Joe of Arcadia

Am I the sort of person who flies into JFK, takes a business meeting at an airport hotel, then flies out again?  I sure am. 

I’m also the kind of person who, when rushing around an unfamiliar apartment in Myrtle Beach, catches her toe on a chair and, when she gets through hopping around and screaming, realizes that her little toe is sticking out sideways. 

The meeting pertains to the upcoming publication of my novel, Old Buildings in North Texas.  I have a list of things Joe and I might discuss, but in reality I have no idea how this is going to go.  Will we talk about cover art?  Will he explain how deep into the work an editor delves?  Will he ask about my process?  I’d enjoy the implication that I have one. 

“You should make a list of topics and questions,” David says as we’re on the way to the airport. 

“You think?”  I’m being sarcastic.  Does he think I’d go to this much effort without appropriate introspection? 

“I mean an actual list, so you can tick things off.”  He lives to tick things off.

“Schedule for publication?”  I ask.  “Publicity?  I think I can remember a few things without writing them down.  Also, he’s done this before.  He’ll know better than I will what to talk about.”

I thank him for the ride to the airport, kiss him good-bye, and limp off to catch my plane.  My toe is broken, the whole quadrant of my foot swollen and blue, and that’s why, when ordinarily I’d be zipping through airports, impatient with all the sluggish meanderers that block my way, today I’m one of the sluggish ones, careful with every step.  Myrtle Beach to Charlotte, to JFK.

 I make my way to the Crowne Plaza via train and shuttle.  The hotel parking lot is bustling, the lobby full of Australians.  Joe arrives a few minutes after me.  He’s young.  I bet he’s often told that he looks like Peter Pan.  (See picture below.)  We seek the restaurant and take a corner booth.    

Joe and I do indeed discuss cover art.  He favors a graphic cover, which is fine with me, the main object being to sell the book.  He offers a history of Arcadia and describes his colleagues and the working of the company.  It sounds like he admires his co-workers, and that they love what they do; and I like to hear this because I love what I do, too, and together we’ll all be joyfully productive.  

As far as publicity is concerned, while there’s no definite plan, there seems to be a proven method.  I might be asked to write a few interesting articles that will bear my name, followed by “author of Old Buildings in North Texas.”  There’ll probably be book signings.  I tell him that a dream of mine is to read my work at the London Book Fair.  His trapped sideways glance and the way he carries the conversation forward leads me to believe that this is an unrealistic aspiration.  But then he says maybe the Edinburgh Book Fair, and I’m okay with that.  Edinburgh’s one of my favorite places and I have fond memories of their book fair.

We discuss personal aspects:  Joe was in Cambridge for five years, was considering going for his PhD, when he realized that by doing so he’d be choosing the academic life, and he wasn’t certain that was where he wanted to go.  He moved to London, got a job with a literary agency, which led to his job at Arcadia—and what I get out of this is that Joe must be really good at what he does, because my understanding is that, from any angle, the publishing industry is competitive. 

My personal tale to share is that I have a broken toe.  He seems horrified that I simply wrapped it, which is what I’m pretty sure a doctor would do.  It’s a toe. 

I’ve been writing for thirty years and Joe wonders why I’ve not been published before.  The answer is that I could never get an agent to view my work, much less represent it.  When Helen, my current agent, entered the picture, I was reconciled to my novels going no further than the flash drive.  Having this opportunity spring up, unexpected and unsought, is one of the most wonderful things that’s ever happened to me.  Married to a man who never says no, mother of two wise and righteous sons—but no success of my own.  Until now.  I’m thrilled and proud and grateful. 

I’m given a publication date:  June 2.  At this time, also, Old Buildings in North Texas will be available electronically, but only on Amazon UK, which means everywhere because Amazon UK is worldwide.

JFK to DC to Myrtle Beach; I arrive at 9:19, picked up by David, who, it seems, had a nice day of golf. 

Good picture, Joe.  

The Big Apple.  Several of these colorful apples in Terminal 8.  Are they new?  I like 'em.

Back to Myrtle Beach.  Tomorrow we will spend the day on the beach.  

Marble Falls to Nashville

We leave Marble Falls on Thursday morning and drive through to Little Rock with only a stop for gas and a lunch break at a Cracker Barrel, which is, as always, delicious.  Did you know that it’s actually possible to get a lean lunch at the Cracker Barrel?  I order a bowl of vegetable soup while the man at the next table orders two entrees for himself, explaining to the waitress that he’s eating more than he ordinarily would because he fasted this morning on account of getting a blood test.  I imagine the test is going to come back with a higher-than-healthy glucose count, and that he will be told that he should no longer consume seven thousand calories in a single meal.

