Author: Tom Darby

Authorities are searching for 15-year-old Alisa Petrov, who exited a train in Provo and was asking strangers for a bus ticket to Las Vegas.

Alisa is described as 5-foot-3, weighing 122 pounds, with brown eyes and long light brown hair. She wore baggy jeans and a black hoodie while carrying a blue backpack with a yellow stripe.

Anyone who sees Alisa or knows her whereabouts should contact the South Jordan Police Department at 801-446-4357 or Nevada Child Seekers at 702-458-7009.

Every man’s got a day of reckoning. Some find it on a battlefield, others at the altar, and a select, unlucky few—such as myself—find it standing at a bar in Virginia City, having discovered they’ve spent the better part of four years answering to a Spanish word, the meaning of which I had no clue.

Virginia City, Nevada—now here’s a place that still wears its history like a moth-eaten coat–threadbare, dusty, and full of old coins and small regrets. It’s a town where whiskey is cheaper than bottled water, and a man can still vanish without a trace if he ducks fast enough and no one particularly cares to look for him.

One of my saloons of choice sits near the end of C Street, nestled between a souvenir shop and a sign advertising “Mine Tours,” run by a fellow who’s never been within ten feet of blue mud. The saloon is as reputable as a coyote in a henhouse, and the same could be said of the regulars, myself included.

But what kept me coming back—aside from a misplaced sense of belonging and the house special–which is just whiskey with a name—was the bartender. She was sharp as a hornet and twice as likely to sting if you gave her reason.

From the first time I staggered in, she greeted me with a smile that could disarm a taxman and a chirpy, “What’ll it be, Mr. Basura?”

I didn’t know what the word meant, but it had flair. It rolled off the woman’s pink little tongue–like an affectionate nickname.

So I puffed my chest and tipped my hat each time she said it. I’d nod, grin like a simpleton, and order the usual, feeling mighty proud of myself.

Weeks passed into years. I became a fixture on the third stool from the end, just left of the jukebox that only played Merle Haggard and the ghosts of other dead cowboys.

With every drink came that same melodic, “What’ll it be, Mister Basura?”

And each time I heard it, I imagined it came with admiration. Lord help me, I thought she liked me.

Then came the day of my enlightenment. It was a Tuesday afternoon.

Nursing a bourbon, I watched a pair of college kids from Reno walk in—fresh-faced, full of knowledge, and just dumb enough to wander into my kind of place. They sat beside me, ordered craft beers, and made small talk with me like I was some local flavor instead of just a man too ignorant to leave.

My favorite Senorita greeted me in her usual way. “What’ll it be, Mister Basura?” she said, sliding me a double without waiting for an answer.

One of the kids blinked. “She just call you basura?”

I nodded proudly. “Yep. Spanish for boss. We got a thing going.”

The two exchanged a look—the kind reserved for spotting a dog wearing rain boots.

“Uh, sir,” the youthful female said, gentle as a nurse breaking bad news, “basura doesn’t mean boss. It means…garbage. Like, literal trash.”

It hit me–like a safe full of unpaid bar tabs. She had been calling me trash to my face. With a smile. With cheer. With the consistency of a woman utterly unbothered by my presence.

Stunned, I sat there, the whiskey suddenly bitter in my mouth. My world tilted as the jukebox started playing “Mama Tried.” I realized I’d been strutting around with all the confidence of a man standing on a rug others knew would get yanked.

The next night, I returned wearing my good hat—the one still holding a vague shape—and squared up to the bar like a man demanding answers.

She met me with that same smile and the same cursed greeting. “What’ll it be, Mr. Basura?”

“You know,” I said, as polite as a man can be when trying not to sound wounded, “I’ve recently come to learn something troubling about that word you use for me.”

She blinked, then leaned in just a little. “Which word?”

“Basura,” I said, tasting it like something sour. “I used to think it meant ‘boss.’ But I was corrected. Apparently, it means trash.”

Her eyes sparkled with wicked amusement. “Mmm,” she said. “That’s the one.”

I swallowed hard. “So…you’ve been calling me garbage this whole time?”

She poured my drink without answering, then set the glass down gently.

“Honey,” she said, sweet as syrup and twice as thick, “If I wanted to call you boss, I’d charge you rent.”

Then she turned, just like that, to take the next man’s order, leaving me to marinate in shame, confusion, and bourbon. And yet—I still go to that bar. Because, well, habits are stubborn things.

