Travel Day

David reads the text from American Airlines.

“Our flight’s delayed by an hour,” he says. This is troublesome in that we’ll miss our connecting flight out of Dallas. He does a quick search and continues, “Looks like there aren’t any other flights at that time or earlier.”

“Not only that,” I tell him. “But the hot water heater’s not working.”

He slumps. Our travel day isn’t off to an auspicious start.  

Other than taking Dilly to the dog sitter, I’m packed and ready. Delivering her to Sunrise Beach and returning home will take forty-five minutes.

“We could drive it,” I suggest.

The drive to Dallas is just over three hours. A hassle, but it’ll get us there in time. We alter our plans. David rushes to finish his packing—but on the road from dropping off Dilly, he calls.  

“Now it’s undelayed,” he says.

No damage except to our equilibrium.

Air travel is wild these days. Having heard how busy the airports are, we arrive at Austin’s Bergstrom Airport an outlandish four hours before our flight. For some reason—because we’re traveling internationally?—we’re not allowed to check in electronically. We spend an hour in the check-in line. I don’t feel grouchy about the length of the wait because things could be worse. For instance, in line behind us an Indian man and his wife shuffle along. They’re shrunken, gray, rattled by the chaos, and much too old and infirm to leave their homes.

It’s obvious from the milling crowd at the gate that the flight is going to be packed. When it’s our group’s turn to load, we’re told that the overhead compartments are full so we’re required to check our carry-ons. As do most people, I pack the necessities in my carry-on—the plugs for my devices, my Kindle and reading glasses, my laptop, and a sarape for when we reach the cool night air of Vancouver. I panic about what to grab. I understand that this happens. But how did we come to be in this group in the first place? It seems so random. I explain to the woman that I need my carry-on with me.

“Check it or you won’t get on the plane.” Abruptly, coldly, she turns away. I know she feels harassed, but so do I. I kind of hate her.

I will not have access to the possessions I consider to be necessary for the next seven hours. Flustered, I am given only a minute to decide what to carry by hand on to the flight. I grab my Kindle and my reading glasses; and my small suitcase is tagged and carried away.  

When I get to my seat I rethink my pressured choices. I left my laptop in the unlocked carry-on. The chance of a baggage handler stealing my laptop is a billion to one. But on it is my latest, almost completed, novel, Sovereign Worm, a dramedy based on love potion blunders. I won’t stop fretting until I roll my carry-on away from the luggage carousel in Vancouver. Also, I resent every person on the flight who was allowed a carry-on.

UPCOMING INSENSITIVITY ALERT!

As David prefers the aisle and I like the window, in making our reservations we always leave the middle seat vacant in the hope that the flight won’t be full, and no one will take the middle seat. This led to another disturbing incident I had on my last flight with American.

The seat between us was claimed by a massive man—three-fifty would be my guess. His girthy butt cracked the armrest—literally broke it—as he forced himself into the seat. I was squashed up against the wall of the plane, his flesh spilling over on to my arm and shoulder, pressing against my hip and thigh. I wrote a note asking if there was another seat available on the plane, and if so, might I move? When the flight attendant swept by, I called out a “Hey! Please.” She came back, but was unable to see me because I was hidden by the corporeal mountain. I waved the note in the air to catch her attention; and she reached around him and plucked it from my fingers. Moving up the aisle a few feet, she assessed my pitiful situation. Then, folding the note, she walked away; and I never got a response. I mean, I could understand if she couldn’t do anything about it, but I should have received acknowledgement of, and perhaps sympathy for, my plight. Recompense in the form of a few passes to the lounge or a free ticket would’ve been thoughtful.  

Back to the present: On the second leg of our journey to Vancouver, once again the middle seat has gone to an extremely overweight man. I ask if he’d mind changing places, a suggestion he’s amenable to. At least this way, I’m not pressed against the wall of the plane for hours.

