Just Deserts

“It is often better to mince your words just in case you have to eat them later.”
I was immediately in sensory overload.
The great Grand Canyon is simply a sight to behold; neither pictures nor words can ever do it justice. That is not to say I won’t try.
I was once told that when I’m feeling really good about myself, and people are shouting for my name in lights and can’t get enough of me, to talk a walk down to the beach and look out over the ocean just to see how small I really am. This was a similar experience. The vastness was overwhelming, and the silent stir, if you can call it that, was everywhere; I wondered if it came from the winds picking up on the hollowness of all the dropped jaws that have witnessed these views. The horizon was piercing blue in stark contrast to the multiple hues of orange and gold and amber before me; and yet to another side, dark reds and browns; still another view with whites and yellows; and still more with rich browns and rust. It simply…went on, and on, and on.
I was humbled. Amazed too, that the company of fellow visitors nearby were in just as much awe as I. Cameras clicked and folks solemnly milled about, sometimes positioning themselves as far out on a ledge as possible so as to try to touch what simply was unreachable.
I felt a little crass doing it with all this natural wonder around me, but grabbed my cel phone to text a few friends that I was here; a dream come true. And just so I could altogether remove modern technology from the experience as quickly as possible, I grabbed my point-n-click disposable cameras, positioned myself a few times, snapped a few photos of myself (not knowing how horrid they would be, nor how nerdy)…then tucked the modern world back into my pockets as I strolled along the various paths on the southern rim.
It felt as if time stood still as I carefully moved about, and the few moments I found myself alone with the Canyon filled me with an indescribable peace. I felt an inherent sense of trust and a connection with God, the Universal Mind…call it what you will…that I was part of a whole. I found a secluded area to rest under one of the bonsais, and laid there for what seemed like forever.
That’s it. It felt like I was part of forever. That’s really the only way I can say it.

# # #

I suddenly somehow became aware that I was walking back to the parking lot. Somehow time was starting to pass more quickly than I wanted, and I still had “miles to go before I sleep.” With great reluctance, my visit entirely too short, I drove around the rest of the southern rim, only stopping occasionally to take in yet one more magnificent view. And then, it was all behind me; I found myself winding back down yet another stretch of road, which would set me on my path across the Arizona desert towards the Four Corners Monument – my next stop, and hopefully, the end of the day’s journey.
I gassed up at the next junction with Route 160, and stopped in a charming Native American shop called Painted Desert, savoring the authentic merchandise. The shop itself had a sense of calm about it; a connection to nature, if you will, and a real respect for it…it’s a bit of a heady, ethereal feeling…different than a “new age” shop you’d find in a big city. I longed to purchase souvenirs for my friends back home; for it was here that I found “something for everybody.” At least the old adage is true; it’s the thought that counts, for I would have broken the bank if I had gone on a shopping spree.
Recharged somewhat, I targeted the 3:00 position of the sun, realizing my need to step on the gas. “Miles to go.” And they were to be rather bleak ones. Confounded by numerous construction zones on one-lane highways, I was delayed entirely too often awaiting for clearance from some worker with a reversible “Stop/Slow” sign as he or she corralled traffic like cattle to slaughter…the sun beat down in the desert, and I started to take note of the traffic signs, for already I was taken aback when I saw signs warning of bobcats in Grand Canyon Village…here they were a little different…pictures of coyotes, snakes and wolves dotted the plain terrain, almost as if to make it interesting to drivers, or at least keep them alert.
It seemed, however, that every time I started to make progress, another section of road work set me back. I was becoming very agitated; it was hot, and I was keeping my eye on the temperature gauge, which was starting to rise due to all the start/stop/stalling that was going on. I consulted the triptik at every delay, looking for some alternative, but alas, I was in…a desert…how many roads can one take? Seemed my only hope was to keep on, which I did, with gritted teeth and a constantly depleting source of Dasani.
Matters loosened up somewhat after Tuba City (don’t ask…or blink as you pass it), but I was still a long way off from Four Corners, and was entering Navajo Territory. The sun was doing its shadow play again, and I needed to find a suitable AAA city with approved lodging.
That city was Kayenta, an area comprised mostly of two major cross streets, lined with commercial hotels, gas stations…and a supermarket. Not much else. Opting for a Holiday Inn (probably an influence of my father, who stayed in them often when he was a salesman), I checked in as quickly as possible, longing for a quick sandwich, to have a few beers, and just chill out. Four Corners could wait, I figured, and my next destination, Denver, was a cattycorner coast through Colorado. Boy was I wrong about that on all fronts.
I wandered through the sleepy town, grabbing pre-packaged turkey- on- wheat at the convenience store, and upon checkout, I asked the clerk where I might pick up a six pack of beer. She was a fairly rotund girl, with jet black Native American hair, which descended strictly on either side of her face like a rigid waterfall. She looked at me as though I had six heads.
“Um…you’re on an Indian reservation. Alcohol is illegal here.”
Long pause as Patrick takes this in.
“Oh.”
Stupid tourist look from said clerk.
“I see,” I said, “Well, now I know.” And as I grabbed my bag I thought, Hmmm, okay, you can’t sell me a beer and yet you have no problem selling me any number of the tobacco products behind you. I decided it best to bite my tongue. Stranger in a strange land, and all that.
Back at the hotel, I felt uneasy; my brief excursion into the bowels of Kayenta, I noted on the way back, opened my eyes to a more impoverished way of life: I observed more easily the raggedly dressed children and elderly, noticed many of the boarded-up shops, the bare-bones convenience stores…not exactly Rodeo Drive. The Holiday Inn was paradise in comparison. I was concerned, however, for the exposed belongings in the bed of my truck; a silly concern, but one does hear stories. I tried to sleep, but often found myself looking out the window of my room to be certain everything was still intact. I slugged down two Advil to relieve my stress, and drifted away to the latest CNN report on Michael Jackson’s drug-addicted cause of death.
And here, I couldn’t even buy a beer.
When I woke up to my sort of somewhat trusty alarm, I had a freakish realization as I looked at my clock, and that of the morning news: I had driven through my first time zone.
I was already an hour late.

