Free Plaster City (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) by Shaw Johnny Page B

the guns back into the gym bag and threw them in the closet. He tossed the bedspread on top for camouflage. Not exactly the hotel safe, but our neighbors were too busy breaking bad to lower themselves to petty theft.

FIVE
    I don’t know if it was in spite of our advanced level of intoxication or because of it, but our search was shockingly efficient. Instead of driving around in a haphazard jumblefuck, we laid out a grid and never drove down the same street twice. Apparently, nothing focuses a drunk like a quest. Anyone who has ever yearned for rolled tacos at the end of a tequila binge knows what I’m talking about. The secret to accomplishing anything while drunk is to accept the limitations of one’s not-sober state. Denying drunkenness is exactly the kind of thinking that turns finding one’s car keys into the poorest man’s version of a scavenger hunt.
    Bobby and I took my truck because—despite Bobby’s disappointment—it had no truck gun. I drove. Bobby studied a map and marked off the streets with a lavender crayon he found between the seats. We went up and down the north/south streets of La Quinta, back and forth, like tilling a field. It was all Calles and Avenidas with identical stucco and terra cotta tile houses. We kept our eyes open for a camouflage Hummer.
    The first hour was boring, but we had enthusiasm on our side. The second hour was worse. Our dipping buzz and the lack of variety in the residential neighborhoods combined to test our stamina. We were losing faith in the stratagem. But the thought of being back in the soul-suck of a hotel room kept us going.
    Before we switched to the east/west streets, we made a run through the looping lanes of the Palisades Golf Resort. There were at least a dozen golf courses in La Quinta. It was that kind of town. The country club houses were larger and tackier, the kind of new money monstrosities that the owner of a camo Hummer would consider classy. At least the nouveau riche, Disney-fake-European castles gave us visual variety.
    “Look at these fucking houses,” Bobby said. “That one’s got those castle things.”
    “Turrets.”
    “I don’t know if that’s awesome or idiotic. I’m going to go with idiotic. Because if it’s something I would build, it’s probably stupid. I don’t even think those rocks in front are real. Are rocks expensive? Why would you use fake rocks? Are they easier to clean? All these houses look like an eight-year-old drew them on the back of his Pee Chee folder. Like Wayne Manor or Barbie’s fucking Dream House. With all the accessories. That one probably has a half-car, half-boat, half-airplane parked in the back.”
    “Something can’t have three halves.”
    “Exactly. The kind of person that builds that house wouldn’t know that.”
    I forgot about the desert wealthy. Not exactly upper class. Different than rich farmers, who still worked. A whole different subspecies in these resort towns that’s all flashy and gross and big. Money can buy fake rocks, but it can’t buy class.
    “Turn down this street. Calle Tlaxcala. We haven’t been down it.”
    “I’m pretty sure you pronounced that wrong.”
    “I’ll do you one better. I’m positive I said it wrong, but how else does tl sound?” Bobby said. “Where’d all the desert bros come from? Look at those douchebags and baguettes.”
    As we turned the corner onto Calle Tlaxcala, Bobby pointed to a crowd of people spilling onto the driveway and lawn from a big, boxy structure, part Bauhaus/part World War II bunker. Loud hip-hop and bright lights emanated from the house. It had a big circular driveway with a trampoline inside the horseshoe. The trampoline: the white trash swimming pool. Couples and groups of men huddled outside, smoking, beers in their hands. I would say that someone’s parents went to Aruba for the week, leaving their kid at home to make sure nothing happened to their crystal egg, but most of the men were in their twenties or thirties.
    They