If I ain’t liked, I’ll settle for tolerated. So, I sit on my usual stool, tip in cash, and never ask for anything more complicated than a straight pour. And still, I get greeted with the same line, and I smile right back, fully aware of what it means.

It’s no longer a mark of pride but a badge of honor in its strange way. After all, not everyone gets a nickname, and if mine means trash, well, at least I’m her trash.

And that’s got to count for something, though I wonder what the Spanish word is for ‘pathetic.’

Now, it came to pass that Governor Joe Lombardo did on a Wednesday, April 23–which is not the finest day in history but will do in a pinch–put his name to a bill most solemn and proper. Said bill makes it the business of every good Nevadan to mark January 27 as International Holocaust Remembrance Day.

The Governor, not one to loaf about in such a grave matter, gathered about him a company of Holocaust survivors–folks whose very presence tells a story weightier than words. With their witness, he signed his name in stout black ink, fixing it in law for as long as Nevada has a memory.

By this new decree, Governor Lombardo is obliged each year to send forth a proclamation, stirring the people to remembrance–not only of the Holocaust, which tore the world’s heart in two–but of other dark miseries where hatred ruled–and humanity forgot itself. The newspapers, town criers, brass bands, and public officials–who sometimes need reminding more than most–are also commanded to spread the word, lest time and forgetfulness do what cruelty could not–silence the truth.

Memory, like liberty, must be kept polished and aired out, or else it grows rusty and useless before a man knows it.

It ain’t every day the government sets aside a spell to holler up a prayer for the common man who got himself chewed up by the gears of industry, but come April 28–that’s precisely what the Nevada Occupational Safety and Health Administration–known to friends and enemies alike as Nevada OSHA–and the Safety Consultation and Training Section (SCATS) will do. Both outfits, being snugly tucked inside the Division of Industrial Relations–which itself is within the Nevada Department of Business and Industry–will gather to honor those laboring souls who met their end whilst sweating to make a dollar, not only in the sagebrush reaches of Nevada but clear across the country.

They call it Workers Memorial Day–a title that sounds for all the world like it got dreamed up at a potluck dinner by some bright-eyed Bolshevik who had just finished reading Karl Marx and thought, “Why not?”

It happens each year because back in the bold year of 1970, Congress signed off on the Occupational Safety and Health Act, declaring with great fanfare that every laborer, from the pinstriped accountant to the fellow wrestling dynamite on a dam project, has the inalienable right to come home with all his fingers and toes still attached.

The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, a mighty impressive name for a group of men counting heads and accidents, reports that in 2023, there were 5,283 fatal work injuries across the nation. That’s better than the 5,486 folks who fell in 2022–a 3.7 percent dip–if you’re one to favor arithmetic over sentiment.

The national fatal injury rate tipped down from 3.7 to 3.5 per 100,000 full-time workers. Nevada herself, with her silver hills and gambling palaces, recorded 57 fatal injuries, down three from the previous year.

Progress of a sort.

And lest you think this Memorial Day ends with speeches and paper hats, no, sir. There are grand schemes afoot to support the widows and orphans, too.

Kids’ Chance of Nevada grants scholarships to the children of workers who met an untimely end or got banged up. All told they’ve handed out more than 9,300 scholarships nationwide, with the grand sum topping $33.2 million–proof that sorrow can be something halfway useful.

Meanwhile, the Nevada Safety Consultation and Training Section offers no-cost services to employers who know you can’t mend a broken head with an apology. They’ll come to the work site, take a squint at your operations, and tell you straight if you’re inviting disaster.

As for Nevada OSHA, they remain ever-vigilant, ready to hear the complaints of any worker in harm’s way. The complaints get wrapped tight in confidentiality, safe from the reach of a wrathful boss, and both Nevada law and Uncle Sam himself forbid retaliation.

Thus, with speeches, scholarships, and solemn nods, Nevada prepares to tip its battered hat to the fallen–and if the whole business smells a little of socialism and reform, well, it ain’t the first time that mourners have mixed tears with politics.

It was bright and early Thursday morning—about the time honest folk are sipping their coffee and the more adventurous are considering whether it’s too late to go to bed—when the Storey County Sheriff’s Office set about doing what it does best–rooting out trouble.