Grand Expectations

“When going to hide, know how to get there. And how to get back. And eat first.”

My trusty new battery operated alarm only slightly disturbed me at 5:30…I had hoped for the sound of cymbals clashing or something, as I am impossibly difficult to awaken. Still, I tossed and turned enough trying to find the “off” button that I cracked one mucous-encrusted eye open to start the day. I was nervous and anxious, and I had not even had a cup of coffee yet.
Once pressed and dressed, I was surprised to see my hosts alert and enjoying breakfast already as I descended into the main room. I took the last of my belongings outside and carefully stacked them in the nook awaiting them in my newly organized passenger side of the truck.
With a hearty hug from Jenn and an equally hearty handshake from Chris, I thanked them again near the front door. Zoey just…looked at me with a tilted head, as down the driveway I went. As I approached the truck, the first rays of sun, which had silhouetted the quiet community of Summerlin, poked over the rooftops…I imagined sleepy Stepford Wives starting myriad perfect breakfast buffets throughout the town.
“Be careful!” called Jenn as I pulled away. I waved back in confirmation, and soon was gassed up, coffee prepped, and careening through the morning rush. The sun was blinding (for I was heading right towards the horizon) but, no worries, I had my trusty new sunglasses, which I donned over my own, making everything much more bearable. My hands were comfortably cushioned now as I gripped my extreme-makeover steering wheel.
I thought long and hard about this leg of the trip. My destination was a lifelong dream. Well, maybe not lifelong, but long enough: The Grand Canyon. Ever since the movie of the same title, I had been longing to see its majesty first-hand. It was still several hours away, and I tried to focus on my immediate tasks: the map, and passing inspection at Hoover Dam.
Boulder City was discovered to be a relatively small town in which I stopped for breakfast at Burger King, oddly enough. Here my brother Kevin called me to discuss my driving timeline and that I would be home in time for Mom’s 75th birthday, for which a surprise was being planned…nothing monumental, just close family, but still, he wanted to make sure I’d be there. I assured him I’d be back well in advance and would be happy to use my tax-free Delaware residency to procure the beer and wine. When I relayed my next destination to him, I sensed a pang of jealousy, but did not indulge it. “Great movie,” he said, and I chuckled with quiet understanding.
Rush hour through a small town is rather annoying, because the volume is only increased by 25 MPH speed limits and traffic lights. Still, Boulder City is a piece of heaven on earth; tranquil, small-town…very “Pleasantville.” One would never know that on the other side of town lies the enormous man-made triumph of decades ago.
The slopes and curves to which I’d begun to grow accustomed were less daunting now but the road signs were much more foreboding. Trucks in particular were frowned upon, and were detoured a good 45 minutes around the Dam. I assured myself that I was just a baby truck…just a baby truck…and that Jesse’s Girl was not a threat to Homeland Security, despite the clumpy, bungee-cord-bound, tarp-covered cargo in the bed. Police cars and roving rangers were everywhere; the Dam was under construction, and security was heightened as a result. When I arrived at the checkpoint, a non-descript ranger with a typical full-brimmed officer’s cap pulled me to one side to inspect the bed. I explained the cross-country thing and how everything was not only NOT personally packed by me, but was furthermore doubly-bound with contractor trash bags for protection from rain. He insisted I undo the tarp, as he looked at the various body bags forced together into a misshapen puzzle. He had me cut open several containers, which thankfully were clear and showed books and files and such, but when he got to the covered trunk, he insisted that he be able to inspect its opaque contents.
I was mortified when the first thing revealed on opening the lid was my teddy bear. Enough said. Ranger Rick said I was free to go.
With some diligence, I managed to piece the puzzle back together, and was traversing the Hoover Dam. There are one or two viewpoints, but they were closed during this time, so I was forced to continue without a moment to truly enjoy the scope of the sculpture; I took a few random photos without looking as I held the camera out the window, hoping that I’d captured something more than scaffolding and road work signs.
The one-way curvy crescents cascaded to a dull stretch of road where tumbleweeds jostled about, and before long I junctioned with I-40. Happy for Interstate speeds (and lanes…go ahead, pass me, I thought, I’m not in a hurry), I looked ahead to the mountain horizon. Is that it, I thought, is that the beginnings of The Grand Canyon? I sped along with glee, as the desert terrain started to melt away into a remarkably green vista. This was Arizona, right? What’s with all the trees? It was all too surreal, but after the bleakness of the last several legs, I was grateful for the foliage as I breathed it in.
Counting down the mileage on the highway signs, I could sense being less than an hour away; soon I had turned left on Route 64, heading north. My destination was near. The two lane highway was starting to brim with activity, school buses and tour buses, and I tried to center myself to not get caught in any tourist traps, of which there were many on the way. Within minutes of the main Grand Canyon village, I was startled by a helicopter that hovered across the road (a recurring image from the movie). I marveled at the thought of flying over the land in that manner, and as I passed the Grand Canyon airport (who knew?), I was shortly in line at the Lincoln-Log main gates. The admission drive-through booths were staffed with beefy ladies in knock-off ranger uniforms, and mine was no exception. She was friendly and informative, and with my receipts I received multiple maps and information packets. “First lookout is about a mile up on the right,” said Ranger Rosie, and I thanked with what was probably entirely too much fervor. I didn’t care. The gate rose, and I hit the gas before anyone else could get in front of me.
The “first lookout” was inundated with traffic and pedestrians, and there was nary a spot to be found. I could discern, between dodging the children running amok and the elderly taking their time, small pockets of the canyon through what seemed to be bonsai trees lining the crater…not enough to give me any real sense of scope, and after three times around, I decided to proceed further down the road to the main trap: the food court and souvenir lot. Here, I figured there must be more bustle in and out, and I was right, finding a spot near enough to get a bite to eat, and still cross the main road to take my first view. I took my time. I wanted to savor this, so I stepped inside for a sandwich and pulled out the map to get a comprehensive overview.
Feeling a little yucky from the sweat and heat, I entered the adjoining souvenir trap…um, store. After surveying the goods, I opted for a rust colored Kokopelli inspired cap and shirt, and ducked into the restroom to do my “supercanyon” change. Feeling a little refreshed (and looking oh-so-touristy), I grabbed my camera from the truck, stashed the map in my pocket, and headed across the main road into what looked like bonsai heaven. The white sand trail wound to and fro, and ahead I could see a small cabin surrounded by crooked stripes of red, rust and gold.
The trees parted and I looked to my left. There it was.
I couldn’t breathe.

