The catacombs of ancient Rome
served as houses of worship for Jews and Christians. In the early
1800s, the sewers of Paris yielded gold, jewels and relics of the
revolution. Closer to home, thousands of people lived in the subway
and train tunnels of New York City in the 1980s and ‘90s.
Beneath the neon, what secrets do the Las Vegas storm
drains keep? Armed with a flashlight, tape recorder and expandable
baton for protection, I sought to answer those questions. It all
started in the summer of 2002, when I explored five storm drains,
and it culminated in the summer of 2004, when I explored the
flood-control system in full. It continued through 2006, as I
returned to the drains for follow-up notes and to investigate
virgin tunnels.
When I came up with the idea of exploring
the storm drains, after reading about a fugitive who used a drain
to elude the police, I didn’t consider that they might be
inhabited. I couldn’t make that connection; it was too remote
for a boy from the middle-class South. I expected to find concrete,
darkness and water, and lots of miscellaneous items, like maybe a
wallet and wig, or graffiti and stray animals. I didn’t
expect to find people. People sleep in houses and hotels, motels
and — a local favorite — trailers. The more desperate among us
sleep in shelters, public parks and under bridges.
But
they don’t hang out in dark concrete boxes that run for miles
and miles or sleep in concrete boxes that fill with floodwater.
Except that hundreds of them do.
Exploring the drains
with writer Josh Ellis, we interviewed some of their inhabitants,
including junkies, hustlers, people down on their luck and Vietnam
vets, and after a while, it almost began to make sense. The drains
are free, ready-made reliable shanties –- a floor, two walls
and a ceiling. They provide shelter from the intense Mojave heat
and wind — don’t forget, most desert animals live
underground. Some of the drains remain dry for weeks, even months,
and cops, security guards and business owners don’t seem to
want to roust anyone beyond the shade line.
But
ultimately, the drains can be deathtraps. They’re
disorienting and sometimes dangerously long. Many of them run under
streets and contain pockets of carbon monoxide. They can be
difficult to exit, particularly in a hurry. They’re not
patrolled. Who would work that beat for any amount of money?
They’re not monitored. There are no rules. There are no
heroes. And, oh yeah, they can fill with floodwater at the rate of
one foot a minute.
Walking into a storm drain is like
walking into a casino: You never know what’s going to happen,
but chances are it isn’t going to be good.
But the
flood-control system, an intricate web that spans from mountain
range to mountain range, wasn’t all bad. I learned a lot
about Las Vegas, Las Vegans and myself down there in the dark.
There are about 300 miles of drains in the Las Vegas Valley, some
of which are more than five miles long. While walking on mile-long
straight-aways that felt like concrete treadmills, I thought about
the ephemeral nature of Las Vegas. There are the old bungalows
being bulldozed for high-rises; friends who appear and then
disappear, the Dunes, Sands and Desert Inn demolished recently in
clouds of dust. This city eats its children, I thought. Everything
here is as disposable as a razor blade, except for the storm
drains. They’re our preservation areas. Our art galleries
illuminated by daylight falling through grills overhead, our time
capsules. For me, they were also a classroom.
I followed
the footsteps of a psycho killer. I two-stepped under the MGM Grand
at 3 in the morning. I chased the ghosts of Las Vegas legends Benny
Binion, Bugsy Siegel, Elvis, Frank Sinatra and Howard Hughes.
I discovered that a manhole can feel a lot like heaven.
That in some ways, I prefer underground Las Vegas to aboveground
Vegas. It’s cooler, quieter and there’s a lot less
traffic. That maybe the afterlife is just a matter of trading in
your body for a new-and-improved model. I learned how people make
methamphetamine. That art is most beautiful where it’s least
expected. And that there are no pots of gold under the neon
rainbow.
Matthew O’Brien is news editor
of Las Vegas CityLife, and author of the new book, Beneath the
Neon: Life and Death in the Tunnels of Las
Vegas.
Republish our articles for free, online or in print, under a Creative Commons license.