As this is the second time this has happened to me, I give the matter concentrated thought and come up with an excellent solution to the problem. If the airline required customers to include weight information when they buy a ticket, the controlling powers could place all the appallingly obese people together. In that way the larger folks would be able to relax about offending the lesser sized. They could allow their flesh to overflow with abandon. They could joke with one another about the absurd disparity between their backsides and the tiny seats. Truly, all would be happy.

This idea is brilliant, and I will share it with the airline immediately.

Meanwhile, hello Vancouver! With relief, I greet my carry-on. All is well.

A lovely city!

Now I know where all the Recall Drugstores went.

View from our room at the Waterfront Fairmont.

Distressing Incident

A woman enters a women’s clothing shop in Marble Falls. She is surly, not responding when one of the salesclerks greets her, and she keeps her hand far down in her purse, which is weird because inspecting clothes requires both hands. The hand in the purse plus the unfriendly attitude invites suspicion, especially considering that the two employees are on edge because of the school shooting last week—and that’s understandable because crazies are everywhere and one of them could walk in and start shooting at any moment.

The two staffers huddle together beside the cash register, discussing the customer in agitated whispers.

“Why is her hand in her purse like that? And why is she so rude?”

“She’s behaving suspiciously. It looks like she’s clutching something inside that purse.”

“Do you think it could be a gun?”

“I’m calling the police.”

The worker steps to the back area and taps in 911, giving the name of the shop and saying that a customer is behaving in a suspicious manner and that they fear she’s holding on to a gun in her purse.

“Stay away from her,” the responder instructs. “Get out of the store and wait for the police.”

And so the associates step outside, where they stand together and wait for help to come.

But then Bang! A gunshot reverberates through the area.

Panicked, the women race in different directions. One runs out to the street, gets in her car, drives home, and is too frightened to leave her house for the rest of the day. The other takes refuge in a nearby shop where she has a view of what’s going on at her workplace.

 A minute after the gunshot, the customer exits and wanders across the square, disappearing around a building.  

The worker, seeing that the woman is no longer in the store, returns to the shop and stands in the doorway to wait for the police. Because the location is sheltered, she has no way of knowing that out on the street fire engines, ambulances, and pretty much every police car the city owns have blocked traffic; or that, taking cover behind buildings that block her view, three big red-faced men approach wearing full body armor, with automatic weapons at the ready.

They storm around the corner, running toward her as they shout and point their terrifying weapons at her. They’re worked up and their objective is to conquer.  

“Get your hands up!” A thunderous voice. “Put your hands in the air!”

Do they not have eyes? This is a woman in her seventies, frail and small. Terrified to have three guns trained on her, she lifts her hands over her head. Later she won’t be able to stop shaking. She will vomit.

Eventually calm descends. The officers come to understand that she works there, that it was her co-worker who called 911, and that they’d heard a gunshot and a few minutes later the customer had come out and gone in that direction—she accompanies this with a wave toward the far corner.

She gives a description of the customer and the cops saunter away, intending to find the woman. The salesperson goes inside. She takes a deep breath. Knees trembling, she sinks to the stool behind the counter, gazes out the front window, and clears her head of all thoughts.

Ten minutes later the policemen return escorting the woman. They ask the saleslady to identify her as the customer in question, which she does. At this, the woman, standing between two officers, becomes furious and begins to yell.

“What are you accusing me of? I didn’t do anything wrong! I came into your shop and I left! There’s no law against that!”

In her anger, she is aggressive and takes a threatening step toward the clerk. The two men hold her back. Then they accompany her outside, talk to her for a few minutes, and send her on her way.  

One of the cops returns inside and explains that there was no reason to take her into custody, that you can’t arrest someone for being in a bad mood inside a dress shop.

“But we heard a gunshot! What about that?”

“Ma’am, there wasn’t any gun. It was probably a balloon.”

And he, too, takes his leave.

“I know a gunshot when I hear one,” she tells me later. “And people in the other businesses heard it too.”

She’s adamant. It’s a mystery.

There’s a lesson here, which I intend to take to heart. When I enter a store and someone gives me a merry greeting, I will respond cheerfully even if I’m feeling grumpy. And I’ll keep my hands visible at all times because who knows what someone might think if I don’t?