Vegas Baby

“I work, worship, workout, live, shop and play: all in Summerlin.”

Jenn stood upright when I came more into view and I waved as she trotted down the driveway around to the driver’s side with her trademark smile flashing with brilliance. It quickly dissipated into a jaw-drop of disbelief as the streetlight’s glare shone upon my face. “Omigod you are SO sunburned. There is no way you are getting back on the road tonight. You’re staying. I insist. Hi!!”
I had almost forgotten the manner in which her mind races from thought to thought and this expediency was no exception. As I peeled myself from the truck and we embraced, her husband Chris strolled down the driveway with his own trademark calm. They do say, opposites attract; I was about to learn just how much. I thanked him for the surety of his directions, and they ushered me into their abode.
The corner lot where they reside was spacious with high ceilings and beautifully appointed furniture, artwork, and choices of paint color. A long multi-sectional couch divided the space between the living room and a sitting area with fireplace. I was immediately taken with its organization and layout, almost to the point of perhaps having seen it featured in Better Homes & Gardens magazine. A white fluff of fur began a prolonged series of barks at me. Zoey, their mini-poodle/bichon, was in guard mode – in full force. Jenn and Chris reassured her on one end of the couch as I found myself on the other end, absorbed by its chocolate folds. It was a comfy respite from the cramped container I’d been in for the last 10 hours. I quickly tried to throw a few pointers at Jenn to control Zoey’s barking, but decided not to be rude.
As it turned out, I was remarkably alert, or perhaps it was sheer adrenaline coursing through my veins, and I was extremely famished. Jenn and Chris had delayed their dinner plans, and after a quick hosedown in their guest bathroom, I threw on a fresh shirt and we escaped to a local pub to gnosh. Savoring an appetizer sampler over cocktails, they were quickly caught up on my trip, and its cause (not to say California didn’t have its share of wonderful experiences, but by the end, it was starting to become a Danielle Steele novel), and we enjoyed our main courses as they filled me in on their lives in Vegas. Jenn continued to insist that I take it easy on myself, and rest the next day, have lunch with her, let her show me around, and then I could head the next morning. Her persistence would win the day.
A nightcap in the kitchen set us all ready for bed, Chris in particular who has a very harsh schedule of long days doing his audio engineering. Jenn, after double checking the locks on the doors, set me up comfortably in their beach-themed guest room, and in moments, despite Zoey’s continued barking from their master bedroom, I was out. When morning came, I could get some sense of perspective by the rising sun, and perceived their house faced northeast: my destination home. Chris was in the living room doing aerobic boxing with a digital video system that was all wired to his hands as it read his movements while he “hit” the punchbag. Technology. Amazing.
Jenn floated down the stairs in business/caszh with Zoey tucked sneering at me under her arm, and she explained where everything was to make me feel at home. My goal was to chill, get the truck re-organized, fasten the steering wheel cushion pad, have lunch with Jenn – and purchase sunglasses. Before I knew it, Jenn double checked the locks on the doors, and they had gone to their daily lives, and it was me…my “shtuff”…and Zoey. Clearly, it was time to make friends.
Small dogs are often skittish of adults, from sheer size alone, and Zoey was no exception. First things first: get down to her level, so as not to be so intimidating. Zoey’s barking stopped short as I lay down before her (a good six feet away) and she tilted her head at me in that curious, precious way that all dogs do. With my stature out of the way, she approached my outstretched hands with trepidation, but once she touched them, I praised her, which made her tail wag furtively. Before long, we were fast friends, and I was able to move freely about the house. She didn’t like my coming and going from the front door to the truck and back, but I seriously needed to declutter and make the passenger area more suitable…I was, after all, only on my second State of the US.
I was amazed at how much clutter I’d accumulated from AAA…their library of State guides and maps had taken up a good chunk of space. AAA: Trash Trash Trash. I managed to find the steering wheel cover and fasten it securely, confident that my hands would now be protected. A bag and a half of trash later, I sat on the couch with Zoey nestled against my thigh, and watched the media circus going on over Michael Jackson’s memorial service.
After multiple times of “throwing up a little” at the absurdity on every channel in the nation, I showered and awaited Jenn’s arrival to visit her place of employ and grab some lunch. Jenn was a little taken aback at Zoey’s snuggling up against me, so much so that Jenn’s head crooked the way Zoey’s did earlier in the day. I shrugged.
After double checking the locks on the doors (I was sensing a theme here), Jenn and I headed out through the Stepford Wife community of Summerlin. Jenn joked again about her limited prowess on the roads outside of her immediate surroundings, to the point where she and a friend had planned a grass roots marketing tag-line: “I work, worship, workout, live, shop and play: all in Summerlin.” (It’s really the manner in which you say it that counts, and Jenn’s inflection as she recited it was uproarious.)
