Monday, May 05, 2008

good luck and spandex

So, you guessed it. Luck, or the lack thereof, would have its way with me again.

My attempts at circumventing the inevitable trip to the repair shop by beating the starter with an iron pole only lasted so long— and CERTAINLY were not going to get me to Boston. I did make it to Dayton on day three of the 3,026 mile mother trek from Carlsbad to Beantown, but Satan’s handshake greeted me on day four as I tried to complete the final leg to the finish line.

I woke up at 6am and rolled out of my bed at the Travelodge just adjacent to the Dayton International Airport. The night before, I had consumed four of the six Budweiser tall boys I purchased at a Shell station after getting through the whole don’t-turn-the-engine-off-for-the-entire-day drive out of Oklahoma City. It had been a long journey and America’s favorite lager (and mine, too coincidentally) was really putting me in fine spirits that night as I tuned in to Anderson Cooper and talked about far-off places with my friend Luana. All those “better spirits” wore off by the time my alarm was screeching noises at 6 o’clock the following morning.

I stepped outside hoping that someone had stolen the truck (this joke is only sort of funny seeing as how one of the other trucks for a different Crocs tour actually DID get stolen) but found it in the same spot where I had left it the night before. I opened up the rear hatch and threw my bag in. The marquee sign at the Travelodge was lit and advertised free breakfast with that creepy “Sleepy the Bear” fellow that they use in their advertisements. Anyway, so after I threw my bags in the truck I walked in to the lobby and looked around for some free eats.

“Breakfast” as it was labeled consisted of a box of Raisin Bran. It was the knockoff Spartan brand, and it wasn’t even in one of those silly plastic dispensers where you release the hatch and get your portion of flakes dropped in to your bowl— it was just the box sitting on a Formica countertop. Below that cereal, in a hokey little mini-fridge that smelled like 1 year old cream cheese, was some whole milk. I have never been picky so I of course poured myself a bowl that probably could have fed a small family (or a pack of dogs). When I sat down at a nearby table to enjoy my extravagant breakfast the chair leg snapped in half.

Awesome.

I relocated and upon placing my elbows on the new table realized they were lodged in some sort of sticky substance—my thought was maple syrup but god knows that the Travelodge wouldn’t have waffles. So it remained a mystery trying to figure out what was all over my elbows and forearms. Perhaps this should have told me that I should have just gone back to sleep and written the day off to bad luck.

I walked outside full of raisins… and bran… and whole milk, unlocked the door to the truck and crawled in to the drivers seat. I wasn’t exactly optimistic but did do a small good-luck dance to myself hoping that the truck would start.

Hell no.

I tried again. No luck. I searched for my metal pole in the darkness and found it on the floor.

I yelled for Katie, fully aware of the fact that it was 6:16 am, the door to her room was closed, she was probably still sleeping and I could be waking others up. But then I realized we were the only ones at the place and kept yelling. She eventually popped out of the room.

She approached me, took the keys from my hand and stuck the key in the ignition while I performed surgery on the starter. While I was hacking away at the thing, she turned the key. I was banging the starter like I really meant it. Had anyone else been around to see my behavior as I was crushing this thing, I am reasonably sure they would have told me take a breather, gather myself and just relax. But oh no, my frustrations were at an all-time high and I KNEW that I wasn’t going to be getting to Boston.

Then, believe it or not, it started to rain. Actually, it poured. It poured daggers of cold, dark unwelcome rain. I continued to beat the shit out of the starter with no luck whatsoever. So I wrapped up the operation promptly and burst in to Katie’s room because I had already thrown the key away to my room. I sat on the floor realizing that I was going to have to go through the same problem-solving mission that I had done roughly 15 days prior. I needed to 1) find a Sterling certified repair shop, 2) get the truck towed there and 3) get myself home.

Frustrations were mounting, I was sweating and Katie (I am reasonably sure) was probably sort of frightened as I approached the situation with codes and military-style hand communication.

Actually, I know she was.

After what seemed like about 45 different phone calls a fellow by the name of Virgil showed up—a short and stout man from a towing service in Dayton. The man looked like Joe Paterno and shot out the sort of intensity that let me know he would get the job done but also swore enough to suggest we could be friends. Virgil and I, as you could probably surmise, got along VERY well. He had the truck wrapped up and ready to go in record time despite what I presumed to be about 70 years of aging and a black and mild cigarette dangling out of his mouth through the entire process.