With the sun barely peeking over the hills, deputies descended upon 399 Wild Horse Canyon, deep in the heart of the sprawling Tahoe-Reno Industrial Complex, armed with a search warrant and, no doubt, a healthy measure of suspicion. What they unearthed would make a preacher cuss and a schoolmarm faint dead away–a stolen firearm, a bounty of methamphetamine, and enough drug paraphernalia to stock a fair-sized opium den.

At the center of this cornucopia of misdeeds were two characters by the names of Adrian Lockamy, aged 47, and Kaycee Weiss, aged 49. They got escorted to the Storey County Detention Facility, where the accommodations are less than luxurious.

Mr. Lockamy found himself saddled with an impressive collection of charges–two counts of being a felon in possession of firearms, possession of a stolen firearm, possession of controlled substances, failure to register as a felon–a small but telling oversight–and possession of drug paraphernalia. Ms. Weiss, not to be outdone, garnered her own matching set of accusations: two counts of being a felon in possession of firearms, a stolen firearm, controlled substances, and drug paraphernalia.

The most ordinary morning in Storey County can turn into a frontier drama quicker than a lizard can wink.

It stands to reason that when a person comes into a country on a slip of paper like a Visa, and that paper up and expires like a jug of milk in the Nevada sun, somebody somewhere might take notice. But not here.

Here at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, it seems the business of telling the truth about such things is considered downright impolite.

Word has trickled out–slow as molasses in January–that three more international students have had their visas revoked.

It comes on top of the four students who got themselves in the same pickle three weeks back. Seven souls, scattered between undergraduates, graduate students, and a handful making an honest dollar under something called “OPT,” which I reckon is one of those fancy government abbreviations that don’t mean half as much as it sounds.

The brass at UNLV sent out a letter–full of words but short on meaning– explaining that there ain’t no rhyme nor reason to these removals and that the affected students are as nervous as long-tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs about their privacy and safety. And it’s no small wonder that nobody in the press or the schoolhouse wants to come right out and say the obvious–these young folks overstayed their welcome, and the great big federal hammer has come down.

Still, the university is doing its level best to sound neighborly. They say they’re partnering with the Nevada System of Higher Education and the great state of Nevada to “advocate” for the students– a word used when there ain’t a blessed thing to do except make speeches.

“We’re moving forward with calm, care, and support,” chirp the UNLV officials, “to ensure that our students and scholars from around the world continue to know that they belong here.” A right pretty sentiment–though it don’t change the simple fact that in the eyes of the law, belonging ain’t something you get just by wishing it so.

In the Silver State, where the spirit of the frontier once bloomed like sagebrush after a storm, the Assembly has lately taken to whittling away at the Constitution as a man might shave down a stick of kindling. By a vote of 27-15, they passed Assembly Bill 245, a measure that aims to forbid any citizen under the ripe old age of 21 from owning a semiautomatic gun.

Now, I reckon if a man is old enough at eighteen to shoulder a musket for Uncle Sam and be sent to far-off lands to fight strangers, he ought to be able to mind his gun at home. The wise gentlemen of the Assembly seem to think otherwise, placing their tender faith in the idea that the Second Amendment is a matter of preference rather than a binding guarantee.

Under the newfangled law, any young soul who dares to possess the wrong iron will be declared guilty of a gross misdemeanor–a stain on his name that no soap will wash off. And should he slip again, whether by stubbornness, ignorance, or mere accident, he’ll find himself branded with a category B felony, caged for no less than a year, and maybe lightened of $5,000 besides–enough to break a man trying to earn an honest living.

The bill now ambles toward the Senate, where one hopes cooler heads might prevail. But if not, the State of Nevada may soon be a place where you can sign a mortgage, marry a woman, go to war, and die for your country–but heaven help you if you so much as touch the wrong kind of firearm before blowing out twenty-one candles.

A violation of the Second Amendment? I’d say so–as plain as a steer in a bathtub, but these days, common sense is as rare in politics as rain is in July.

I took a day hike into the Eastern Sierra Mountains—not that far from home. Just a short three-mile loop from the parking lot, a modest climb up and down the ridgeline, meant more for stretching the legs than seeking adventure.

It was one of those perfect days–sky so blue it seemed painted on, sunshine filtering through pine needles, and a light breeze that carried the clean scent of earth and granite. I had the dogs with me—our German Shorthair mix, Buddy, always brave, and Honey, our American Staffordshire Terrier, the more cautious soul.

As we approached the summit, both dogs stopped dead in their tracks. Buddy’s hackles rose from the nape of his neck down his spine, and Honey’s tail shot out straight, rigid as a stick. I know their body language well.