She took me to the Nevada Ballet, her home for the last five years, and I was impressed with its size; multiple dance studio after dance studio, wardrobe rooms, lobbies and meeting rooms were connected by a long hall adorned with exquisite overly-elongated bronze statues of varying pas de deuxes and ballerinas en pose. I thought of the resident company back home, First State Ballet, who manages to produce their ballets with minimal rehearsal space in a top corner of the building in which I used to work, and appreciated their tenacity of making due with very little all the more.
After a brief tour of the offices, we lunched at a favorite Greek restaurant of hers in a shopping center, all of which (it would seem) was loosely connected by one road that (again, it would seem) led from work to the church to the gym to the park to the stores to the road back to Jenn’s house; she had not been kidding about her tag-line. As she enjoyed her Greek salad and I my Gyro, we chatted with a colleague of hers who joined us, and I listened to the woman’s escapades of becoming a promoter for an up and coming Elvis impersonator; I wondered how she distinguished the talent level. But more uproarious was that he came with a drummer – a rather frightening one at that – whose business card showed him in a contortionists’ position, with his head on the ground and his body arched back over itself as his feet landed on either side of his ear. Looking like a runner up for Al Yancovik, his hands held a pair of drumsticks. Jenn called him, “Spesh” (as in short for “Special Education”). I thought I was going to see my Gyro again from laughing so hard that I thought I would hurl.
With limited time for her lunch hour, we tried to dash quickly into a Wal-Greens to find myself a pair of sunglasses. A kid in a candy store, Jenn bustled about through various sale promos, and picked out a pair of lawn chairs. I could see this was going to take some time. I was a little more sensible, purchasing an alarm clock and a battery-operated fan for my dashboard. When we DID make it to the sunglasses area, it was not long before I had found a suitable pair to go OVER my eyeglasses without making me look more ridiculous. And then: in line to checkout, but not before Jenn found an Australian-style straw hat for me that looked “just right” and I grabbed two disposable cameras. We each took a line. Hers moved like the wind…mine, molasses. I could see why: the clerk was a little on the “spesh” side; only me, I thought, as Jenn snickered by the exit. After a laborious checkout, we sped to the car, and my new hat flew off in the wind…this was going to be a problem, I could see. Fiddleedee, I thought, I’ll find a way to make it stay on my head later.
She dropped me back off at the house, where I napped a bit and continued re-organizing. When the happy couple returned home from their workdays, Chris prepared to barbecue while Jenn took me out for a quick jaunt to sight-see.
She assured me she knew how to get there. And back.
Red Canyon Mountain sits about 10 miles outside of Summerlin, and the sun was once again starting its game of shadow play. The winds were picking up too, and as we entered the grounds (a one-way trail up and around and back down), we stopped at the first viewpoint. I took my first pictures here, trying to capture the rich soil and majestic views. When we got to a higher crest, the winds had really kicked in, but we trudged along. Our conversations started to become more inspired, perhaps due to the surrounding beauty, and we talked about her life here, marriage, future children…all the things that suddenly one can freely talk about when the time is just right. This was one of those times.
The conversations in fact added emphasis to the silence on the way back, as we both contemplated our lives. Here, Jenn had taken a risk and has established herself a whole new life over the past five years; I couldn’t even make it 8 months. The silence was, at times, palpable.
Zoey barked again upon my entrance, but not for long as Chris appeared with burgers and grilled potatoes and a mixed salad, which distracted her sensory perception. Jenn dominated the dinner conversation, and we had a nice, relaxing evening…much needed, as it would be some time before I had this type of respite again. We took some photos in the dining room, and went on a spur of the moment trip to the Strip, courtesy “tour guide of useless trivia” Chris (as Jenn calls him), stopping for some frozen yogurt before hand; Jenn had coupons…I think we paid a dollar for all three of us.
The Strip is pretty much everything everyone says it is: vibrant, decadent, loud, fast, furious and filled with tourists. It’s as if someone had taken pieces of every major city, chewed them up and vomited them back up to see where they’d land. Chris cooed about the square footage of various casinos and calculated numbers of rooms against football fields and such, spewing statistics on various owners of what building was owned and where, and who had/had not stayed there. If my frozen yogurt wasn’t giving me a brain freeze, the statistics certainly were.
When my brain tank was filled with neon and lights, we headed back, and after another series of skittish barks from Zoey, I thanked them both for their hospitality, and a wonderful time. The sunrise would be calling me, and I wanted to miss the rush hour traffic of the City of Sin.
This time, I felt a little more prepared; I had read the map.

