Jumping onto the freeway on the way to the Ontario airport, I’m partially tingling. This weekend at its promised frenetic pace is knocking and waiting for me to open the door to come out and play. I’ve another 45 minute drive to Ontario Airport, then an hour flight up to Sacramento to rendezvous with Jenn. Once there, we rent the truck, hopefully Lizzie calls with directions to the binge drinking/strip poker/karaoke party, then drive to Fairfield, pack the truck with all Jenn’s earthly belongings and get on the road. It’s an all night drive to Barstow, catch what sleep we can , followed by the drive to Havasu for a fireworks show. Another few hours drive to the purported land of Mormons and mexicans we call Mesa, AZ and her new apartment. A day of rest, a couple job interviews, an exam, and the return flight and drive home. 3 days time, the better part of two complete states and a whole lot of redbull; this is going to be fun.
Half the day has been spent organizing, arranging, and preparing me for the trip and the house for my eventual return some days later. Returned the window AC unit I bought to stop Amy from dying of heat stroke over the summer to K-mart in Hesperia, another hundred bucks I didn’t plan on having. Gotta love the K-mart rental program.
I make the airport with only a minute to spare. The shuttle pulls up completely devoid of humanity aside from the driver. Lucky me. For some odd reason, Ontario airport has seen fit to hire a bus driver that speaks no English; only a foreign language, which he does very poorly and with great effort. It takes me about 5 precious minutes and a game of atomic charades to convince him that I have a flight and tell him I need to go to terminal 4. Apparently, they don’t teach Affrobohedish immigrants to count on their fingers. At the next and final bus stop the driver manages to halt the vehicle 30 feet shy of the shuttle depot and the army girl waiting for it has to run the remaining distance with enough luggage to weigh down a troop convoy. Her bag reads “Morales� and it turns out we are on the same flight. I manage to communicate this to our driver through the Neanderthalic sequence of grunts and waving arms he and I have worked out. Finally, we are on our way to the terminal, although I’m not sure that we are going to make it in time.
Having separated to check in, now reunited in line Morales and I pick up our conversation of Iraq, Barstow, and the flight; whatever we have in common. Sitting in line outside the boarding area I realize that I’m in the wrong line for boarding. A. B. what’s the difference. Some old lady is nice enough to let me cut in front of her. The two gymnasts going home for the weekend that made the same mistake aren’t as lucky. I briefly consider letting them in, but they aren’t that cute.
Airborne. My first flight in a long time that hasn’t involved family; present or future. I’m indulging my meandering eyes, just laying back and absorbing the atmosphere. The Hispanic lady diagonally in front of me was apparently a tattoo fan in the past. She isn’t old enough to be called such, but not young enough to be called young. The butterfly and flower on her shoulder must have been beautiful at some point, the artistry is still evident in small places where they haven’t been stretched and ruined in some parody of an H.R. Geiger movie. I’m just guessing but I imagine the butterfly wasn’t the size of the Oklahoma panhandle when it was first stained her flesh. Now it’s enough to make me look around for any other seats with a more palatable vantage. Unfortunately for whoever I will eventually puke on, there are none to be had.
Closing my eyes and leaning back with a smile on my face, I vividly recall my last flight. Something I’ll never forget. Despite the focus and fortitude I have without Amy here distracting me I still wish she were here… for more than the obvious reasons. I wonder how a plane crash would feel if I were buckled up versus unbuckled; painful.
The lady next to me is a schoolteacher of sorts. She is laughing and joking with her companion over the partially graded stack of papers sitting in her lap. She is wearing jeans too tight for her large legs, interspersed with holes that are the product of wear and twinkies rather than a fashion statement. I’m impressed they are holding together. Acne runs up and down her uncovered arms ending in a pool on her face. I can only imagine what her students say about her.
At once, the roaring engines start making considerably less noise; they are almost inaudible. However, we are still airborne so I won’t sweat it.
I should study for a while. Rifling through the papers for my Net+ test this weekend, I’m barely concentrating on the words flitting before my eyes. Instead I’m just ready to get off the plane and on to the weekend. The promises of Binge Drinking, Strip Poker, and Karaoke are too much to push out of my consciousness for too long. The pilot is in good spirits, talking far too much, as he announces our approach and arrival in Sacramento, a brisk walk to the escalator and Jenn is waiting at the bottom sort of half smiling. It’s already starting.
“Hey! Great to see you!� she says. “We have a problem.�
Jenn is not the most organized or thought-out person that I know. She has a been a long standing friend and she is a hell of a good time to hang out with if you don’t have an agenda to stick to, but structure is not her strong point. She is, however, a truly well-intentioned person (rare in these days) and I do respect her on many levels.
“My check card isn’t working for renting the truck. So we can either call my mom and wait for her to drive out here�, I know this to be about an hour drive, “or if you have a card…� The question sort of hovers in the air for a moment, unspoken but acknowledged.
“Well, I don’t plan on waiting around the airport all night, so lets get this over with�, I say as I start walking.
The perfect plan is only perfect until the instant it is put into action. One has to plan on a certain amount of adjustment in any venture. Whenever Jenn is involved however, this amount can grow exponentially.
I’m notorious for messing with people at their place of employment. If I don’t screw your work day up whenever I am around, chances are I probably don’t like you. Starbucks girls and chicks in the mall are primary targets. I generally ignore the guys because they are just not fun. The girl at the rental place is a barely contained riot. It takes at least ten minutes longer than necessary between dodging the flying office supplies and wrestling over pens and credit cards. The people in line looked ready to run. I ended up almost bringing her along for the ride to Arizona. I love people that don’t take themselves too seriously.