They weren’t scared. They were warning me.

“Bear,” I thought immediately, tensing as I scanned the brush ahead.

That’s when I heard it. A heavy crack, like something huge, shifting its weight in the thicket.

Then silence. Not a birdcall or the breeze. The hairs on my neck stood up.

I tightened the leashes and pulled the dogs back gently, pivoting to retrace our steps down the path we had climbed. I didn’t speak. I didn’t run. I didn’t want to set off the dogs’ instincts or whatever was out there watching.

My senses sharpened with every step—ears twitching at every branch creak, eyes darting to catch shadows. But it was my nose that warned me the most.

The breeze carried a stench—rotten eggs, moldy leaves, and something else. Something foul and decaying.

I’d smelled it before.

If you’ve ever been close to a place where something not quite right is hunting, you never forget it. Some say it’s a territorial musk. Others claim it’s just the scent of death.

But I knew at that moment, somewhere up that trail, there was a Sasquatch. Probably following the deer migration, maybe circling the area for a kill. I didn’t need to see it—I could feel it.

Nearly back to the parking lot, when my old truck was parked, waiting faithfully, a young couple with a child started up the trail. They looked like they belonged in an outdoor catalog—matching packs, bright smiles, eager to touch the wild.

They must have seen something in my face.

“Is everything okay?” the woman asked.

“Now it is,” I said, glancing back toward the path. “But I wouldn’t go up there if I were you. Not today.”

“Why?” the man asked, half a grin forming.

“I think I just walked into Bigfoot’s backyard,” I said.

They laughed. The way people laugh when they think you’re crazy.

I gave a short nod and left them to it, loading the dogs into the back cab behind my seat. I sat there for a while, listening to the wind, thinking about that smell.

Then I heard footsteps—rapid ones. The couple came jogging down the path, the kid clutched tightly between them, their earlier smiles replaced with wide, panicked eyes.

They didn’t look at me as they rushed to their compact foreign car and didn’t say a word. But the man’s hands were trembling as he fumbled for his keys.

I turned my engine over and watched in the rearview as they tore out of the lot, gravel spitting behind their tires. They quickly passed me, flying down the mountain road like they were trying to outrun something they didn’t believe in until then.

Some trails lead you to peace, while others remind you that the wilderness still keeps secrets—and one of them walks on two feet.

I always liked to end my week out at Pyramid Lake—just me, my truck, a couple of cold beers, and a quiet you can’t buy. Right after the sun sank behind the mountains, I backed my old Ford into a shallow hollow by the lake’s edge.

There was a tall tufa formation to my east, almost like a sentinel, and a knuckled ridge of sandy rock to the right. I couldn’t pick up a single radio station where I was parked, just a lot of static, so I clicked the knob off and let the silence settle in.

The night air carried a slight chill, and the water slapped the shore with a lazy rhythm. It was peaceful, too peaceful. That’s when I heard it.

At first, I thought it was wind whistling through the rocks, but the more I listened, the clearer it became–soft, sweet, feminine—carried on the night air. She was singing. I couldn’t make out the lyrics, just long, sorrowful notes that seemed to bend and drift like smoke over the lake.

I sat up straighter. “Someone out there?” I asked the darkness. Nothing replied, but the song floated on.

Curious, maybe even enchanted, I pulled my flashlight from the glovebox and flicked it on. The beam sputtered—weak batteries. I cursed under my breath, reached behind the seat for the spotlight, and plugged it into the truck’s lighter. A loud click and a burst of white light shot out over the water.

I swept the shoreline—nothing. The reeds stirred a little, and the water glimmered, but I didn’t see a soul. Still, that voice pulled at me. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It just was. Like it had always been there, waiting for me to notice.

Leaving the spotlight behind, I grabbed the flashlight again and started walking toward the sound. The voice seemed to drift east, so I followed, stepping slowly and quietly like I didn’t want to scare it off. I made it a hundred yards before I realized the song had moved. Now, it came from the West. I turned and followed.

“Hello?” I called out, feeling a little foolish.

Silence.

Then something splashed, quick and sharp. I snapped the light toward it, seeing only water.

“Probably a fish,” I muttered.

Then—laughter. High, airy. A girl’s giggle, just at the edge of the light’s reach. I froze.

My beam danced across the water. That’s when I saw a shadow, just beneath the surface, sliding like a seal through the shallows. Then it vanished.