Shadow Play

Another note to self: When driving across a desert, buy sunglasses FIRST.
Newly ordained with confidence from MJ’s trusty radiator cap, I recalculated my timeline as I headed (this time, correctly) on I-15…having already been on the road for 3 hours, I figured Vegas was a trip to the beach. Imagine my surprise when the first sign indicated that it was 380 miles away. I was hoping to have dinner and a quick visit with friends right after their workday; now, by all indications, it was going to be a later arrival than I thought. It was then that I received the first of many texts.
Jenn Hook Kratochowill is a former colleague from The Grand and a friend you simply can’t forget. She moved to Vegas when she married her husband Chris, an audio engineer who does primo work for some of the major casinos, including the up and coming “largest ever,” The Aria. Jenn now works with the Nevada ballet, and while I have always stayed in touch over the years, I have never had the pleasure of visiting. This was to be my first destination.
Her text was simple: “On time?” to which I responded (after pulling over), “Waylaid. 5 hours?” She was quick on the reply, “No prob. BE CAREFUL.”
Of course I was being careful, I thought (this, the first of many such thoughts, would turn out to be multiple conversations with myself, God, and many other Sybil-like personalities I had not yet met). How could I not be careful? This is everything I have, my whole life, all I own, in this truck; I’m going to guard it with my life.
And then the first series of slopes and curves really started to kick in. I was suddenly in mountainous terrain, surrounded by streaks of deserts here and there…all very much in the middle of nowhere. It made me wonder where the hell all this traffic was coming from. And moreover, where they were going. I could feel the tremendous weight on the bed of the truck as gravity pushed down and Jesse’s Girl sloped with the road. The tractor trailers whizzing past didn’t help, and I reached across to pull the passenger window down a crack to create an air vent for the vacuums they generated.
I decided to be more careful.
After several scathing remarks where the first of Sybil’s voices started to reveal themselves, I found myself out of the major traffic and on level land. Very. Level. Land. The beginnings of the Mojave were in plain view, and plain is the word. At first. The sun continued its beating, and the road began to take on the effect of that blurriness that occurs over a charcoal grill…the gaseous wavy lines rising above. By now I was realizing two things: my hands were hurting from the decades old steering column that was not exactly designed for a comfort grip, and my face was hurting from squinting so much from the glare, and (not realizing it) the sunburn I was getting from the reflection off my hood.
Jenn continued to text me as I continued along the straight, unending, bleak road before me. The mountains in the distance seemed so miniscule; I wondered if they would ever rise. The sun on my neck started to creep to the left, as time marched on, and I tried to keep on keeping on. I was starting to feel a little dazed and confused, but just then something caught my eye.
The mountains, all around, ahead, and in the distance, started to come to life. The setting sun was beginning a game that has to have been going on since the dawn of time: shadow play. The left sides of the mountains were highlighted in radiant golds, ambers, rusts and reds, as the right sides started to deepen their hues and often take on the shapes of faces and figures. As the game continued, I was grateful to witness it; a natural wonder viewed by fresh eyes. I was grateful too, for my overheated temperature gauge, for without that delay, I may not have borne witness to this tete a tete between earth and sun. The game continued for some time, and instilled me with new energy.
My landmark prior to Vegas was an armpit of a town called Baker, which really is a last resort before you hit the Mojave heading the other way. The Mayor of the City of Wilmington is named Baker, and the irony was not lost on me as I laughed at the cosmic coincidence that I was “heading home.” Armpit that it was, it was a welcome stop, and as I careened into a convenience store parking lot, I was blanched into a cool spot of shade on the far façade. My squinting eyes peeled open with some resistance as my pupils dilated.
More texts from Jenn, as the 8:00 hour approached. “You’re about 40 min away. Call when you get to Vegas exits,” and after a quick stretch (and with growing concern over losing sunlight), I was struck by one more irony, the last exit in California before the state line: Bailey Road (my old boss’ name…hmmm). Without fanfare, Nevada’s state sign “welcomed me” and then about 10 minutes into the area, the fanfare really began, as a series of twinkling lights, mini casinos, questionable bars and neon-everything started to light the way.
Jenn had told me that she lived in a new development that was “hardly Vegas,” but I nonetheless had to cruise through the cotton candy lights ahead to find it. Upon several missed exits (stranger in a strange town, it happens), I called Jenn, and said three things to her: “I’m stiff, I’m sunburned, and I’m sober.” She laughed and quipped along with alliteration: “Well, I got Solarcaine.” Her husband Chris got on the line and gave me comprehensive directions, due to Jenn’s confession that she essentially drives only to work and home. Before long, I was on a beltway around the City of Sin, and cruised into the lovely development of Summerlin.
My last visual memory of Jenn was at her wedding, with her long tendrils of chestnut hair cascading through her veil. As my pickup turned onto her street, I slowly revved up alongside the house, partially obstructed by several trees. From the porch light glow behind one of them stood a new shadow play: that of a familiar figure stooped over to one side as if in anticipation. Familiar, with the exception of one thing.
Jenn had bobbed her hair.
It was Throroughly Modern Mille, Vegas style.

