"That can't be right", she says. "Because that's too warm and dead bodies would release gas and float up to the top all bloated." This prompts a discussion about some sheriff who is rumored to be at the bottom of the lake. I'm wondering how these people can talk like this in front of a child I see in the front row, but if his father isn't saying anything, then whatever, man.
On another day, out of earshot of children and pedantic tourists, one of the resort guys tells me that he's convinced the casinos were at one time run by The Mob, which in turn meant that there were a lot of feet chained to, or encased in, cement blocks at the bottom of the lake.
We were also told at some point that Lake Tahoe was 95% pure.
So if you do the math, five percent of that lake is dead bodies, right? What is that, maybe 8,000 dead bodies or so? Do you know how many potential zombies that is? I can't do the math that fast so when you figure it out, let me know.
A couple of days later, I'm at a restaurant atop Harrah's Casino and a woman at the table behind me is loudly asking her tablemates, "Who's that guy? You know, that gangster guy. Really famous..." and then the waiter comes up and she asks him too, "Who's that guy, the famous mob guy? The one who went missing and they think he's in the bottom of Lake Tahoe..."
Nobody. Nobody at the table can help this woman. On the inside I'm all Horseshacky, squirming around, my inside voice is all "ooh-ooh-ooh!". My Jeopardy clock is ticking down like I've only got three seconds to answer the question. Adrenaline courses through my body but I resist the urge to turn around and blurt out the answer because I don't want to look like some desperate Blanche of eavesdroppers who depends on the conversations of others.
But I can't stand it. My mind won't think of anything else until I extricate the correct and final answer from my body like the demon that it is. I turn around in my chair.
"Excuse me," I explode, panting. "It's Jimmy Hoffa."
Whew! There. I got it out of my system. Except that my know-it-all ego wants seconds. I tell it to get back in its cage and take a nap. It's done for the evening.
Hey, I took a picture from our dinner table, wanna see?
From the someteenth floor of Harrah's
Just think, five-percent of that water holds a future pack of zombies, biding its time, waiting for the right moment to spring up, take over and eat everybody.
You knew it was Hoffa, right?
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