The hair on my neck rose. I knew the old stories. The Water Babies—little drowned spirits of Paiute legend. People said they cried like infants, lured you close, and then pulled you into the deep.

“Nope,” I whispered, backing up three, maybe four steps.

I was starting to turn when my heel caught on a rock, and I hit the dirt hard. The flashlight flew from my hand and rolled into the brush. Before I could even curse, the song that had lured me turned into a scream—shrill, long, full of rage and pain.

Scrambling to my feet, I ran up the hill, back to the truck, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my ears. I fired up the engine, threw it in gear, and sped off like the devil was after me.

The voice didn’t follow me, but the scream echoed in my head down the dusty road.

As the lake disappeared in the rearview mirror, I remembered something from a book I read once. About how sailors used to leap from their ships, enchanted by the singing of sirens. Voices so sweet you didn’t even mind dying.

I cracked a fresh beer with shaking hands and didn’t take my eyes off the road.

That night, Pyramid Lake didn’t just feel lonely.

It felt alive.

It might be time for stirrin’ up hornets’ nests on purpose when I see a man gettin’ walloped for tryin’ to do right by the ladies and the little folks of the state. Lieutenant Governor Stavros Anthony, a gent with more backbone than a sawmill mule and more common sense than a Carson City windbag, found himself lately the target of legislative shenanigans by the upstandin’ Democrats of the Nevada Legislature.

The reason? He had the gall—the nerve, mind you—to propose that women’s sports ought to be for, well, women.

In my day, if a fella stepped onto a girls’ baseball field with a beard and a baritone, he’d have been laughed back into the barber’s chair. But in modern times, where sense and sentimentality mix like oil and vinegar, Anthony’s efforts to protect the fairness of females are branded a “crusade” by folks who think truth should come second to fashion.

The Lieutenant Governor’s bills—one to create an office to help small businesses, another to support Nevada’s ranchers through agri-tourism, and a third to give children a scant 20 minutes of sunshine durin’ their school day–heaven forbid–were all left belly-up by the rulin’ party. Why?

Because Anthony’s been raising a ruckus about biological men in women’s sports.

He didn’t curse, call names, or raise a fist—but he stood up, and it seems that’s all it takes these days to get labeled a villain.

Assemblywoman Selena Torres-Fossett and Senator Melanie Scheible, bless their dooficatin’ sensibilities, advised Mr. Anthony to mind his official duties–namely, tourism and business, as if one can’t walk and chew gum simultaneously. When Anthony reminded them he’s elected and had some thoughts, too, you’d have thought he proposed digging a canal through the Capitol Buildin’.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to check with those two legislators on what I should do as lieutenant governor,” said Anthony, with dry wit. “I’m the lieutenant governor. I’ll do whatever I see fit for the state of Nevada.”

And fit it is, to stand for fairness. Whether there’s one biological male or ten or a hundred in women’s sports is beside the point–if one steals a medal meant for a girl who worked her heart out, that’s one too many. And if you think it’s all fantasy, wait till it’s your daughter left in the dust by a fellow built like Paul Bunyan.

The good lieutenant guv even took pains to clarify—more than once—that his task force isn’t out there wavin’ torches or pitchforks against transgender folks. His aim’s as narrow and precise as a needle–to keep the playin’ field level for female athletes.

Just rules and reason. But reason, like a beaver-skin top hat, is out of fashion in Carson City.

They call it “retaliation,” and by gum, that’s what it smells like. When Torres-Fossett kills a small business office while praising small business support, and when a tourism bill dies because Anthony dared speak a truth unpopular in Capitol circles, it ain’t politics anymore–it’s personal.

As for Anthony’s outdoor recreation bill–dead on arrival–it must have been too radical a notion for Nevada’s ruling class–children, outside? With the sun on their faces? It’s a wonder they didn’t arrest him for incitin’ joy.

Yet, Anthony remains unbothered, undeterred, and unwhipped. He even offered to debate Assemblywoman Torres-Fossett on live television, mano a mano–or a quatro, as he gallantly invites her to bring reinforcements.

That’s the mark of a man who knows his case is clean and his footin’ solid.

The winds of politics may blow foul in Nevada’s halls–but in the open desert, the ranchers, miners, mothers, fathers, and athletes know the truth–fairness isn’t hateful, and standing up for women isn’t a partisan act–it’s plain decency.

So, three cheers for Mr. Anthony. He’s outnumbered but not outmatched.