Read The Map

Note to self: When departing on a cross country trip, read the map FIRST.
The 11 AM California sun was already beating down in full force, something to which I’d only recently grown accustomed; 11 AM to 6 PM in California is like Noon to 3 PM back east, and today in particular had an additional haze to it. As I stashed my bottles of Dasani into every available nook and cranny in the passenger seat, I reinforced my undiagnosed OCD and surveyed the dashboard for all necessities to get me started (notice I didn’t say, “finished”). With a flutter in my chest, I sighed heavily as I pulled out onto Main Street and passed the few sights that had become familiar to me: the merchants I frequented, my drycleaners, the mall…all soon to become memories as I took the exit for Route 126 toward Santa Paula (at least that’s what the AAA map “triptik” said to do).
I became immediately conscious of the direction I was heading, largely due to the sun’s apex. The ocean was behind me now, and mountains were in front. I was heading east. Considering that I’d only ever headed north and south in the sleepy town of Ventura, it took me a minute to get my bearings. “Here you go,” I thought, “once again to the point of no return. Don’t look back.” The mountains continued to loom ahead, and after about an hour, became much more detailed in their appearance. But then I was to take a detour, according to the map, to find my way to I-15, which, ultimately, would lead me to Las Vegas.
The first couple of connecting routes seemed to regurgitate me onto similar back roads, and I thought at times I was going in circles…these areas were really back road Americana with their convenience store shacks, fruit stands, scrap metal yards, and…telephone poles. Miles and miles and miles of telephone poles. Dirt roads would suddenly become tar, then would abruptly break into dirt patches again…I consulted the map frequently; I had not made a wrong turn, despite my concerns at seeing several road signs that looked like they had been absconded from the M*A*S*H sound stage. I was about two hours into my trip when I pulled over at a particularly more appealing convenience shack than some of the others I’d seen…that’s when I noticed my temperature gauge was starting to run hot.
Oh boy. Please, no.
The shack clerk had to be all of 15, with her hair drawn up in a scrunchie right out a Madonna video, with a mismatched plaid shirt tied at the ribs and leggings. She was clearly irked at the customer before me, a dingy maven with matted straw hair, who was only asking for a water cup. I suppose every part of the world has its pecking order, but this seemed a bit off to me, and I offered one of my Dasanis to the woman, who politely declined, opting instead for a triangulated paper cup from the clerk. Feeling a fish out of water, I paid for my sundries and checked the temp gauge and the map. I could not see a reliable AAA recommended auto shop for another sixty miles. I imagined having a rosary.
An hour later, I got turned around by poor signage trying to merge onto I-15, and wound up heading south…a bit of a blessing when I realized it, really, for off the exit I chose to turn around, I was astonished to survey my choice of auto body shops…one after another after another. I started to head towards a recognizable shop, but the mechanic said they only did quick fixes, not diagnostics, so he directed me across the lot to MJ’s Japanese Auto…a fitting welcome to my Mazda.
MJ was a typically short middle aged man of Asian descent, who listened intently as I explained my cross country plight, the history on Jesse’s Girl, and my concern about overheating. He pointed to his rate sheet and headed to the hood of the truck as I simultaneously filled out paperwork for him. While he tinkered away, I called my mother to relay that I was on my way and would be in Vegas by nightfall. I didn’t even hint at the fact that I might have a major problem under the hood; I simply couldn’t even begin to imagine explaining THAT.