Step 1 and 2 complete. The truck was now gone, headed for Tokyo—I mean Cincinnatti—to a Sterling certified repair shop that was 52 miles away. That towing bill was almost $400.

Awesome.

My flight in Boston that I was supposed to catch the following afternoon was now a lost cause, it would need to be cancelled. The truck was staying in Cincinnatti, so now I needed to just either get a rental car or a flight back home to the Detroit area. National Car Rental’s overseas telephone response team took care of this issue promptly and set up a car rental reservation for me for pickup at the Dayton Airport. I thought of Max Monroe as I turned the volume up on my cell phone to assure I could understand everything the call-center attendant was saying.

Step 3 complete. Things were looking OK. Mom’s birthday surprise was still looking probable.

Katie had arranged a flight for herself home to Portland so we split ways. I shot off to the airport via the Travelodge shuttle service to pick up my rental car. The shuttle driver and her co-pilot were eating Wendy’s on the way and simultaneously barking orders to what sounded like a derelict babysitter that was doing questionable things to this woman’s child. I could have just as easily thought she was talking to her militant ex-husband with the sort of tone she was pumping out. The van smelled like a bowling alley and we listened to Def Leppard on the car ride. We arrived at the airport and I was out with my bags immediately.

I approached the rental counter. The attendant’s name was Doris.

My Toyota Yaris awaited me in spot 15 at the National Rental Lot. As I was putting stuff in the trunk I accidentally hit the panic button and pee’d myself a little bit because it scared me that badly. Exasperated and ready for an ice cream cone or something equally as comforting, I sat in the drivers seat, threw on my Abu Garcia hat and played the new
R.E.M. album “Accelerate” in the CD player. I-75 was a convenient 1 mile away and that was going to be my happy trail home.

I was driving 110 miles per hour at times because, well, lets be honest, I felt like I was in a race car with that hot little Toyota compared to my normal diesel digs. As I drove like Andretti, I was rehearsing in my mind how I was going to surprise my Mom when I pulled in to the driveway in roughly 2 hours. She had no idea I was coming home—hell, nobody really had any idea I was coming home then because had all things gone to plan I would be arriving on an evening flight from Boston the following night.

All of my mind rehearsals were promptly spoiled when I arrived home and my Mom wasn’t even there. Nobody was home actually except for the dog—the dog that I sort of like. Rudy is his name, and while he did once chew a sneaker of mine, he has maintained a fairly clean record of mildly acceptable behavior thus far. One damning card against the furry little fellow is that he does vomit quite frequently and the corresponding smell that results afterwards makes ME want to explode stomach bile from my mouth.

Anyway, I sat in the kitchen waiting patiently for mother dearest to come home while Rudy was yelping one room over in his quarters. I could have let him out but that would mean I would have had to take him outside to urinate and THAT was just out of the picture. So I ignored the situation and went upstairs to my room to check on the state of affairs in my banished quarters (my brother Alex has taken my old room). Things were still in order— a stack of shit piled to the ceiling from my last move out of Chicago, the half-completed painting I started with my roommate there, a row of sneakers lined up below the window facing our street and a hero’s share of junk mail strewn on the bed. I grabbed a copy of the magazine Ready-Made and brought it downstairs to read.

Rudy was still making weird noises.

Like every other time I come home, the first thing I do is begin to catalog the food assortment available for consumption. My Dad has a penchant for anything in the cookie or graham camp that he is able to be stuff in his mouth in one bite. As such, I am well taken care of in the sweets department. My brother Alex is a world-class athlete so he picks up the slack in the meat and protein area. Couple all this with the fact that my Mom has an unhealthy obsession with Costco (take my liking for the store and multiply it by about 35,000 to understand her level) so there are stocks of things like packages of lunch meat that are the size of a microwave oven or boxes of Goldfish crackers that need their own cabinet. That said, I usually put on a few pounds when I am home.

