[134] Screed City

[134]

05/09/2022 Monday. Kitchen Microwave. Beaver Haus. Lower Granville, Vermont.

San Francisco: Part One

4p to 4p to 4p to 4p-2. Left Friday at 4p got back today, Monday, at 2p. What is that? 70 hours on the road. I won't lie, I am a little roughed up. Hit the skids for Burlington. Hour and 15 minutes of driving. Got to the airport and parked. We found a sweet parking spot. I mean, Scott was flying in an hour after we left, so it was easy to find the car. For him. The airport was nice. Security was easy. We had nice dry cider while we waited. Then we got on the plane. Frontier Airlines. Which I guess is one of those bargain brand airlines. Where everything costs extra. Any baggage, et cetera. Even choosing your seat costs money. I mean, I dug it. It was exactly like the flights in Norway I was talking about. No first class. Everyone was kind of in the same kind of hell. Or not. Like riding a bus basically. Our seats were in row 6. Front of the plane. Which in normal times on a normal plane that would mean that we would be right behind first class. So if we wanted to use the bathroom we would have had to go all the way to the back. But nope. Not here. We had access to that bathroom. The seats didn't recline. Which is whatever. Even when they do recline they don't make it any easier to sleep or whatever. They just kind of annoy the person behind you. Nobody was fighting over overhead space. If you paid for it you had space right above your seat. Nobody was stopping the boarding to go all the way to the back to get rid of their stuff and then coming all the way to the front to sit down again. No WIFI. No screens on the backs of the seats. I mean, nobody was a complaining whiner either. People just shut up and dealt with it. Not that just giving into shitty life conditions is the way that we should live. But human nature, man. If you don't expect shit you won't be disappointed. I mean, they still served drinks. Alcohol even. You could buy food. Well, snacks. I mean, it was travel. Like a bus. Like I said. I mean, I dug it. It is how it should be. This idea that you can just buy yourself into comfort at the expense of everyone else is bullshit. And, I mean, private jets are becoming ubiquitous, but that is a different thing entirely. This is just like getting on the fucking bus and driving to where you are going. The is no pretense. None of use fighting each other for scraps. Because scraps is all there was to begin with.

I mean, there was this one woman who was kind of a menace. She tried to drink all the Bud Light on the plane. She got cut off. But not before making everyone around her uncomfortable with her weird ass questions and observations. I mean, it kind of reminded me of when I flew over seas alone for the first time. Telling people that you can't bring the beer you could buy at the newsstand on the plane, but you could drink it there in the waiting area. And people looking at me like I was a moron. No shit, Sherlock. I mean, I kind of felt bad for her until she got cut off. Then it was just kind of funny. The flight attendant insisted she drink some water. I mean, she kind of kept to herself after that. But her poor elderly seatmate. I specifically heard her ask to get out to use the bathroom and her seatmate said:

"They have the fasten seatbelts light on." And the menace said:

"Is that what you do in your life? Just follow whatever orders people give you." And the poor older woman was like:

"Well, no, it's just that the fasten seatbelts sign is on. For a reason. And no, I don't just follow orders." I mean, what the fuck is that? Fucking bully. "Smoke this cigarette you pussy." Or whatever.

We landed in Denver about four hours later. The Publisher slept. I read from Oliver Twist [italics.] I mean, we also talked and drank some wine. Wine?! [In a high whiny voice.] When we got out in Denver we walked to our transfer gate. Made sure it was right then went looking for a bar. There were two. One had a 20 minute wait. The Hostess told us that if we were just going to drink there was a sports bar down the way. We said thanks and went there. It was a very odd scene. Not really a sports bar but a sports bar/Quizno's. Very bright lights. A hockey game. A wild eclectic pop soundtrack. I drank a beer. The Publisher drank a wine. Wine?! [In a high whiny voice.] We lost track of time a little bit and I panicked. Running back to the gate. The Publisher stayed behind and got a sandwich. When I got to the gate they were already boarded. I called the Publisher. She didn't answer. Time went by. She eventually showed up. We had plenty of time. But because of the way the system works, which is very well, for Frontier Airlines there wasn't some huge line where everyone was scrambling to get ahead of the next loser. It was just straight forward boarding that took like 1/3 of the time. I am telling you, we bring this shit on ourselves when we think we just need that little bit of comfort that we think we deserve and no one else does. So we fight over it while missing the bigger picture. Which is this: We are just travelling. From one place to another. You know? A few hours of discomfort. That is all. It's not like some fucking slumber party where only the biggest bully gets the couch and everyone else sleeps on the floor. We are all sleeping on the floor. There is nothing to fight over.

