first friendly face Jim had seen in a while.

"Long day looking for work, not much luck," Jim said. "Thought I'd come commiserate with an old friend."

"You look tired and thirsty. What's your poison?"

"Rum and coke, thanks, Harry."

"So where are you living these days?"

"Here and there," Jim said.

"You're not in the catacombs," Harry said, shaking his head. "They're not safe, Jim."

"They're not bad. Warm and dry. It's the best I can do." The catacombs were a network of tunnels under the city, home to vagrants, the homeless, and those escaping the law.

"It's not easy getting work at my age," Jim said. "They want younger guys — too old, too slow, or so they tell me. Something will break soon."

Harry slid a twenty across the bar. Jim protested, but Harry insisted — a big spending party had come through at lunch — and pressed a few casino tokens on him too, tips he wasn't allowed to keep for himself.

Jim sat drinking and talking with Harry for an hour, glad of both the money and the company. On his way out he dropped the tokens into a dollar slot machine and pulled the handle without much thought. He was turning to leave when it began paying out. He scooped the tokens into a bucket and cashed out a hundred dollars, then went straight back to the bar.

"Back again so soon," Harry said.

"Here's your twenty, and a five for a tip," Jim said. "Those tokens of yours brought me some luck." He might have been broke and homeless, but Jim prided himself on fairness.

Outside, the air felt lighter, a cool breeze blowing down the Strip. He ate at a diner, checked into the motel next door, and for the first time in weeks felt something like security. Standing in the shower, he thought: maybe my luck is turning. Maybe I'll call Rogan tomorrow.

Around the same time, Nick showered, dressed, and walked to Reggie's Diner, where Ed was closing up.

"Any luck finding your dad?"

"None yet." Nick asked if the town had a post office. Ed pointed him to the trading post, run by a man named Brad.

The next morning, Brad pulled out an old ledger. Jim Reeves had held a PO Box for six months, ten years back — no forwarding address. But digging through a box of uncollected mail, Brad found two pieces addressed to Jim: a tax document, and a letter in Nick's mother's handwriting, never opened.

"It's the letter from my mom. He never got it," Nick said, a catch in his voice.

Brad checked his ID and let him take both. Nick then asked the hotel manager if they had records from ten years back. They did — Jim Reeves had stayed six months, paid cash, listed a PO Box. No one on staff remembered him.

Deflated, Nick went table to table at Reggie's Diner asking if anyone knew a Jim Reeves. No luck. He stepped outside into the blazing sun, climbed into his steaming truck, and just drove — turning left at the end of Main Street, down the empty road shimmering in the heat. He thought of Rolf, and decided to pay him a visit.

That same morning, Jim had decided to sleep in — it had been weeks since he'd had an air-conditioned room and clean sheets. He called down for toothpaste and a razor, then had the girl at the front desk dial a number for him from the lobby phone.

"Rogan Construction," a voice answered.

"I'm looking for Martin Rogan. This is Jim Reeves."

"Wait a minute, let me see if he's busy." A pause. "Can he call you back?"

"I'm an old employee of his," Jim said quickly. "I was going to stop by — could you suggest a good time? Today's the only day I can do this."

The voice came back and told him to come by around three. Jim thanked her, then asked the front desk to extend his room one more night — he didn't have the money yet, but he'd find it. He picked up a business card and a free copy of the local paper, and spent the next hour circling a couple of janitorial listings in the help-wanted section.

At the top of his to-do list was laundry. He wanted clean clothes for his meeting with Rogan, which meant a trip back to the catacombs, where his things were. It took half an hour to walk there and another fifteen minutes to pick his way through the tunnels. There was a code of honor down there — a man's belongings were off limits, thieves were beaten and cast out, and borrowed money had to be repaid. Jim needed fifteen dollars for the room. As a longtime resident with a reputation for honesty, he was a good risk; the men lent it to him without much fuss. He gathered some clothes into a plastic bag, thanked them, and left. Forty-five minutes later he was back at the motel, watching his clothes go round in the washer.

Nick drove out to see Rolf, who was elbow-deep in an old motorcycle he was restoring.

"The only reason someone stays in a Nipton hotel six months is because they had work here," Rolf said, thinking it over. "You might check County Records or the library — see what kind of projects were going on back then."

They worked on the bike together through the afternoon, then rode out to the Desert and Cultural Heritage Center in Goff to dig through old newspapers. Rolf took the long way, through the Mojave National Preserve — juniper and sage, golden light through the pines. "You're in for a treat, Nick," he said.

