A Vignette from Vegas

He freed the slaves.

Emancipation Proclamation.

Most taxi rides to In-N-Out Burger begin less consequentially. My friends and I assembled in Las Vegas on Friday, and after the initial euphoria of reuniting in a city where we felt unleashed had worn off, we realized we were hungry. In-N-Out made the most sense to us because: a) it only exists in exotic western locations to which none of us enjoys regular access; and b) there are few occasions that seem to better excuse a meal driven by fatty meat, melted cheese, and fries buried beneath Thousand Island dressing than forty-eight frantic hours in Las Vegas. I volunteered to go pick up an order since my unyielding need for control made me scared that someone else wouldn’t order correctly. Also, I think it’s fun to see the swollen crowds at In-N-Out, among the most integrated and egalitarian settings in America.

When the ongoing domestic hamburger revolution took off last decade, I took it to heart. (Insert heart-disease joke.) I was living in New York, and places like BLT Burger, Stand Burger, Pop Burger, and all the rest had opened up a new kind of night out. (Particularly Pop Burger, where pornography and a nightclub literally lurk behind the counter.) I could meet people for a sensibly priced dinner that simultaneously felt filling, offered alcohol, catered to hazy notions of masculinity expressed through food, and retained cultural cache. I had grown up indifferent toward hamburgers. I liked the good ones I ate, but I never found any personal identity in them. Unlike “burger guys,” or “barbecue guys,” or “rib guys,” or other kinds of guys, I never developed an attachment to food that would define my lifestyle or connect me to an archetype. I was more of a generalist. I loved ordering junky pasta at diners, but I just as often wanted egg whites. I mythologized the endless food at Olive Garden, but I also did anything I could to eat at a Cheesecake Factory. The bottom line was that when I was in the mood for a cheeseburger, I would order one, yet I had developed no ritual. For this reason, I welcomed the hamburger renaissance--it afforded me an opportunity to learn more about a staple that had never received any special attention.

What I didn’t realize until later on was that as mid-tier burger restaurants propagated in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles, the fast-food hamburger also grew irrepressible. I missed out on the events preceding the tipping point, but one day, the fast-food hamburger had hit the big time. People who had spent time in California would rave about this place called In-N-Out. They would tell me about secret menus, about cups with hidden religious messages, and, most critically, about the unbeatable burgers. Four down! Seventeen down! In-N-Out sounded like a cult shrouded in mystery, the scientology of American food. Soon after I had accepted In-N-Out’s unverified primacy--much in the same way I assume a Rolls Royce is exquisite, despite never having been inside one--someone else told me that really, the Five Guys cheeseburger experience was what it was about. Five Guys, too, had become a fixture in mainstream burger culture.

Subsequently, after my sister moved to California, after I moved to St. Louis, and after I traveled in the U.S. some more, I finally ate at these new legends of the hamburger industry, and I wasn’t disappointed. Beyond the food, I liked that I had found new information and a new binary group in which I was a member, not just some unfortunate faux hamburger connoisseur unfortunately insulated by blissful ignorance. BLT Burger is fun, but…. I had become one of those people, and that likely gave me a sense of ownership over the In-N-Out run.

It will be hard for my next In-N-Out trip to match this one’s entertainment value or resonance. Two friends and I exchanged quizzical looks as we heard the cab ride’s soundtrack. Spoken in a slow, clear cadence and comprised of simplified ideas like “freed the slaves,” the statements coming out of the speakers sounded oddly remedial. I asked the natural question: “Hi Sir, what are we listening to? Is this a citizenship-test book on tape?” It was, and the Ethiopian driver quickly turned it down and apologized. “No, Sir, you can leave that on. We want to hear it. Let’s see if we even deserve to be here.” Our cab man was delighted to have found companions with whom he could practice.

We drove down Las Vegas Boulevard trying to summon in which war Dwight Eisenhower had been a critical general. Next, we reeled off as many American-Indian tribes as we could name. Choctaw, Iroquois, Navajo, Cherokee, Sioux, and so forth. We sat at a stop light in front of the Excalibur, a medieval-themed hotel, and shouted out to the driver that the American Revolution was stirred by taxation without representation. I fully appreciated the irony of our ride, and it made the trip even more fun. After all, in Las Vegas, style always trumps substance, you’re faking it while not actually making it, the entire enterprise traffics in stereotypes because they’re just easier, and primal urges run unabated, evidenced no better than by the city’s sex industry, where moms will come to your hotel room, take their clothes off, dance, beg for tips, and then cheerfully bid you adieu so that they can go back to “real life.” In the city that might best exemplify everything gone awry in this American experiment, we were sitting at a red light with an optimistic immigrant hoping to join our messy fray. First, he had to memorize information that we insist is our foundation, no matter how cracked.

What did Martin Luther King Do?

Fought for Civil Rights.

Who signs bills so that they can become laws?

The President.

What happened on September 11, 2001?

Terrorists attacked America and flew planes into the World Trade Center.

The civics lessons went on for a while. Our cab driver was getting everything right, and I called out from the back, “You are going to have no problem. Honestly, we should swap you for someone who doesn’t know this information. I guarantee that many Americans couldn’t get all of these.” I meant it. What do you think most people would say when asked which right is the most important? The citizenship test says voting. Remember that the next time only half of adults turn out.

Something that could have devolved into an obnoxious, insulting iteration of ugly Americanism remained respectful amid the rising joviality. Our cab driver wanted to hear what we had to say, and so the four of us called out answers, cracked on America, and rode through the desert until we got to In-N-Out. There, the citizenship test loomed as Mexicans, Asians, Africans, Caribbeans, Indians, and Europeans waited in line with the many kinds of Americans who were dying for hamburgers and French fries. The scene was remarkable, if not moving.

On the way back, once our driver had acquitted himself well and my friends and I had shown that we, too, retain a firm grip on our own citizenship, the jokes grew more frequent and louder.

Which President sold arms in one country to support an illegal coup attempt in another country?

Reagan.

Which constitutional law scholar became President and then willingly violated prisoner rights?

Obama.

Which President referred to his wife as “Mom,” ate jellybeans, and gassed free-speech protestors in Berkeley when he was governor of California?

Reagan, again.

Who will be the next American president?

Trump.