Magnetic Forces, Manholes, and The Crusty Kitchen

Intentionally slow.

Coffee, the corner store, Jennie’s breakfast scramble deliciousness, luggage by the door. Cats perched on top – convinced they’re going too – purrs echoing the halls.

My bike decided it didn’t want to ride today anyway so it went ahead and got a flat tire doing nothing. Maybe it’s getting old. Like me. These days I can hurt myself sleeping too.

Did we forget anything? Did we change the sheets in the guest rooms? Did we get enough food? Do we even need any? Seems like there are stores along the way but Jennie adds tangerines and avocados next to our sparkle water and peanut butter and gluten-free bread and the delicious homemade date-nut bars I slapped together before I left home. And she throws in her own pillow at the last minute. After all, Mom is our angel – carrying our gear. We can bring whatever we want.

The bike shop fixed me up in about seventy-two seconds and then it was time for more coffee.

The energy from the three of us buzzed about, surrounding us. We were open souls. Our bright orange auras sucking strangers in. They talked to us in droves. They grinned at us, opened doors for us, told us about their lives.

Our magnetic forces electrifying the air.

Currents running to the center of the earth and back again through us. Shooting up to the heavens. We glowed.

Or maybe it was just a lot of caffeine. Or maybe both. But whatever it was, The Strangers saw it happening and wanted to be near us just to feel it too.

We were on our way to do-something-important-here-pretty-quick and they wanted to know what it was. They make approving noises and nods and ask questions and wish us safe travels.

The car ride to San Diego proved warm and green and lovely in the way only California can and we take the scenic route and try to stare at the road and the landscape all at the same time.

I wish I was homeless there. I’d live under that bridge. Beside that Tree. Tucked into the fold in that hill. No, that one over there. Or maybe that one instead.

Except maybe not homeless-homeless. Just homeless in a way that I could still shower and eat and have clothes and clean water and a place to retreat to if it rained super hard.

We laugh and let the sunshine work on bleaching our hair, and roll along just fine until we come across Solvang. A sweet little Danish town with good food and too many tourists and fancy apple ice cream desserts. Mom buys the special mix and the special pan to make them at home and can’t wait to show her friends.

She tells us endless stories of when she and Dad were young. College and the Marine Corps. The old motorcycle I’ve heard about my whole life – and how it turns out they only had it for two weeks. We make a fast five-lane-change on the freeway to take the exit to see their first home together. Next to Chapman University. The house so crooked, they could put a marble in the corner of the living room and it would roll all the way to the center of the house. It was fixed up a while ago, but the same palm tree decorated the front yard. Now a million feet high, its tufts of hair sticking out way-way up at the top.

That’s how long ago it was.

The famous place where men working in a manhole cat-called my mom and she told my dad about it and he went and parked the car on top of the manhole so they couldn’t get out. Learn Some Manners.

Eleven hours later, we ended up in San Diego. At the hotel. At 9pm.

So glad we’re here, I say. I can’t wait to get in the hot tub.

The hot tub closed at 8, the man says.

Jennie – what’s the Wi-Fi password?

Man – ‘relaxing’. All lowercase.

Except not relaxing in the hot tub, I say.

He laughs.

Jennie – is the restaurant good?

Man – it’s okay but I’d recommend somewhere else. Like, a long way from here.

I wasn’t driving any more, so The Crusty Kitchen it was. Literally. Its name was The Crusty Kitchen. I could see a group of old white men sitting around a shiny conference table years ago, working on their business plan and scratching their 5 o’clock stubble saying, Oh yes. The Crusty Kitchen. The perfect name. And then they all shook hands and were super proud of themselves.

We order a giant plate of tater tots and Jennie is smart and gets a salad, and mom is smart and gets a bowl of tomato soup, and I just dig into the tater tots.

You carbing up? The waiter asks.

CARBING-UP. It was never ‘carving-up’. We laugh at our mutual misunderstanding of chickie at dinner yesterday and wonder what strange people she must’ve thought we were. Athletes with No Concept of Carbs.

We go next door and it turns out our waiter at the diner works at the liquor store too. He acts like he’s never seen us before. Maybe he is a twin. A doppelganger. A mirage.

Guy – pointing at my O’Douls – you know that’s fake beer, right?

Me – Yeah, I only want to pretend I’m drinking.

Everyone talks to us. Everyone smiles at us.

We are powerful. Overflowing with feelings everyone wants to have.

We are positive.

We are ready for The Ride.