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real world rendezvous
Monday, July 12 1999
I'd set the alarm for 6:00 AM, but much later Rhonda woke us up wondering why I wasn't up yet. The mistake I'd made, one Rhonda could have cautioned me about had she any use for alarm clocks herself, was that I'd plugged the clock into an outlet controlled by a light switch. Rhonda's condo is lousy with such plugs, something that cursed me ten months before when I tried plugging Kim's laptop into some of the same outlets. Like everything else designed for the leisure-living wealthy, Scottsdale condos are thoroughly at odds with my needs.
What followed was a mad dash to the Sky Harbor Airport of Phoenix. We went as a convoy, Rhonda leading the way in her Mercedes convertible and me following in the rented Chevy convertible (Sophie rode with me). Rhonda thought I'd stand less chance of getting lost if I followed her than if she attempted to give me directions. Unfortunately, though, we got stuck in "traffic" about five miles from the airport, and this severely ate into our schedule. The plane was slated to lift off at around 7:45, and it was already almost 7:30.
At the airport I was amazed at the bureaucratic ease with which I returned the car. (That was Alamo Rent-a-Car, folks, the same people who gleefully accepted my check card. Unfortunately I've received no discount for the preceding plug, which is worth quite a lot, especially given how much it stands out from my usual cynical tone.)
At this point Kim and I went separate directions. I was to board the flight for San Diego and she was to head on to Detroit, Michigan to visit friends, family, and Isaac the Human, who does this thing called Exist. As I was heading off, Kim shouted "Run! You have 15 minutes!"
I did run, but it doesn't do much good to run when you don't know where you're going. I ended up running down hallways only to find them leading in the wrong direction, so I'd have to run back. My bag was heavy with a laptop and Sallielou art, though at least I didn't have the saw blade; Kim had thoughtfully removed that from my luggage to expedite my passage through security.
Lucky for me, my flight was delayed and it turned out that I had plenty of time.
The daytime ærial view of the southern desert was spectacular, especially since I got a good look at the entire Salton Sea. Sadly, though, airplane views are continuing to lose their novelty for me. I'm willing to bet that Neil Armstrong got sick of looking at the moon at some point in his career.
I'd arranged to be late to work this morning, so there was no real hurry when I touched down in San Diego. I ended up walking all the way from the airport to the nearest Trolley Station, which must have been at least two miles. It wouldn't have been so bad except for the weight of my luggage and the unusual heat of the sun. But I've always been a firm believer in becoming familiar with one's environs by walking through them; it's part of my existential and vaguely stoic inclinations. I am a spacecraft and my homunculus sits at the bridge watching out of the enclosed bridge of my eyes. I am a robot and I am programmed to sense the humidity of the San Diego harbour air and determine the range of the tides. I am a beat writer and who knows what will happen as I walk by that bum rooting around in that trash can. (He asks me if I have scissors or a knife and I say that I am sorry but I have neither.)
By the time I sat down in the shade of an Eastern North American Sweet Gum Tree at the trolley station, I could feel twitching in the muscles of my legs, always a good sign that I've had some serious exercise.
When I arrived at work, I didn't really even know where to begin, and this made me kind of happy in an existential way.
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