Mike Davis, �City of Quartz�
So.
The first person to say �aloha� is getting facepunched.
But I�m getting ahead of myself. The last week before I left was hectic. Nothing but band practices, running to various places to eat since I�d never see them again, bars, and post offices. I paid $300 dollars to get a few things that were too heavy or too fragile to go through standard mail. Normally, these companies will go to your house, pack for you, and deliver them to your door. I didn�t have enough stuff or enough money to qualify for that, so I struck a deal to deliver the items to them.
There�s a reason these places want to come to you. We drove into an area that looked like all my stuff would be stripped down, repainted, and put on the black market. I walked into an office filled with pictures of naked breasts on the wall, where everybody was smoking and looking generally seedy.
My stuff would fit in just fine.
Then it was all the trips to the post office. Media Mail is cheap, but they have the right to open your packages if they think you�re lying about the contents. I would outline the contents with books, and usually books that might make the average postal worker uncomfortable, so they wouldn�t poke around further.
After that, it was trying to deal with everything else, none of which I did very well. I skipped out on work for one day, and would�ve done the same on the next (which was my last scheduled day), but the owner called and made it sound like I was needed. I came in for the last two hours that we were open, which turned to be only so they could let me drink Newcastle in the store and to give me one last pizza from the place that I love.
Which I ordered again, two days later.
And there were the last minute people who wanted to see me. The Ex-girlfriend. The other ex-girlfriend, who will from this moment forward be referred to as �Not My Baby�s Momma� to avoid confusion. Other friends. Family. Pets. Co-workers. Shadowy government agents. Your mother.
And you know, I kept up a fairly good resolve during this time. When people came up to me at the final show, saying things like, �I just want you to know that you were the first and only person willing to help me when I was in trouble,� I smiled and gave them a hug.
When Not My Baby�s Momma called in the middle of the night to espouse a litany of regret, I told her I loved and respected her in a steady voice with clear eyes.
When my workplace held a dinner for me, conducting a skit that turned sappy and maudlin at the end, I ordered another Big Fucking Newcastle with a stone face.
When I said goodbye to my mother and told her I loved her, to which she replied, �No you don�t. You wouldn�t be leaving if that were true.� I let it pass. I knew that as much as she hates some of my mean-spirited sarcasm, she�s awfully good at it herself.
But when I put Chairman Meow into a carrier and she looked up at me, giving a small, pitiful, frightened mewl, I lost it.
It should be forgiven. I�ve been kind of a wreck lately. Something had to set me off. By the last day, I was throwing lots of things over my shoulder, telling myself that I didn�t need it.
Speaking of which:
- Something I brought to Hawaii that I really didn�t need: My leather jacket.
- Something I should have brought: My contact lens solution and case.
Anyway, the last day was spent realizing that while I packed my computer, I neglected to include the keyboard. Fuck it. There�s the woodblock for my drum set, which I was supposed to give to Baby�s Momma. Fuck it. I pack my bicycle in the trunk at six in the morning, folding the oversized box in half as it won�t fit.
Lumpy takes me to the airport and she assembles the box, which we�ve discovered is her natural calling. This is surprising knowing her capacity to flail and fall and freak out.
The bike is too big. I push the bike in forcefully, straining the sides of the box. We seal the box in a ridiculous angle. I state that there�s no way the airline will accept it.
And if they don�t � fuck it.
I go to the counter. The first bag is 5 pounds over the limit. Fuck it. I�ll pay the fine. the attendant takes the bicycle box without comment, as she�s satisfied with the fee they charge. In other words, fuck it.
Now I�ll I have left is the wait. At the airport I thought about things like timing, fate, destiny, drive, and sorrow. All over a big Bloody Mary. Then it was time to get in the security line. Everybody�s flight in the entire airport apparently left at this point and time, and the wait was considerable. I kept looking back, thinking of reasons to leave, to go back. And yet I keep moving forward.
But yeah, there was some regret about it.
I pass the security booth and slip my boots back on. I don�t bother to tie them. I can no longer see San Francisco from behind me � all I can do is continue forward. But it�s a dreamlike movie moment. People seem to slow and blur as they pass. I can almost hear the background music, courtesy of The Freak Accident, who dedicated a song for me on the night of the PTL reunion show, a song about leaving your hometown. The lyrics go like this:
That�s why I�m never going back to [California]
�til I can buy the place and burn it to the ground.
I�m never going back to [California]
�til I see are ashes all around.
Then I notice the time.
My flight leaves in five minutes.
Slow time dreamy movie reminiscing moment over.
I bolt, looking down at my ticket: 33. I glance at the directory as I run past: numbers and 23 through 32 � Turn left. 33 though 42 � Turn right. Sprinting to the right, I can see minutes tick by on the overhead digital clocks.
Gate 33, of course, is at the very end. I still have three minutes. But I reach the gate, and it�s not my airline. I pull the ticket stub out further.
�33� refers to my seat assignment. I keep pulling the stub. My gate is 31.
At the other end of the airport.
I turn and break into a full run now, my carry on bag filled with 28 books and nothing else swinging wildly, knocking aside small children, doubling over old ladies.
Two minutes.
One.
I can see my gate. The flight attendant starts sprinting in front of me, yelling into her walkie talkie, shouting for them to hold the plane. I get closer and I can hear her shouting, �John! John! Answer! Don�t close the door!� The movie moment starts again. It feels like the end of Carlito�s Way, with Al Pacino running through Grand Central Station.
I suppose I should say something stupid like spoiler alert here, but you know what? The movie is 12 years old. You had your chance.
Al Pacino gets shot just before he boards the train.
