Thursday, March 15, 2007
All I Need Sometimes is a Little Direction in Life
I really skimped on the TequilaCon recap, so here’s a Portland story from the morning after. I share because I love.
I took a second or two to calm down in the parking lot - sometimes I build up a head of steam about something and I don’t realize how intense I get; I didn’t want to overwhelm anybody with my excessive focus and zeal. And, after forty minutes of driving maplessly around an unknown city looking for the airport, I sensed that I might seem to be packing a little extra in the “teetering-on-the-brink-of-mayhem” department.
So after I pulled into a space in front of the sort of dirty-looking convenience store, I slowed myself down to power off the ‘pod, turn off the headlights, and grab my camera – one step at a time, methodical, calm, serene. I didn’t know if I was actually buying the act, but I was trying.
I had already gotten directions at a gas station twenty minutes ago and I couldn’t tell if I was still following them properly. Things on the streets felt non-Euclidian and I needed confirmation that I was on a righteous path. I did have a plane to catch, after all. But even so, I realized I shouldn’t barrel in all frenzied with little exclamation points popping out of my distended googly eyes. I didn’t want anybody calling Animal Control on me. So: I took a moment, took stock, took a nice deep breath, and calmly walked toward the sort of dirty little convenience store.
A scruffy dude in a trucker cap stood outside where the parking lot met the street corner, and a waif sat on the curb in front of the store, black over pale, in a staring contest with a concrete car-stop. I pushed open the doors. The shop itself was a bit dingier inside than out, and the light from the storefront windows was mostly blocked by a heavy utilitarian counter across the front of the shop. The proprietor stood behind this counter in the corner furthest from the door; his beard was long and stringy but his red metal-band t-shirt seemed clean and was big enough to cover his considerable bulk.
I wheeled on him, perhaps a bit more abruptly than necessary, and asked (as calmly as I could) if he could help me with directions to the airport. He almost leapt backwards, as if tasered. His head rolled back on his neck; he began to curry his beard nervously with both hands, gazing at the stained tile of the ceiling as if for inspiration, or even protection. “Whoa! Whoa. Okay.” He took a sharp breath in, then let it out. “Whoa. Oh boy. Airport. It’s – “ and then he waved with both hands generally to his left – “that way – a while – heh – but I guess that doesn’t help you – much…”
I felt my jaws clamp a little tighter as I choked back a garroting and tried to mask my murderous intent with a little grin. He got my point and tried to be more helpful, in his way: “Well, you need to go that way – “ (pointing left) “ - but there’s a – like – a highway, or something, down that way – “ (pointing forward) “ - and you can take it that way – “ (pointing left) “ – to the – like – airport.” Having completed his dissertation, he then smiled sheepishly.
“This highway you mention: is it the 205?”
“Like wow, man, I don’t know.” He fluffed his beard and eyed me earnestly. It was as if I’d met Shaggy in some alternate universe where he’d never met Scooby and started solving mysteries. This was as much information as I was going to get. I thanked him as warmly as I was able and stepped back outside.
The scruffy dude was still out by the street corner and the waif still sat at the parking lot curb right in front of the store. “Excuse me,” I asked her; she turned to face me, ice blue eyes set off against fair skin, slim and feminine in army boots and black denim, no makeup, long straight dark hair, a frank and earnest gaze on her face and a pink purse shaped like a bustier clutched to her bosom. “Is 205 down that way?”
She stood up abruptly. “Yes, down that way two or three miles, and you can get on it going north on the left.”
“On the left.”
“You can get on it from the left or from the right. It’s right there. You’ll find it.”
“Left or right. Excellent. Thank you.” She had begun walking to the street corner, where a bus was pulling up. I fished out the keys to my boat of a rental car and chirped it open as she and Mr. Scruffy caught their ride. The freeway was just where she’d said it’d be and I made it easily to my flight with plenty of time, where I was served with two free cups of an excellent PNW beer and got a great view of the Cascades from aloft. But I was all cooled down and mellow well before I even saw the 205 onramp. That little waif really sounded like she knew what she was talking about and put my mind at ease right up front. Sometimes that’s all I really need.