The Publisher handed me half of the sandwich she had eaten. I thought it was all of it so I just put it in my jacket pocket for safe keeping. I was wrong. She had eaten half of it. She was giving me the rest. I learned this later, but that is how it ended up in my pocket. We sat in our seats. The plane wasn't full. There was a guy next to me that was doing vacation TicToks. Which was kind of cute but also kind of sad. There was nothing exciting about the plane ride or the plane or the travel. It was like bragging about going to the toilet or something. Like: "Just ate some psyllium husks! See you in few!" #dumpforjesus#hopeeverythingcomesoutalright. I mean, he was young and cute, so I did dig his vibes, but still. We asked the flight attendant if we could move up. She said the plane was supposed to be full and she would get back to us. She never got back to us. The doors closed and they announced it. I told the Publisher we should make a move. But before that she explained that half the sandwich was for me. That is was nice and toasty. Shit, I realize I told this story wrong. It was then that she gave me the sandwich. She brought it in to the plane herself. That was when I put it in my pocket. I wasn't hungry though. So I guess I was saving it. She ditched to the other seat. I moved over to the aisle. The plane took off. After the 2 minute mark when they ding the bell that allows you to stand up and use the bathroom or whatever, take your seatbelt off is you are a rebel like the menace. Who takes no rules from no one. Except when she gets cut off for drinking a six pack of Bud Lights on a four hour flight. I mean, I got up and moved to the aisle where the Publisher was. She was leaning against the side of the plane, honking shoes. I sat down and read Oliver Twist for a while. Then I got hungry. Then I pulled the sandwich out of my pocket. It wasn't nice and toasty anymore. It was cold and weird. I didn't understand what I was eating. I really didn't. The first bite I thought must of been ham or turkey or, I don't know, just fixin's, but by the second bite I understood it was tuna salad and frankly, it was the worst sandwich I had ever eaten. I don't know why I kept eating it. It sucked. But I ate it. I even finished it.

The flight from Denver to SFO [San Francisco International] was a little over two hours. We landed. Pulled into the gate. There was no huge rush of people trying to get back and forth to their stored luggage because that wasn't a thing. People just kind of sat there. Some people that had paid for storage stood up. But there was no jerk from the front trying to come back and get their bag, or whatever. It was just people waiting to get off. Nobody was super hurried. Once again, the way it should be. An equal society for everyone. When we got off the plane I said to the Publisher:

"I mean, no offense, but that was the worst sandwich I think I have ever eaten." And she said:

"Yeah, I know. That is why I gave it to you."

I mean, touché! I deserved that. One time, I mean, I still think about this a lot. Why Professor Curly ever decided to date me, or live with me, or have a life with me, or even get engaged to me, I don't know, because one of our first dates I took her to this very fancy party that Michael from Um's wife threw in Manhattan, thinking I would impress Professor Curly or something, and I knew she liked shrimp and there was shrimp there and there was also some good cheeses. I mean, I had got some bad cheese. And instead of just throwing it away I offered it to her. And because she is good and doesn't expect ill-will from people she tried to eat the cheese and it was the worst. I mean, I think she still looks back at this red flag and is confounded by her own nature that she didn't just kick me to the curb right then and right there. Because that was such a dick move on my part. Giving her lousy cheese at a fancy art party in Manhattan as kind of a joke. I mean, it wasn't just a joke, it was a mean joke that made me an asshole. I mean, what does that tell you about men? About what it is like dating straight sis men? That something like that wasn't a deal breaker. I mean, IT WAS! A deal breaker. But somehow, I mean, because I am a hilarious dude, I was able to rebound from my actions, but still. Professor Curly, I am sorry. I was wrong, I was foolish, and I am sorry. I mean, in my defense it's not like I ate three hot dogs an hour before her Broadway debut. When she was very worried about how rotund I had become and appearances at that very moment were kind of important. Oh, shit. I mean, wrong analogy, but still. It was a dick move, and I am sorry. One day I think she will forgive me. But I have a lot of mileage to make up for. And it has been years since that lousy cheese and I don't think I have made any sort of headway. In fact, it is probably the opposite. I mean, my only saving grace is that she is too busy to ruminate on that moment. I mean, if shit ever calms down for her again, I should maybe start packing my bags because even if she doesn't remember that moment, which I know she does, she has brought it up a few times, but even if she doesn't remember it, just that vague feeling of that time together would be enough to tell my punk-ass to get lost. Just sayin'.

