A Blizzard, Baked Potato, and Bullet Holes

The first stirrings of the storm came courtesy of a capricious little breeze that had graduated with honors from the School of Mischief. The Zephyr, tumbling down Sun Mountain like a drunken miner after payday, took to snapping shop signs along C Street. It whipped them about so violently that respectable citizens took to the ignominy of stepping into the street, where they mingled—Heaven help us—with automobiles and other contraptions of modern recklessness.

By mid-afternoon, the breeze had thrown in its lot with a gale, and together, they ushered in an unwelcome delegation of snow. The infernal substance did not fall so much as launch itself horizontally, aiming its icy barrage at any exposed bit of human dignity. Before long, the streets grew deserted save for Storey County’s gallant snowplow operators, who seemed determined to carve paths to nowhere.

It was a dire situation I found myself in, stranded and seeking refuge with my esteemed acquaintances, Leggs and Mr. Leggs. They were a curious couple—one possessed of a literary fervor that bordered on the evangelical, the other possessed of patience that bordered on sainthood. Over glasses fortified with questionable spirits, Leggs proposed an expedition to Lake Tahoe, where she claimed the Spirit of Mark Twain awaited.

Now, Leggs has a knack for persuasion, which she employed by reading aloud from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn:

“When the lightning glared out we could see a big straight river ahead, and high, rocky bluffs on both sides. By and by says I, ‘Hello, Jim, looky yonder!’ It was a steamboat that had killed herself on a rock… Do you reckon Tom Sawyer would ever go by this thing? Not for pie, he wouldn’t. He’d call it an adventure—that’s what he’d call it…”

It was a compelling argument, made all the more so by Leggs reading it with the fervor of a revival preacher promising salvation. Mr. Leggs and I exchanged glances, recognizing we had lost to the most fantastical argument ever.

Just then, providence—or perhaps prudence masquerading as providence—intervened. The Spirit of Mark Twain, speaking through the miracle of modern telegraphy (a smartphone, if you must know), sent word: “It appears to be snowing more than first noted.. exercise caution and defer judgment.”

And so, with the Spirit’s blessing, we abandoned Tahoe for a closer adventure: dinner at the newly opened Sawdust Corner Steakhouse.

The establishment was as grand as its name was unassuming. The sommelier discoursed on wine with the air of a man auditioning for the role of Bacchus. The waitstaff moved with the synchronized precision of the Russian ballet, though their expressions suggested they might be considering unionization.

Never have I seen a player piano of such elegant proportions, and never had it not been an upright player, that Mr. Mesmer himself could have better held my fleeting attention— I dare say, had I offered him two-bits in jingling walking-around change, he might’ve tried. The contraption stood there, all polished mahogany and gleaming brass, puffing itself up like a rooster at dawn, ready to charm the room with melodies it hadn’t learned but somehow knew.

It rolled out its tunes with all the precision of a schoolmaster’s ruler, though with none of the violence, and yet I found myself utterly enchanted by the mechanical confidence of it all. It was, I dare say, the finest substitute for human talent ever to be bolted together, and though I didn’t part with my money, I did tip my hat to it as if it had earned it fair and square.

Should the proprietor of this elegant establishment wish, he could turn a tidy living by levying a ten-cent per person ransom upon tourists and professional wanderers alike, offering them a singular privilege of craning their necks skyward to marvel at the stunning copper ceiling work. A sight so magnificent, it could make even the most hardened vagabond forget his aching feet and dubious prospects.

The attraction, mind you, was not merely the hammered artistry nor the gleam that caught the light just so but the rare assurance that nary a bullet hole is among the intricate patterns—a boast most ceilings in these parts would have struggled to make without a smirk and a wince.

Dinner was a spectacle. The prime rib arrived so colossal it could have been mistaken for a geological feature, accompanied by a baked potato of Herculean proportions. The meal came lubricated by an abundance of adult beverages, which flowed freely and loosened tongues, good manners, and perhaps the odd belt buckle.

Alas, my evening of gastronomic delight ended in calamity. Despite a well-documented allergy to oysters—a discovery made years ago in a similarly ill-advised moment—I succumbed to the persuasive powers of Mr. Leggs, who assured me his preparation would be “transformative.”

And transformative it was: I spent the remainder of the evening resembling an elderly patriarch beset by gout and disrepute.

As I lay in my afflicted state, I reflected that while the Spirit of Mark Twain may have been absent in Lake Tahoe, his essence was alive and well at Sawdust Corner, in the mischief of the storm, the folly of our ambitions, and the splendid absurdity of a life lived in defiance of common sense.