We gun off to pick up Jenn’s car and head to her house. I find myself checking my cell phone again to see why Lizzie hasn’t called; still on, no call. I’m just barely using enough of my brain to differentiate Jenn’s tail lights from the rest of the cars ahead of me, when a sign catches my eye. Travis A.F.B.: my place of birth. There is another sign coming up so I snap a barely discernible picture of it with my cell phone cam. Strange to see the place that I shared with such important people in the past emblazoned across a sign emerging almost haphazardly from the night sky.
Jenn’s mom has moved since last I graced her doorstep so many lifetimes ago. A slightly different location, but basically the same apartment. In my mind it is hard to imagine renting an apartment as a means of housing ones self for a lifetime. I can understand the proverb, “Build your empire before your castle� so I guess if you never get around to building an empire of any kind then it makes sense that one would never have a castle either. Congenial and bustling she directs the train of Jennifer’s belongings out the door and into the truck and car. I’m standing aside the vehicles holding a moderately large television while the two ladies discuss where it would best fit for close to 5 minutes. Finally, I choose a spot and pack it in. And so the next couple hours roll by as we situate Jenn’s accumulated accoutrement into the cars. Finally packed and with no word at all on the naked drunken sing-a-long, I say it’s time to go and we hit the road.
Being a veteran car crasher and long standing maniac I know the dangers of driving while tired. So it is with a quick stop by the store to get food and red bull that we prepare for the coming ordeal. I hand Jenn my alternate cell phone since she would have to bleed to death before ever actually making a call on hers and since we are lacking walkie talkies we need a form of communication for our wagon train.
Flying down the 5 freeway is about as boring as it gets. The I-5 is roughly 2/3 the length of California without any curves whatsoever. Driving in the dark after being awake for about 20 hours is not exactly conducive to heightened awareness, so I’m blasting music, singing, and being a general spaz. Free weekend minutes are a life saver on this leg of the journey, especially nearing Barstow now that I’ve been up for 25+ hours. I’m talking to Jenn and we are within an hour of town when her cell phone dies. I made a point to give her the phone charger before we left, but it seems she hasn’t figured out which end goes where. I don’t even check on Jenn when we get to the house, simply roll in and clean up before flopping into bed for a moment’s peace.
Waking up to my cats trashing the house is not my idea of fun. Even after the mess is all cleaned up and I am safely back in bed I can’t calm down enough to close my eyes. So, I drag my ass out of bed and prepare for the day with all the enthusiasm of a death row inmate. It’s already into the afternoon so there is no real point in rushing things. Cleaning up my body, slipping into some fresh clothes since I slept in the others, we are ready to go fill the cars up with gas.
With impeccable timing Emerald decides to call right as I’m getting ready to drive away from the pumps. She is on her way to a ballet; since we talked about this the other night I think she expected me to remember that she was coming through town. The last ballet she went to was with me; Romeo and Juliet. She is going to see Cinderella at the same place and wanted to drop by and say hi.
“Hi! How are you doing?� her voice intones the ritualistic greeting.
“Great. Just filled up with gas and we are about to get on the road for Havasu to see the fireworks. Then off to phoenix.�
“Oh, that’s right! You’re doing that this weekend.�
“Where are you? Sounds like you are driving.� I inquire.
“About 2 miles from your house. I’m going to the ballet!�
“That’s this weekend? Huh. Well, have fun.�
“Hey, where’s a good place to get gas? Where are you getting gas? We could stop there.�
I tell her quickly how to get there and tell Jenn we have to wait for some friends to show up. Emerald finds the place surprisingly easy considering the last time she was here was about a year ago; before I was officially living in my current abode. She jumps out and tells me that I have to go give her a tour of my place now that it is habitable. This ought to take about 30 seconds.
So we leave Jenn and Emerald’s mom at the gas station and head over to the house to B.S. and show off the décor, or lack thereof. Emerald has always been a person I can talk to for hours and not be aware of time passing. She has an uncanny ability to adjust to any given situation and make a person feel wholly comfortable; an ability strangely at odds with her propensity for stopping traffic. We bounce around the house talking mostly about Amy, my plans, and Emerald’s most recent disaster (read: relationship) until the conversation gets around to awkward moments and memories we shouldn’t talk about.
“So…� she starts, with her particular brand of eye contact.
And I am suddenly aware of how alone we are; how close we are standing; and how great she looks in blue jeans.
“My! Look at the time. You need to be going.� I remark.
Ushering Emerald out the door and into the car, she starts talking about the drive back to Utah this evening and I am marginally surprised at her decision not to stay the night in L.A. The last ballet trip was a crazy all day event driving down into LA and all the way back up to Utah. We didn’t leave The City until the sun was almost down and she didn’t leave Barstow till 3 a.m.; not smart. In hopes of averting any untimely death, I give Emerald the keys to the house and tell her to stay there instead of driving all night.
“Oh, Dave. You don’t have to do this.� She says, looking at me like I just handed her a Nobel prize.
“I know I don’t. It’s not like I’m offering you the Four Seasons, either. It’s humble, but I think it’s important for people to know where they are welcome; and you always are.�
Pleasantries out of the way, we fly back to our none-too-patient counterparts and separate for our respective quests in opposite directions.
Jenn reminded me to pick up an RF Transmitter from Wal-Mart (ummm, didn’t you need that thingie?) so now the laptop sites nicely on the armrest of the truck, broadcasting my particular brand of aural entertainment through the stereo. The trip to Lake Havasu flies by and we’re arriving shortly after the fireworks have started. I grab a coke, sit down next to the barbecue and settle in for the show. Watching the potentially deadly explosions happening a hundred feet away, I can’t help but think about the remainder of the night’s journey and what other surprises the weekend has in store.
Did she pay you back for the truck rental?
Yup. Eventually, but that comes later. Probably in Part 3