MOTIONAL BLUR (THE BACKSTORY): 8) "SLOW DOWN!"
Travels with Andrew
The road from southern Oregon into northern California is pure and green, towered over by ancient redwoods, an occasional snowcapped mountain, a Customs stop… wait a second, a Customs stop?
“Where you been?” asks a California State Threshold Guardian.
“All over the place.”
“Got any fireworks?”
“Nope. No fireworks.”
“Keep going.”
We’d seen firework stands in Nevada, Wyoming, and elsewhere, everywhere except California, where the fear of forest fires has rendered fireworks contraband. They didn’t ask if we had any marijuana, which anyway would have been ridiculously ironic as we are just about to enter Humboldt County, the marijuana growing capital of the world.
Pulling away, I slap a CD into the player.
“Are you kidding me?” Andrew whines. “Doris Day?’
“She’s singing Disney Girls,” I say. “That’s Bruce’s song.”
Bruce Johnston, the Beach Boy, a friend of mine.
Whinges Andrew, “I can’t believe, that my memory of the majestic redwoods is going to be of Doris Day.”
When I pull over to take a pic, Andrew makes a move to eject Doris.
“If you touch her,” I say, “I’m starting the CD from the beginning.”
Hours later, we hit Humboldt’s coast, rocky and lush; a light haze that ain’t no fog. I look forward to its main city, Eureka.
Until I get there.
No epiphany awaits us, just another skuzzy beach town. So on we speed on to Ferndale, a Victorian town that enjoys a reputation for quaintness, which to me seems more creepy than quaint.
We’ve been on the road for too many hours and 5:33 is nearly upon us, but I cannot stay here, and we resolve to keep driving.
A 6:43 arrival in Healdsburg leaves us weary, thirsty, and hungry.
Hotel Healdsburg welcomes us with complimentary cocktails at the bar while our rooms are readied. And they are certainly worth the wait: dark hardwood floors, teak furnishings, plantation shutters on French doors that open onto a balcony overlooking The Plaza, Healdsburg’s expansive main square. Add Frette bedding and a sumptuous bathroom with soaking tub… and Andrew connects by phone within seconds: “THIS IS THE BEST HOTEL I’VE EVER STAYED AT!”
“That’s not all,” I reply. “Come morning, they have an all-you-can eat buffet with a chef that cooks omelets and waffles to order.”
“OH MY GOD! THEY HAVE NO IDEA WHO THEY’RE DEALING WITH!” Andrew pauses. “I gotta go, I’m running a bath.”
By 7:48 we are ensconced at Dry Creek Kitchen, a glass of a chardonnay in the bar, an aroma of fine cuisine teasing my appetite, which soon gets satiated at an open-air table.
Afterwards, I leave Andrew to chase tail, another bath, whatever he chooses, and stroll one of the finest towns in America, perusing shop fronts along The Plaza, stars & stripes fluttering atop a flagpole next to a gazebo. A police cruiser circles a few times, stops to watch me. I like a safe community.
Next morning, after caffeination at The Flying Goat, I find Andrew in the breakfast room, looking sheepish or constipated, hard to tell.
“I have a guest coming,” he says proudly.
“Really?” I take a table adjacent to his, leaving room for his expected guest.
He nods. “Abigail. She’s from England, from Yorkshire. I met her last night.”
“But you’ve already eaten.”
“Yeah, I thought I’d get one meal in. I’ll have a second one with her.”
I visit the chef’s station, order an omelet with peppers and cheese, help myself to smoked salmon, tomato slices and capers, retake my seat, check my watch: 9:13.
“Is your guest imaginary?” I ask.
Andrew shifts uncomfortably, eyes popping.
“Andrew, are you farting?”
“How do you know?” he hisses.
“You don’t do a good job hiding it.”
My plate of food diverts Andrew’s attention. He’s still hungry. “That’s what I’m having next,” he says. “Maybe I’ll start without her.”
“You already started without her.”
“Yeah, but she wouldn’t have known that. You think I should text her?”
“And say what? I’m waiting, where are you? Sounds lame. What time last night did you meet her?”
“We closed a bar.”
“What time?”
“Two a.m.”
“How much did she have to drink?”
“She seemed toasted. She was drinking Fernet-Branca. I couldn’t believe it.”
“It’s big in these parts,” I say. “The Bay Area is savvy to Fernet. She’s probably sleeping. Just send her a text when we’re about to leave, say something like you’re sorry you missed her, stay in touch.” I shake my head. “You know I’m going to write about this, don’t you?”
“But why?”
“I told you already: Everything goes into the writing.”
He launches to fill a new plate.
Just past 9:30, Andrew’s cell phone sounds. A text from Abigail. Apologies, she slept in.
Ninety minutes later, we hit the road on time—a tedious trek down I-101, which Andrew tries to liven up with aggressive tactics, whizzing around cars and swerving back again into the fast lane with inches to spare, providing sound effects with jerks and snorts.
His rationale when I complain: “We’re making good time.”
“By overtaking a car that’s already doing 75?”
“It’s the cumulative effect.”
“I see. A few seconds here, a few seconds there, we save four minutes and risk a dozen accidents?”
I explain to Andrew how Johnny Carson defined the secret of his success as a talk show host: “He made it look easy, so that anyone watching him would think, I can do that. Of course, they could not. But that was Johnny’s art, making it seem effortless.” I pause. “You’re a good driver, Andrew, but you dumb it down when you act it out with snorts and grunts.”
“Nice. You have any other stories you want to share?”
“An old bull and a young bull are standing on a hill looking down on a herd of cows. The young bull says, ‘Let’s run down there and screw a cow.’ The old bull says, ‘Let’s walk—and screw them all.’”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, slow the fuck down.”
“What I want to know is,” says Andrew. “How are you going to write me?”
And now he knows.
