U: 7/14/03

Work Diary, 7/14/03

I know I'm supposed to be working on my book and avoiding work diaries,
but I need to unwind (or is it "decompress" these days?). I'm just back
from a 1,700-mile trip through some of the American plains, from Denver
to Missouri to Kansas and now here: Prewitt Reservoir in northeast
Colorado. My bright red Pontiac rental - with a fuel efficiency that
rivals a Model T - is parked outside the motor home and I am ready to
eat hot dogs, which sounds pretty nasty but I was in that car for an
eternity. Anything looks good right now.

I drove to the Midwest to visit my employees who work out of their
homes. Short of not getting back to my hotel until 2:00 a.m. Thursday
morning (one of my reps likes to gamble), the trip was fairly
uneventful. Actually, I believe that's what the Midwest is all about:
Keep it uneventful and maybe people will stay. This may also be why
they force the casinos to keep their establishments on river boats,
permanently docked and giving the impression that such nonsense won't
be tolerated on dry land. While waiting in line to cash in some chips,
I watched a drunken old crone berate her husband for cashing in too
early. "You got to go back and win! Just win! You can do it!" she
yelled, her husband slowly masticating a plastic straw to death.

In Kansas City, I stayed at an Econo Lodge. The name says it all. Even
the furniture was miniaturized, from the tiny TV to the odd,
square-shaped pillows. Apparently, courtesy shampoo and lotion aren't
part of the econo-philosophy. Since I expected the hotel to provide
those items, and had forgotten my deodorant, I'm certain I left my
employees with the type of memories that linger forever.

The owner of the Econo Lodge had a crazy eye that jerked around about
as much as his left arm. He could have been transported to a rock
concert, dropped in the middle of all the other bad dancers, and no one
would have been the wiser. I did like the fact that the owner and his
wife - an Indian couple - burned incense in the lobby. It gave an
exotic feel to an otherwise soul-crushing environment.

One thing I learned while driving through so many small towns: America
is a place with more than two armpits. Picture it: America as a
multi-armed Shiva the Destroyer, only Shiva is pinkish beige and wears
a hairnet. My favorite town-cum-armpit was Wray, which had the
distinction of winning "All American Town" in 1993. It said so right on
the rusty sign twisting in the wind on the highway, a sign that pretty
much matched all the rusted-out cars on cinderblocks in front of the
people's homes. Town after town of dilapidated buildings and teenage
girls with feathered hair and blue eye shadow starts getting to you
after awhile. The townspeople weren't so much depressing as they were
reminders that human beings are not the fantastic creatures we'd all
like to think we are.

And, of course, the townspeople reminded me that despite my own
family's dubious history, I can still be a petty classist
bastard.

In Yuma, however, I did find the tile I want for my downstairs bathroom
in a gas station restroom. It was several shades of green, set in a log
cabin pattern. It's pretty resistant to lit cigarettes and spilled
beer, too, as evidenced by the condition of the restroom. A toilet's a
toilet, though, when you're only other option is to squat in full view
of God and everybody, wishing for a tree or bush.

During the whole trip, I only had one close call as far as accidents
go. It happened as I came into Colorado from Kansas, taking an old back
highway that traversed several cattle ranches: cows in pens, cows
avoiding the sun by huddling under lone trees, cows sprawled in the
grass just biding their time. The smell of cowshit was overwhelming,
like being in a port-a-potty on a roller coaster, one new horror after
another stirred up as the occupant turns green and then greener still.
Even with my windows rolled up, my throat burned and my eyes stung.
Before the gagging started, I grabbed an empty bag of Salsa Verde
Doritos and inhaled deeply, hoping to mask the smell. Unfortunately, I
got a nose full of Dorito dust, gagged and choked anyway, and headed
towards a ditch. A word of advice: When asphyxiating, it's best not to
be using the cruise control on your car. Instead of my foot naturally
coming off the gas pedal while I fought for air, the car just plowed
along at eighty miles-per-hour. Only my head hitting the roof clued me
in that it was time to go back to steering.

To be fair, eastern Kansas is a beautiful place: green hills, grand old
trees, brown, meandering rivers that inspire so many stories. Its
neighbor, Missouri, is also pretty. I even found one small town there -
Parkville - that I'd consider moving to (that is, until I noticed the
conspicuous absence of anything but white faces on the streets. There's
only one way you achieve that kind of homogeneity, and it ain't pretty.
I knew I could go into any restaurant, open the kitchen door, and find
a brown face staring back at me over the dishwasher, which is exactly
why I like bigger cities - sometimes the dishwasher gets to be white.).
My employees enjoy a standard of living that they couldn't in Denver,
with its inflated housing costs and traffic and crime. They have
accents, strange crosses between the Southern twang and dull Midwestern
monotone. All of them have children and lots of stories. So, even if my
trip was ostensibly to review my reps' files, what I really did was get
to know them better. It was worth it.

I should be at home right now. My house is falling apart, causing my
partner and me to argue. We spend more and more money on a place we're
both learning to hate, and we argue about that. I don't vacuum, he
doesn't do the dishes, and we argue. I lose my keys, he loses his, we
argue. So, I'm at a reservoir, avoiding the inevitable and getting
ready to try my hand (again) at sail boarding. There's a trick to
keeping your balance while the wind jerks the sail this way and that,
and I've been told it's not necessary to stick my rear end out like I'm
mooning passerby. If the wind keeps up, perhaps I'll sail myself right
into another state, over the water and across more plains, through the
mountains and trees, the board skimming the mossy boulders while I hold
on for dear life. It's what I've been doing for the past few weeks,
anyway. Maybe I'll get good at it.