I made an enormous turkey sandwich and sat and read my magazine. The dog was still wincing in his quarters begging me to take him out. No chance. Finally I hear the side door open in the house but of course it was the one moment I had gotten up from my strategic perfect Mom surprising spot to get a glass of water. Realizing this, I kind of froze up and just sort of awkwardly appeared around the corner as my Mom was walking in to the house. This was probably the last of the surprise schemes I had bounced around in my head—try to scare her by jumping out of the pantry, act like I was the plumber fixing the sink, etc. She was actually talking to the dog when I just sort of awkwardly appeared in front of her. The resulting facial expression that appeared made it seem as though someone had just asked in a really, really kind and polite way if they could punch her in the face. She was extremely confused and unsure of how to respond. I gave her a hug and a kiss and she warmed up to the idea that I was actually there. So that was nice. But damnit, I wanted tears.

Within days the whole family—Mom, Dad, Emily, Alex and myself— was headed to the city of Douglas on the west side of Michigan for our little weekend getaway to celebrate Mom’s birthday. My Dad for the 4 weeks prior had relentlessly organized the whole excursion and it was the second of the two part surprise to my Mom. The cottage house was booked, he had recommendations on things we should do, places we should see, etc. He, however, was unaware of the fact that over the course of the weekend another rather large outing was occurring: Women’s Weekend. a This, of course was one of America’s largest lesbian gatherings in the month of April. And lesbians are fine and dandy—especially the ones that used to appear on the Howard Stern show—but I am pretty sure the jokes about the synchronicity of the whole occasion didn’t stop the entire weekend.

Celebrating Mom’s birthday was fun because it involved things like brunch, carefree attitudes, comfort and just the sort of general enjoyment that makes you feel invincible. For all the joking and sardonic commentary I spit out on a daily basis, if there’s one genuine thing I can talk about, it’s the fact that I love the time I can spend with my family. So naturally, the weekend in Douglas— despite the army of lesbians—was nothing short of incredible.

Alex, my little brother, continues to grow at rates that rival a Chea pet. Calling him my “little” brother may in fact be inaccurate. I am reasonably sure I could still kick his ass in a wrestling match, but Jesus I am expecting role reversal one of these days. I continue to be blown away by the shmorgasboard of sincere talents the kid has. I mean three activities that take up his time right now are lacrosse, welding and playing the guitar. And he runs a sneaker business on the side. I marvel at the randomness of it all given the fact he is a freshman in high school. Emily wore Spandex pants for the entire trip and that was one of the three highlights of the occasion. She also scored a bedroom set out of nowhere at a garage sale right across the street from the rented cottage. Yep, that’s how we roll. Emily has a ray of sunshine that explodes out of her that you rarely see in people. I can’t help but get excited when I am around her. We are going to live in the same city together one day soon. Dad’s sense of humor, no matter how much everyone else in the posse shrugs it off, continues to make me barrel laugh. I still marvel at the chronic smile that adorns his face. I don’t think he realizes or even acknowledges the daily effect he has on the people around him. I mention it whenever possible, but the man is incredible. And Mom was in her element the whole weekend; it was her birthday after all. The one pair of Crocs I managed to come up with as her gift ended up not fitting. Awesome. But she remains, and always will be, my rock. Hell or high water, the woman has the inner strength of an African Congo gorilla. And while that may seem like a joke, it really isn’t. I would put her up against anyone. Her attitude in life is one that keeps me forever moving forward. She lifts us all up really. It was nice being together with these people. There’s a sincere joy that we get from being together. And honestly, that’s something I can’t be thankful enough for.

See, I was going to say “I am a lucky sonofabitch” but that would then go totally against what I just said. And then I thought “I am a lucky motherfucker”— but again, kind of , sort of running contrary to what I said before.

So anyway, I am lucky—whichever way you look at it.

1 Comments:

At 7:23 PM, Blogger Unknown said...

WOW! You want tears? Now you have them! Thank you for the monster sized seal of approval!
It was such a great weekend! I really was surprised and rather speechless which doesn't happen often. You know well that I am not one prone to tears, so...

Thanks again for the tremendous effort to get home. We are all really lucky, aren't we? And remember, what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger! You have an arsenal of skill and information in your back pocket. And, last but certainly not least, "everything happens for a reason"!!!
Happy and safe trails!
xoxo, spl

 

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