California Dreaming

I’m not sure what time it is but it is early. I can hear the Winner breathing in the dark. I pull myself out of bed and fire up the laptop. In a few hours I have a business meeting and I need to prepare for it. I promised The Winner she could sleep in before her vigorous work out and I’m keeping to that promise. I work as quietly as possible. The Winner begins to stir as I slip out to my meeting.

For an hour and a half I sit with a professional colleague and discuss curriculum design, marketing strategies, fee structures, and my speaking availability. He is eager to have me on the circuit as soon as possible. “Where do you want to speak?” He asks. “Is there a particular venue that you want me to pursue?” I pause for a moment. I have just traversed the entire country. I have seen so much and I have a difficult time thinking of where I want to go next. I decide to take geography out of the equation. “It isn’t where that matters,” I respond. “it’s whom.” We agree that I will speak to audiences that are “significant” and that I will be working with “local luminaries” where ever my program is given. We part with a smile.

The Winner and I head to midtown. I pull The Big Yellow Truck up in front of the art deco apartment. A long haired barefoot man and his dog emerge. He lights a cigarette and eyes the now open truck. The Winner and I begin to off load the contents. The dog trots over to us to investigate.

I have only moved essentials across the country so there isn’t much to move inside. The long haired barefoot man, who has introduced himself as Dan, offers to help and I accept. His dog, Willow, continually smiles and trots in and out of the apartment as boxes are carried. I smooch on the dog happily. Another man with a Bohemian air about him arrives on a bike from the 1960’s. The fat tires and fenders remind me of when I was a kid. He tells me his name is Robert as he lifts the other side of the dresser I was wrestling with and helps me carry it inside. Robert lives on the third floor. He wears capris. Man capris. I ponder this odd fashion choice. California is a strange place but I like it.

The Winner and I have one last piece to move. It’s a sleeper sofa. Sleeper sofas are evil. They weigh a ton. They are uncomfortable to sleep on. But in a studio apartment they make sense. We lower the sofa out of the truck and Dan pitches in to get it into the building. We set it down in the hallway outside the apartment and ponder how we can get it through the narrow door and even narrower inner hallway. We take off the legs. We turn it on end. We go through every gyration possible. It does not fit. I cuss. I stomp my feet. I hauled this bad ass couch over the Rockies. It has to fit! It has to!
We consider bringing it in through the back window and we realize it will not fit that way either. We bring it back out to the truck and I borrow Dan’s phone book. I look up rubbish disposal companies. I finally find the dump and get directions. I can discard up to 900 lbs for $25. The dump is in a remote area west of town. I throw empty cardboard boxes into the back of the truck for disposal as well. I want to get my 900 lbs worth.

A trash hauler pulls up to the stop sign at the corner. The Winner says, “Maybe that guy will take it.” I trot up the sidewalk flagging down the driver. I offer money. I tell him the couch is right here on the street. All he needs to do is throw it into the back of his truck and take it away. He tells me it will cost me $20. Deal! He pulls his truck along side mine.
“She lied to me!” he tells his buddy. “It’s a sleeper sofa!”
“It’s light,” I tell him. “Two women were able to move it out of the truck easily.” They look skeptically at me. I double the $20 fee. The two men grab the couch, toss it in the back of their truck, take the cardboard boxes and pocket the money. Everyone is happy. I climb into The Big Yellow Truck. It is time to give it back to Penske.

“You took this truck WHERE?” the man behind the counter asks.
“I took it to Lake Tahoe. We took the route around the lake.” The man looks at me incredulously. He looks over at the Winner. She nods.
“We didn’t know what that road was like,” she explains. “There aren’t any signs.”
“I won’t even make that drive in a car!” The man says as he shakes his head.

We travel to San Francisco in a red Ford Explorer. Compared to The Big Yellow Truck the Explorer feels like a sports car. Still, I find myself missing it. It was thirsty. It didn’t want to keep all 4 wheels on the road. After 5 days it smelled like sweat. But it had become familiar. It did everything I needed it to do.

Evening falls and the Winner and I stroll along Fisherman’s Wharf. The carnival atmosphere charms us. We decide to eat waterside. The sun set over the bay as sailboats glide by Alcatraz. We flip through a tour book trying to decide how to spend tomorrow. Dinner done we drop in and out of shops picking up postcards. I step into a chocolate shop and move among the candy in a state of intoxication that has nothing to do with the bottle of champagne the Winner and I shared at dinner. I stand in front of the glass case and point out the little pieces of perfection I plan to take back to the hotel.

The box of Joseph Schmidt truffles sits next to me while I type. They are little pieces of art, almost too pretty to eat. Almost. I definitely will eat them. But not tonight. Instead, I will put them on my “Things to do tomorrow” list.
Slainte