The drive is free of hassles, except that David and I both remark many times on the number of eighteen-wheelers (lorries, for my British friends) on the highway.  Though we’re in a truck, the massive beasts make us feel vulnerable.  At least twice we see them almost pull into the left lane when it’s already occupied.  But, as we’ve just started a holiday and are trying to be upbeat, we conclude that this massive transport of goods from one coast to the other is surely an indication of a thriving economy.  The drive takes longer than we thought it would and by the time we pull into a Holiday Inn Express in Little Rock, we’re snapping at each other.  David is tight-lipped and his hands have developed a tremor, which is what happens when he needs to eat. 

“What’re you in the mood for?” he asks.  What he means is, what do I want to eat.  Food is what he wants, but it’s the furthest thing from my mind. 

“Just let me sit quietly for a minute,” I tell him.  “Just half a glass of wine, and I’ll be ready to go.”

I uncork the wine we brought with us.  I sip a bit while he fidgets.  I dread getting into the truck again, but it’s what we must do if we’re to eat.  We drive a few blocks, find a restaurant, and both feel better after a mediocre meal.

The next day we head toward Nashville, making a stop in Memphis to visit Graceland because Elvis was an important cultural influence, which means he’s worth knowing about.  Standing in the roped-off line, we’re surrounded by impersonators and women with Elvis’s face tattooed on their arms.  Graceland is their Mecca.  This is the time and place that my husband of over thirty years decides to tell me he wasn’t a fan.

“How could you not like Elvis?” I ask, aghast. 

“He just didn’t do anything for me.  His voice was annoying and the hip-wiggling thing was stupid.”

“If anyone hears the words coming out of your mouth, you’re going to be asked to leave.  Someone might do you bodily harm.”  I step away, putting a distance between us because I’m fearful that his enemies will become mine. 

We’re handed iPads and headsets, transferred to the house in a shuttle, and allowed to go at our own pace.  The tour itself is fun and informative, stirring childhood memories.  First the house, done up in the fashion of the era, though I find the angles harsh and the orange, olive, and gold color schemes difficult to tolerate.  My favorite interior touch is the pair of stained glass peacocks that frame the baby grand.  There’s an outbuilding where his studio and offices were—also, unexpectedly, an indoor shooting range.  Another building holds a collection of his concert outfits.  A third building is dedicated to his career, displaying clips and comments during his rise to stardom, his gold records, and movie posters and costumes.

I’m pretty sure I saw every one of Elvis’s movies.  And that’s because those shallow romances were just the sort of thing to appeal to a carefree seven-year-old girl.  Of course David wasn’t a fan.  Why would those movies appeal to an eleven-year-old whose father had just died?  David had four brothers and sisters, there was very little money, and his mother couldn’t be around because she had to work.  I doubt they spent a lot of time swooning over Elvis.

After we leave Graceland we make our way to Nashville, where we stay in a beautiful B&B, Linden Manor.  Stuffed with antiques and located in a trendy section of town, I highly recommend it to anyone visiting the area.  The hostess/chef greets us and shows us to our room.  The next morning she serves us a breakfast that's so inspired that we believe ourselves to be in the presence of a cooking god.   

Two tickets to Graceland.  

There they are, the peacocks. 

Graceland.

The Bug Guy Bugs Me

The bug man comes by.  An older guy, I’d guess almost seventy, skinny, stooped, and gray.  I wonder if he’s been an exterminator all his life, or if, like many men in the area, he took it up as a way to earn money after stepping away from some other line of work. 

I show him our favorite spider, Mohammed, a yellow garden orb-weaver, perched in the center of a gigantic web.  I ask him to spare our spider’s life.

“He’s a big one,” the exterminator says.

“He’s interesting,” I tell him.  “And he eats mosquitos.”

“If I don’t spray that wall, you’re going to have problems there.” 

Leaving him to his work, I go to my back room to do some writing; but this is a high-maintenance provider of in-home service, one of those men who needs an audience. 

“Jenny,” he says, poking his head in, “I just need to show you this one thing.”

He leads me to my back door and shows how the insulation is so worn and dried out that bugs are crawling through.  I agree that it’s in bad shape, and return to my computer.

“Jenny.”  He pops in again.  “Also, come look at this.”

I follow him to my front door where he points out the space at the bottom, a crack of light so big that I’d have to be blind not to know about it. 

“You might as well put out a welcome sign for the bugs,” he says dolefully.  “And a gap that size’ll let the cold in this winter, too.  Tell your husband he can get what he needs at Home Depot.”

“What are you going to do to me if I don’t get these things repaired?”  I’m seriously beginning to wonder.  He’s looking at me like he’d enjoy punishing me.  I get lots of grins and winks here in Marble Falls.  There are so many men married to limping heavy old women that when one of them comes across a woman in her fifties who has some energy, they tend to get wishful. 

While my question makes him laugh, he also can’t resist sharing his philosophy.

“The relationship between me and my customers is a partnership.”  At this point he joins his gnarled hands together in front of his heart, a gesture indicative of deep caring.  “I do my part, and it’s up to my customers whether or not they do theirs.  I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t point out your weak areas.”  