Anyway, that sandwich was gross and the Publisher did an art-party maneuver on me. Which I totally deserved. We walked down to the luggage bay. Or whatever you call it. The luggage carousels. Checked bags. #12. We waited for a few moments. The thing made the red noise with the flashing lights and the loud buzzing. Stuff started showing up. The bag of books showed up not too soon after. We grabbed it and went out to where all the cars come to pick people up. The bag was heavy. I had just a little computer bag filled with three shirts and three pairs of socks and my toiletries and my computer and some pain medication and some phone chargers and a t-shirt for Agustin and my copy of Oliver Twist [italics] and my copy of Moveable Rooms [italics.] I carried the Publisher's bag like something from the army. Full of weapons. She had a computer backpack with other stuff. We got outside. It was a little after midnight. Agustin and Jessica were going to pick us up. We didn't have to wait long. Even though the traffic was kind of insane. Agustin jumped out of the car. Said hello. We all finally met in person. Which was nice. He took the arsenal of books from me and we put our stuff in the back of the SUV. Or whatever it was. I think Agustin called it a Robot Car. We got in and drove away. Getting on the interstate. Jessica was driving. We said our hellos. We drove a little while and then she noticed the light was still on from the back which meant that the back door wasn't properly shut. Jessica did a round-about and pulled off of the interstate. We pulled over. Agustin got out and shut the door properly. We got back on the road. I regaled everyone with the story of when I was driving down the Taconic and accidentally opened the trunk with all of Professor Curly's tax documents inside. How I was suppressed that they didn't all blow away. That I had to drive for 15 miles at 45mph because of it because there was no way of pulling off of the highway because the Taconic doesn't have a shoulder. That it was pure luck that the documents didn't fly out. And had I not moved them at the last second before I shut the trunk before I got on the road there would have been a very different outcome. I mean, I don't know how much anyone listened to my story because at this point we were trying to get to Oakland. And we all needed to focus on the route.

Eventually we got to the Air B&B. Which David had been staying at for over a day now. He was super nice about getting canned Ticklers and whiskey and half and half for coffee and just being a good guy about the housing. We parked. Or Jessica parked. Then we insisted that they come in and have a drink. Agustin was very interested in seeing the apartment. It was very late. But it seemed kind of important to have a little hang out. I mean, we had just flown for six hours and add the layovers and other travel, we had been on the road for 10 hours at this point. Jessica parked again. In a good spot. We had a little confusion about whether the place was what we were looking for, but in the end we were right. Agustin carried the arsenal of books. I carried my computer bag. The Publisher carried her computer backpack. We walked up the stairs and went inside.

David wasn't awake. Or if he was awake he didn't come out. We looked around. Said things like "Oh, this is nice." I think I said "Oh, this place has a nice flow to it." And it did. There was three bedrooms. A living room. A kitchen with an island. A bathroom. We turned the kitchen light on and everyone recoiled like vampires. The lighting was horrendous. We turned those lights off and turned the hood lights on over the stove. Which were incandescent. This helped the vibes. The Publisher poured some whiskey. I opened a canned Tickler that David had been so very nice in procuring. We stood around the kitchen island talking in hushed tones. So as to not wake David up. I mean, things got heated a few times and I personally got louder than need be. But it was very nice to have a talk-about. Jessica didn't drink because it was both very late and she was driving. We did manage to talk for about an hour. Which, adjusted to East Coast time it was about 5a when Agustin and Jessica hit the skids. We made plans for meeting the next day. They left. The Publisher went straight to the bathroom to get ready for bed. I, for some reason, went outside to the balcony to have a look-see. The Publisher opened the front door and asked me what I was doing:

"I don't know. Nothing, I guess."

