Nuh-VAY-duh

June 20, 2015

Nevada, Missouri is a cultural Mecca a handful of miles from Kansas, nearly equidistant between Springfield and Kansas City. As is our custom in the Show-me state, we pronounce it nuh-VAY-duh. We also pronounce a little town called Versailles just as it's written (ver-sales) rather than the globally recognized pronunciation of Versailles (as in the French town, the Treaty of). But I digress.

I have spent many first weekends in January in Nevada as a debater and then as a coach. Nevada has had a proud speech and debate tradition in spite of its small population and hosts its annual tournament on that weekend, which usually also features record low temps or ice storms. In my first year as the assistant coach at Parkview at age 23, I drove a 15-passenger van full of students to this tournament only for the sky to unleash a fury of ice pellets on Saturday afternoon through which we were forced to slide home. I remember distinctly how desperately I had to go to the bathroom on that 4 hour trip that would take less than two hours in non-life-threatening circumstances. I was afraid to stop and leave the skating rink/interstate, so I soldiered on, stomping my left foot in bladdered agony while the brilliant Eleni Tsolakis (a junior in high school who was a dead ringer for Natalie Portman) distracted me with conversation and Fiona Apple songs. I will now humbly admit that my bladder only half made it, and when I finally got home, I peeled off my insulted navy suit slated for immediate dry cleaning in shame and relief. You do what you must: the lives of some of our best and brightest were in my hands, folks. And I'm not proud.

There is limited lodging in Nevada. On another trip the best we could do was to stay at the Rambler, an outdoor access motel that could easily be the scene of a horror film wherein the hatchet comes through the door while two scantily clad teenagers hover in the corner awaiting their cruel fate. In each bathroom at the Rambler instructions are posted for how to clean your fish, which is of great help to a group of 80 high school debaters.

On the other hand, several of my dearest pals have passed through this town, either as natives or as coaches. It grows good people. It's just, well, Nevada. Did I mention that the water smells of sulphur? It has for as long as I've been around. Eek. Nevadans claim you get used to it. Okay. Sounds probable.

I returned here today for--brace yourself--baseball. Sunny and 95 degrees, this is a far cry from the climate of my past experience here. Killing time between games in the air conditioning, my mom and I rolled into the local Walmart--obviously the number one draw of the metropolis. I was buying birthday gifts for two different girls, aged 3 and 7.  Nyds and I schlepped my wares to the "speedy checkout" lane. As I placed the first item--a pillow light in color--the cashier panicked. "You won't want to leave that up here for long!" She cried. What could happen, I wondered. Spontaneous combustion? Will the Walmart gods descend upon me? Is the counter coated with an infectious disease?

She nervously scanned the pillow and darted over to return it to the cart. Her urgency was startling. I half-expected men in Haz-Mat suits to surround us and detox the pillow.

"Um, where should I have put it?" Bitchy Nancy asked very slowly.

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry," the cashier began. "It's just that I can't remember the last time these lanes have been used and they just can't be clean and your pillow was light and I just didn't want it to get dirty because I just can't remember the last time these lanes were open. And who KNOWS when they were last cleaned. All kinds of stuff can collect on these counters and I didn't want your pillow to stay there for long so nothing would get on it. I wouldn't want anything to get on your pillow. Are those pillows comfortable? I've never had one like that before."

"It's a gift," I said through clenched teeth. Concerns over the cashier's (probably) undiagnosed OCD and Walmart's employee screening process floated through my mind. Foremost, however, was this:

Hey, employee of the month, maybe stop throwing the corporate powerhouse you work for under the bus, I'm thinking. Telling us how filthy this place is could get you killed. They might be listening, sister, simmer down.

"Okay," I said. I know I was speaking slowly and incredulously as if speaking to a young child. I stole a glance at Nyds. Her look validated the WTF hanging in the air.

As I placed my remaining items on the toxic surface between the two of us, I wondered, So I should avoid the alleged disgustingly dirty counter--so vile that it places in peril the cleanliness of purchases--but remain worry-free about the shopping cart? Did I miss the cart sterilization station on the way in?

While our cautious cashier adamantly continued her commentary on these newly opened lanes and the new slot on the credit card reader, she finished ringing up the birthday gifts I was on the verge of abandoning for want of escape. The last item bagged and paid for, I thought we were home free. I turned the cart which included a 6-foot foam noodle for the pool (a lovely gift, I know) sticking out to the side, but a Walmart greeter blocked my path. With a crazed look, I stopped. "Oh, excuse me," he said, moving less than an inch to the side. I had to put the cart on two wheels to edge past him, Nyds close on my heels. As we neared the parking lot, I heard Nydia's hallmark giggle bubble up behind me.

"What in the hell?" I cried. "Did that just happen?"

Yep, it happened. Could've happened in any Walmart anywhere, but it didn't. It happened in Nevada: in the same Walmart whose parking lot once showcased a showdown late one January night between myself and a short, bald school bus driver named Maynard who refused to move the bus even an inch if my exhausted and hungry debaters had even a drop of liquid or a morsel of food in their hands. Apparently, moving an inch isn't popular at the Nevada Walmart. (That was the least of Maynard's hangups, by the way. Male chauvinism was also close at hand. And I won the showdown. Maynard is lucky to be alive.)

Covered in dried sweat and ballpark dust, we are meandering home, toward our slice of civilization and showers that don't stink. It was a good day for baseball and for my little first baseman. However, whatever your day held, wherever you are, you can smile, sigh and say, "at least I wasn't in Nevada."