The Heritage Center was an old adobe building, giant cacti out front, jasmine and bougainvillea climbing the walls. The archivist brought out armloads of old newspapers in giant portfolios, and Rolf and Nick sat down to work through them. Every few minutes Rolf would murmur, I was there, or I knew him, or I remember that — Nick began to worry he was only reading the lifestyle pages. But there was a lot going over time in that small community: bridges repaired, trees trimmed, new sewer lines going in. None of it sounded like long-term work — until a note from a January 1994 council meeting caught his eye: a development called Casa del Sol had been approved for expansion outside Nipton.

Nick borrowed a pencil and paper from the librarian and started jotting down names and details from the articles, building a picture of desert life back then — motorcycle rides, Vegas trips, small-town gossip. He was starting to understand, a little, why his father might have chosen not to come home. There was a lot to like about life out here.

They stayed until closing, darkness falling outside. On the way back, Rolf steered them toward the interstate rather than the mountain roads — deer and coyote came out of the underbrush at night without warning. They stopped at a diner along the way.

"I enjoyed that," Rolf said over dinner. "Made me remember some good times. Saw a picture or two of some of my old ladies." He chuckled, though it wasn't quite what Nick wanted to hear.

"Rolf, you know anything about Casa del Sol?"

"Big homes, about four miles out, at the base of the mountains. Belongs to a Vegas developer, Martin Rogan — does five-thousand-square-foot houses and bigger."

"Maybe we ride up to Vegas in the morning," Rolf said. "See if he'll give us five minutes. No harm trying. There's an old girlfriend of mine at the Venetian too — we'll have to leave early. I've got to be back by afternoon to finish the bike."

That afternoon, Jim himself had been sitting in the lobby of Rogan Construction, having talked his way in without an appointment. Rogan, a short, stocky man with a gold ring, remembered him vaguely.

"I worked for you ten years ago, in Nipton," Jim said. "I'd like to know if there's any work."

“What have you been up to” Roan asked

“Some handiwork and janitorial mostly”, Jim replied

"I don't have much use for a janitor," Rogan said.

"I'm a good chippy — I did the framing on Casa del Sol."

"Still have your tools?"

"I do," Jim lied. He'd sold them long ago.

Rogan told him nothing was open until February, but to leave a number. Jim left the motel's card, with Harry's the bartender’s number written on the back.

The next morning, Nick arrived at Rolf's at seven. They rode to Rogan Construction together. The receptionist, Julie, gave Nick an approving look and told him to wait for Rogan.

When Rogan came in, Nick introduced himself and explained he was looking for his father, Jim Reeves.

"He did work for me," Rogan said. "In fact — I saw him just yesterday, in this office."

Nick's skin went cold. He showed Rogan his mother's letter and his driver's license as proof. Rogan disappeared and came back with a phone number.

"Good luck. He's a good man and a hard worker."

Nick called immediately. A man's voice answered — not Jim, but Harry, who told him to come to the Bellagio bar at eleven.

Julie, overhearing, offered to call if Jim showed up at the office too, and took Nick's number with a smile Rolf didn't fail to notice.

"She's hot to trot for you, Nick," Rolf said. "I'm going to head to the Bellagio myself, wait around for this Harry."

Nick drove down the Strip alone, sat in the quiet bar listening to the hum of slot machines, and waited. At eleven, Harry arrived.

"You must be Nick. You look just like your dad."

A few minutes later, an older man with thinning hair and rough, sun-worn hands sat down a few stools away.

"Harry, how's it going?"

"Good — someone here wants to meet you."

Jim turned. Nick looked at him and said, simply, "Hi, Dad. It's Nick."

Jim said nothing at first. His eyes filled with tears.

"My son, Nick," Jim finally said. "Jessica's your mother."

"Yeah, Dad. Mom died a few months ago. She tried to reach you." Nick pulled out the letters and handed them over. "She wrote one years ago, but you never got it. She gave me this one before she died, and asked me to find you."

Nick broke down. "There's so much I want to tell you, so much I want to ask."

"So much like your mother," Jim said, resting a hand on his son's shoulder. "I'd offer to take you to lunch, Nick, but I've hit some hard times."

"You always sent money, Dad. Mom appreciated it. The least I can do is buy you lunch. We have a lot to talk about."

"I always loved your mom, son. But I could never make her happy — I wasn't good enough for her. She was classy, educated. I left so she could have the life she deserved. My staying would have made her miserable. I saw the writing on the wall."

"I think she loved you, and missed you," Nick said. "Whenever she spoke of you, it was with regret. She said you were a good man. She never remarried. She waited. I waited, hoping you'd come back."

He wiped his eyes. "It's taken me a long time to get here. And I've waited a long, long time for you to come home."

Jim put his arm around his son. "Yes," he said quietly. "It's time. Let's just say I took the long road home."