"Well, lock the door when you come back inside." We did a little test to make sure I wasn't about to get locked out. I wasn't. She went to bed. Or whatever she did. I didn't see it. For all I know she stayed up doing math equations. I mean, she is a very modern woman. I came back inside. Found my toothbrush and my toothpaste. Went into the bathroom. Made good use of it. The lousy tuna fish sandwich was involved. I mean, I don't mean to be gross, but there are consequences in this world. I mean, I finished my business and got a glass of water and went into the room where I was sleeping. Pulled the covers down. Stripped naked. Feeling insanely tired, I set my alarm for 830a. Six and a half hours from then. I think I read for a little bit, but I don't know. Yes I do. I did read. I read about half a page before I couldn't focus anymore. I put the book down on the floor and turned the light off. After that I was out. I mean, kind of. I was so over-tired that falling asleep was very intense. And because it was so late my brain couldn't understand it. I woke up at some point and put my long johns on and went to the bathroom. Then went back to my room and took them off again. My long johns. I went back to sleep. Very early in the morning there was a stink. A huge stink. Like sticking your nose in an outhouse, stink. Agustin had warned us about this. That the tides combined with the sewage plain there was constantly a stink a-brewin'. I mean, he was exactly right. The best kind of right. The smell was so bad that I woke up confused. Not knowing what to do about it. I was kind of afraid that something had gone wrong with my body. That there was leakage or something. But eventually the smell dissipated because the tide went out again. I mean, by that time it was already 7a. Which, I mean, the sun was shining through the black curtains. And my body thought it was 10a. I tried to sleep until my alarm went off, but nothing doing. Eventually I heard the Publisher and David talking in the kitchen. I smelled coffee. I got up. I mean, I guess that was about five hours of fitful sleep, but what can you do? You can't fight your body sometimes. I mean, you can try, but you won't win. I gave up. Said hello to David. Tried to give him a hug, but it was awkward. The kitchen wasn't so hug friendly, plus it was very early. I made some coffee from the coffee machine with the different coffee flavors. I could smell that David was drinking hazelnut. Odd choice, butwhatever. Who am I to judge? I mean, I just did, but I didn't mean it in the sense that I think he is some big ol' weirdo for drinking hazelnut coffee. There were only so many options, if you can catch my drift.

The Publisher wasn't drinking coffee for some reason. I was convinced she had been up since 5a, so I assumed she had had some coffee already. Either that or she was art-party maneuvering us all over again. Canaries in the coal mine-style. I mean, whatever. The coffee I found was regular coffee. No flavors. I made a cup and added some half and half the David had generously bought during his free time. I mean, since he got to the place early. I mean, there was a discussion about the shower and how to use it. The Publisher decided to hit the skids ASAP. AYEC. So she could get to the book festival when it started. Me and David were going to hang back a little bit. Take the train in shortly. The Publisher left. With the arsenal of books. I guess with the idea of taking the BART. The train that was just down the block. Mid Oakland or whatever. The Orange line or the Red line. It doesn't matter. She ditched. Me and David stuck around for a while. He packed up the cool neon LED lights in a suitcase. The lights he had made for his writing tent. One that was the Whisk(e)y Tit logo. Another that said: Live! Nude! Books! in cursive. So the Books! looked like Boobs! the cursive lower case "k." I took a shower and stuff. Got a lesson on how to use the bottom-down parasol on the spigot. I mean, there was a clean towel in my room. A wash cloth. Which, I never use a wash cloth. I don't know what they do. Are you supposed to like scrub your butt cheeks or something? Your nose? I mean, I am a bar-soap kind of guy. I even brought a tiny bar of soap from some hotel I stayed at at some point. I mean, I cleaned up. Not using a wash cloth. Just doing a bar rub on my butthole and my balls and dangler. My feet and face and arms and legs and whatever else there was to wash. I brushed my teeth. In the shower. I got out. Dried myself down. Put my long johns on. My pants. I mean, this is the thing about Northern California it turns out. The weather is not as nice as they lead you to think it is. I mean, I was cold the whole time I was there. Like long johns and jacked with my hoodie the whole time. I mean, there was sun, for sure, but it wasn't like I was wearing in-line skates and a Speedo while cruising down the beach with a battery operated music box on my shoulder. I mean, if anything I looked like an aging downtown punker from the Lower East Side. Black pants, black shirt, my bright red brush popper. My hoodie that says, Wyoming in cursive on the front that PegLeg gave to me and Professor Curly for Christmas all those years ago, before PC realized what a horrible red flag I was after the art-party cheese maneuver. I mean, I am sure I also had a Vermont-style vibe going on. Half-covered in goat turd dust. Perpetually muddy. I mean.

End Part One.