Sweat, Campaigning In Vegas

LAS VEGAS, Nev.—Don’t ever believe it when someone tells you, “Oh, Las Vegas has dry heat, you’ll be alright.” They’re either clueless or lying. I left Logan airport early one morning in late May, where the crisp 55-degree weather was perfectly appropriate for a sport coat, dress shirt and loafers. I was, after all, being met in Nevada by a staffer of Rep. Shelley Berkley (D-Nev.), for whose re-election campaign I’m working this summer. As any go-getter knows, first impressions mean everything.

A few minutes after touchdown in Vegas, a man with a placard bearing my name greeted me. He was wearing a t-shirt and shorts, sandals strapped to his feet and Ray-Ban sunglasses dangling from around his neck. He looked at me, smirked, and remarked, “You’ll learn.” I realized what he meant the moment I stepped out into the desert heat. I had been lucky enough to arrive on the hottest day of the year; the thermometer read 107. My perfectly pressed shirt was now a wet rag, and somehow I had a feeling that it would only get hotter. I was right.

After a few weeks in the oven, I’ve learned to adapt. I no longer leave the house without a bottle of water, even if in a well-air conditioned car—they overheat (I learned this the hard way a few miles outside of town). I always keep Chap Stick and moisturizing lotion with me, following a few painful days of split lips and peeling fingers. And by no means will every sunburn turn into a golden tan—it may peel and leave your New England skin as pale as always. The backbones of Las Vegas’ economy—the megacasinos—capitalize on the heat perfectly. These billion-dollar resorts incorporate misting systems that cover the entirety of their properties. This provides such comfort that one feels compelled to stay within the bounds of each casino for just a few more minutes, where one might want to play just another few dollars at the craps tables.

Weather and casinos aside, I’ve had the opportunity to meet hundreds of people from all walks of life. I took a two-week leave from the congressional campaign to help an organization trying to legalize marijuana in the state. With this group, I led a team to rural northern Nevada so we could gather enough signatures for the initiative to appear on the ballot. My crack team of volunteers consisted of a failed stand-up comic, an ex-felon who spent the 1990s in California State Penitentiary (a reformed pimp and carjacker), and his girlfriend. While this alone could have provided the plot for a bad movie, to my amusement (and hassle), there was much more in store.

Once at our destination (an isolated town of 5,000), we met up with another team, made up of two homeless 20-year old married couples from California. One of the young women was not only two months pregnant; she also suffered from violent epilepsy. I was quickly initiated into the world of morning sickness-enhanced seizures.

But wait, it gets better.

It had been nearly a whole day, and I had not yet gotten a progress report from Team Homeless. At just past dinnertime, I received a call on my cell phone from the pregnant epileptic, telling me that both men in her team had been arrested for not carrying identification, apparently a crime in Nevada. I explained the situation to the police, and the men were released. The following morning, I awoke to the news that a grandfather of one of the men had died, so the couples needed to return to Reno. Just another setback in accomplishing our goal; I could deal with it. Slightly more trying, however, was the second arrest of my two favorite signature-gatherers.

According to Churchill County police, the crew had decided to hitchhike back to Reno. A man picked them up and allegedly tried to fondle the two women. During the ensuing in-vehicle scuffle, they were pulled over two miles outside of the town. Following a routine check of license and registration, it was determined that the car had been stolen earlier that afternoon, and the homeless cherubs may have been involved. Using some basic campaign strategy, my boss and I decided to cut all ties to the accused auto thieves and return to Las Vegas as soon as we had filed our petitions with the County Clerk and achieved our goal.

When I finally returned to civilization, I was welcomed by the campaign manager, a beer and the overwhelming desert heat. Had you forgotten about the heat? I had, in the cool altitudes of the Sierra Nevadas. But there it was, oppressive as always, drawing me to the air conditioning and bottled water. I returned to the Berkley campaign the next day, far away from ex-felons and homeless instigators. Back into the world of candidates’ forums and fundraisers, to speaking engagements and late nights. I was back to nights marked by sweaty sleep and parched throats. Back, as Tennyson wrote, “into the jaws of Death, into the mouth of Hell.” But I wouldn’t trade my stories, my summer or the desert sun for anything. It is, after all, only dry heat.

Michael A. Capuano ’03-’04, a Crimson editor, is a government concentrator in Mather House. He bought a new Las Vegas-appropriate wardrobe and has grown accustomed to the weather forecaster predicting highs around 115.