MJ broke his silence in an equally broken Asian accent, explaining that the radiator cap was not fitted properly with the right size air/release hole (whatever that meant), and I would need a new one. He called for a moose of a man working in the shop on another import, and sent him over to one of the adjacent shops to pick one up. While waiting, he did a quick radiator flush (I later learned this is usually a very expensive task). After Moose returned, he showed me the new cap, and explained the difference in the vent holes…personally I couldn’t tell, but clearly, he felt it made a difference.
While he calculated his labor, he explained that he would not be able to provide me with a receipt as his printer was down, but he assured me that he would send the receipt to my new address back east. While I was at first immediately suspicious, I was also quickly reassured that if he was going to send a receipt there, he was confident that I would MAKE it there.
Expecting a hefty bill, I looked at the charges of $56.84 in disbelief. He wished me well on my journey, and said I should not have anymore potential overheating problems… “smooth sail,” said he.
That was good to know. I was about to hit the Mojave desert…at two in the afternoon.

Fare Thee Well, City Of Fortune

(N.B. There is quite a gap in the storyline here, but suffice it to say: it didn’t work out.)

My last few days in Ventura were some of the most troubling I’ve had to deal with; a lost job, the prospect of a cross-country trip on my own, disappointed friends who would not have a chance to say goodbye – the list goes on. I was at the point where I was just gonna say forget it and throw everything out and just fly back; at least I’d be home. I went into lockdown, not responding to phone calls or emails, or texts – for almost three solid days, while I deliberated.
But my newly re-charged truck would be my only source of transport upon my return, and it was that deciding factor that allowed me to throw caution to the wind, load her up (easier said), and prepare to depart. So many people to thank, so many small “re-gifts” and giveaways (small legacies to those with whom I’d grown close).
By some small miracle, my cherished landlady Doris was in Minnesota for the July 4th weekend. This would give me a few days reprieve to create some chaos in the apartment and surrounding areas, run a few loads of uninterrupted laundry, and generally tidy up. Strange, in all these six months, that the last time I would see her would be at the office; but it’s how I’d like to remember her: a spritely young 80-something in a straw hat and floral band, in flowing chinos, carrying her volunteerism bag, heading off to her next assignment. Of course, when I arrived home, there was another “Note From Doris” (I’ve saved them all) with some final matters to attend to: return the keys, garage opener, trash removal, mail to bring in with newspapers in her absence…then, in typical fashion, a simple smiley face (with a frown), and a large “D.”
I will miss her.
My friend DMK and his new love, Nancy, were kind enough to have me for a tri-tip barbecue Sunday evening. Their Boxer pair, Buster Brown and Pepper Laurie, bustled about, but behaved in my presence (generally : ) and as the sun began to set, I had an emotional burst of tears, holding on to Buster, my pride and joy, who went from a rambunctious pup (hence his name) – how far in his training he’s come, and he’s a good example for Pepper; she’ll come around.
The following morning was D-day, but I still wanted to say goodbye to Cindy, my fellow nomad, with whom I’d grown very close these last few months, emotionally, spiritually, professionally. I had picked some lemons from the tree in my yard, and had already left some other odds and ends for her that I thought would go well in her apartment.
Ironically, she texted me early in the am, asking if I was still around. We rendezvoused at Palermo, where she had first taken me back in November, when all of this began. The AD of the theatre “crashed” our visit because she wished to say goodbye; it was oddly relaxing and we laughed quite a lot, we three. Once left to our own, I bequeathed the lemons to Cindy with a quip: “When life hands you lemons, make grape juice, “ and as she smiled at me, I finished with, “then sit back and let everyone wonder how you did it.”
Shortly thereafter, I was in my truck; I looked at the clock: 11:11 AM - I made wish. "I wish to make it to Vegas."
And off I went.
###