And if there’s one thing I love it’s having my weak areas pointed out. 

“But these things you’re asking us to fix are uninspiring,” I tell him.  “Also, David never does what I tell him to do.”

David’s off improving his golf game (hopefully).  But if he were here he’d agree.  He’s not obedient.  He likes to choose his own chores.  Also, he considers scorpions and wasps to be my purview, while foxes and armadillos are his. 

Unexpectedly, David decides to take it on as a mutual project.  We're leaving in a few minutes for Home Depot, only the second trip this week.  When we come home we'll figure out how to get it done.  Then I'll grab a broom and sweep up dead bugs.  I've counted six since the bug guy left.  

Meet Mohammed.  I've never seen a web like this, with a zigzag at its center.  

At least three-quarters of an inch between the door and seal.  

The very obvious gap at the center bottom between our two front doors.  

Chinatown, Fisherman's Wharf

            The weather in San Francisco is erratic, but lovely.  I turn a corner, get hit with a breeze, and pull on my jacket.  Huff up a steep hill, jacket off.  A couple of times, precipitation, too light to be called rain.  Then bright skies, glad I applied sunscreen. 

            Take subway, called Bart, from Mission District to Powell, where a famous cable car runs up a steep hill.  Two hundred people in line in front of us, but we’re not dissuaded.  We stand for twenty minutes, during which only fifteen people are transported upward.  Ridiculous.  We opt to walk. 

            From Powell to Bush.  Uphill, jacket off.  To Chinatown Gate on Grant.  Up, up, down, up, down.  Chinatown, same items as Chinatown in Singapore—wooden combs, waving cats, tea—not as colorful because fewer outside displays.  Also, on actual street with cars, not just for people walking like in Singapore.  Puts us in the mood for dumplings—it’s been so long—but it’s too early for lunch. 

            Continuing through North Beach toward Fisherman’s Wharf.  Sun shines, jacket off.  North Beach, the Italian neighborhood, all about food.  One restaurant after another.  Oh, oh, the garlic.  Mouth waters.  Still too early for lunch.  Onward.

            Water.  Jacket on.  The bay is alive with ferries—six going all the time, different directions.  Is that Alcatraz?  Wanted to go out there, but apparently tickets are purchased in advance—next available booking, August thirty-first.  It looks intriguing, small and solid, a cloud hovering above. 

            Turn right, up coast.  Big man follows, shouting at the street, targeting no one, nasty language.  He puts his insanity out there for everyone to see.  Would definitely not be able to buy a gun.

            David wants to turn into the fun Wharf, Thirty-nine.  Carnival atmosphere.  Music, color, happy tourists.  But we made a plan—to follow the circle of the water, turn inland, make our way through downtown, and return to Chinatown for dumplings and reflexology. 

            “But if we go into Wharf Thirty-nine we’ll be deviating from the plan,” I tell him. 

            “We’re on vacation, we can deviate.”

            “If you get hungry before we get to dumplings, and we end up having to settle for street food, don’t come crying to me.”

            We were warned that this wharf is touristy—and it is.  But festive and bright.  Clean.  We walk through, stop at the Left-handed Store for David’s amazement.  Watch a magician for a few minutes.  Once again, mostly all about food.  As we exit the wharf, three tour buses release shorts and cameras.  Good timing. 

            Turn inland, easily catch less famous cable car on California, uphill to Chinatown.  Hanging off side, hair catching breeze.  Whee!

            Accidentally find best dumplings anywhere, except for Beijing.  Yum.  Pearl of the Orient, on Clay.  After lunch, cross street to reflexology.  Excellent.  A little noisy—honking, sirens, shouting—but noise is ambient, out there, while in here, I float.  At the end, an altercation.  Demand twenty percent tip.  A tip, yes.  I’m a solid fifteen percenter.  It’s a small difference.  But a tip shouldn’t be demanded, palm open, door blocked; it is at the discretion of the tipper.  Amount, also at the discretion.  I want to get into it.  I want to define the terms of tipping for them.  I want to explain that it’s not up to them to demand and dictate, that the spirit of tipping is meant to be gracious on both sides. 

            “Let it go,” David says, handing over the few dollars.  And I do. 

            All-in-all, we walk nine and a half miles, put twenty-two thousand steps on the Fitbit.  (About the Fitbit, just received my third in less than a year.  Either I’m so active that I wear the things out, or they’re just not that high-quality a product.)

            Return to the room.  Glass of wine.  Out to dinner at Chapeau, a wonderful recommendation from my friend, Diana; and I’ve recommended it to another friend, Janet, who will be here this weekend.  Later, fall into bed, exhausted. 

            A good day. 

Building art in Chinatown

The parlor of Inn San Francisco 

A colorful bright shop in Chinatown full of stuff nobody needs, which is what makes Chinatown fun.