An Exhaustive Recap

Forgive me gentle readers, for I have committed the sin of omission…it is worse than lying…”not knowing “ is probably the worst offense in my eyes. So – mea culpa. There’s no real excuse, except for the incredibly hectic schedule I inherited.
Rather than bore you with details, I thought I would do my best to do a “Heroes/Lost/The Bachelor/Dexter/Extreme Makeover” edition of this blog to catch you up. Essentially, you are about to encounter a 3 month summary account of the strengths/weaknesses/personal moments/hatred/love and goals I have experienced these last few months.
When last we left, it was December, just before Christmas, and I had landed safe and sound on my Tempurpedic bed, ready to face the day at my new job. Alone in a new world.
So. In one VERY long paragraph, mostly a run-on sentence, loosely-structured with dangling participally-phrased sections along with grammatically incorrect and sometimes even politically incorrect (like I care) observations, may I offer the following:
I woke up and went to work then discovered I work in a basement office which is fine, but it was cold and damp but nonetheless homey; I was blessed to have a friend in DMK who gave me a beautiful office environment as best he could, complete with a gift of holiday candles. Cindy was prepping for her trip back East to see her own family for the holidays, so I had very brief time with her. I spent a lot of time in my office alone learning the ropes as I planned out: -an End Of Year Phone campaign;-a New Year’s Eve VIP holiday dinner with cast members performing from the currently running holiday show;- a Sneak Preview celebration for 2009/10, followed the next day by;-a volunteer luncheon with an additional Sneak Peak of the upcoming two shows: Virginia Woolf and Fiddler On The Roof. Oops sorry. Virginia Woolf and Fiddler On The Roof, in italics…apparently a style point that cannot be ignored.
…not to mention daily contributions, prepping for two new officemates after the New Year, and monitoring all these voluminous RSVPs from strangers about whom I knew nothing. That aside, here’s what’s happened since:

Body clock adjusting-fireplace comfort-Christmas Eve tacos with Doris and family-first show at RTC: Rubicion Family Christmas-emotionally available-overwhelmed by performers-comfort from memory box-completely quiet Christmas-learning that my rental car has to be extended due to holiday hours and I must pay more-reuniting online with estranged Aunt-Tastykake gift boxes and goodies-rearranging furniture-cold, weak in comparison to east coast-limited clothing-New Year’s Eve private party planning-end of year calls-quiet office-flashing forward-missing family & friends-major sponsor Preview Party-exhausted Fundraiser Luncheon next day-disheartened co-workers-plugging on-multiple special events for Virginia Woolf-missing leadership-connecting with immediate manager-Opening Night trials-visit from former boss-more emotional questions-connecting with co-workers-feeling not so bad-learning anomalies of living on a mountain-needing a car-running scared-neglecting Facebook lifelines-visits with local friends in SoCal and LA-rejuvenation-board management and typing up minutes-undue pressure on tasks previously categorized as “other duties as assigned”-allying with senior management-losing a key colleague-laying low-slander-sitting pretty-kudos and credits-new software training-largest cast to be dealt with ever-challenges with monitoring a nicety, not an obligation-research, research, research- vain attempts at competency-reclusiveness-forgetting my feast day-retreating to the brink-monitoring others’ dilemmas and feeling needed-body clock still adjusting three months later, waking at 6 am-questioning purpose-difficult contact for Fiddler Opening Night-secrets unveiled about which I knew nothing-questioning hierarchy-bullish actors-cash flow, professionally and personally-there is so much more…but it’d be a chore to get through. And finally: a reprieve.
A visit from a long lost friend from Cape May. And suddenly, the curtains were drawn, and the light was let in.