A Marble Falls Sunset

Working Hard and Earning Money

Cinco de Mayo commemorates Mexico’s dramatic victory over the Second French Empire at the Battle of Puebla in 1862—dramatic in that the Mexican army was highly outnumbered and had fewer weapons. The triumph was a huge morale boost, which was badly needed at the time. So, good for them. 

Not knowing or caring about this bit of history, on this Cinco de Mayo David and I have a hankering for Tex-Mex. It’s been a while since I had a chili relleno. 

There are several Tex-Mex restaurants in the area. The very best is Alfredo’s in Kingsland, but we don’t want to drive forty minutes, so we stay local, deciding on Jardin Corona on Main Street. We make plans to leave the house at five-thirty—and yes, this seems early, but we get hungry. 

“Hey,” David says at around four-thirty. “A Mexican restaurant might be crowded on Cinco de Mayo. Maybe we should go earlier.”

I guess he thinks the entire Latino population is going to take over the Mexican restaurants at five. 

“Five-thirty’s already embarrassingly early,” I tell him. “And now you want to go earlier? Also, who eats out on Thursday?”

Boy did I call it wrong. When we get to the downtown area both sides of Main Street are lined with cars. We have to park two blocks away. At the restaurant the outside tables are all full, with the margueritas at a level to suggest the occupants have been there for a while. And the interior is packed. 

A Latino child leads us to one of the last two remaining tables. I’m seated facing the door, which would ordinarily be fine, but the ferocious sun is blazing through the front glass, burning my retinas and making it impossible for me to lift my eyes from the table. David offers to switch places, but hey, it’s the seat I was dealt and why should he suffer? 

We get settled and order our drinks. The staff is bustling and there are more servers and hosts than usual. And the girl who led us to our table isn’t the only child who’s working. Obviously the management prepared for the crowd—but how did they know they’d be so busy at five-thirty in the middle of the week? It must be that I know nothing about the local customs. 

Curious, I rise a bit from the booth and observe the other diners, anticipating that I’ll see partying Hispanics at every table. But to my amazement it turns out that the majority of the customers are Anglos. It’s as if we, the old pink-faced people of Marble Falls, are celebrating the Latinos’ holiday by allowing the Latinos to feed us. Or did the date itself cause us, in a communally subliminal way, to lay claim to another culture’s tradition by eating massive amounts of Mexican food? 

And here’s something else that’s only peripherally relevant:

About three months ago I went to get take-out at the Chicken Express. At the time it was drive-through only and the employees were goofy high schoolers who had to confirm my order three times because they were having so much raucous fun back in the kitchen—and when I got home I found that they’d screwed up the order. And who doesn’t hate that? 

But then two weeks ago, when I went to the Chicken Express (dining room open now) I found that the moronic teenagers had (thankfully) been replaced by a group of Latino women who were sharp and efficient, frying up and handing out food as though they were a well-trained arm of the military. An impressive turnaround indeed; although the incongruity of Mexican women serving fried chicken instead of enchiladas disturbed on a visceral level. 

“It’s not often that I notice efficiency and intelligence in the people behind the counter at a chicken place,” I later told David. “But those women were on top of it.”

When I was a child, my father, a union bricklayer, said that Latinos were shiftless and lazy. But he was in the union and they weren’t, which meant that, as far as he was concerned, they stole union jobs. So that was likely the basis for his prejudice. Another issue might have been the siesta, their habit of taking a break from labor during the hottest part of the day, which is sensible; but would’ve been viewed with a chary eye by Caucasians like my father, who just sweated through it. Be all that as it may, the fact is that Mexicans are the most diligent and dedicated workers in the world. 

And we apparently share in their victory over the French a hundred and sixty years ago by watching them do what they do best—work hard and earn money. 

See? White skin, light hair.

Blinding light of the Central Texas sun. This is the little girl who was acting as hostess.

What Jen's Been Reading

I read only fiction. A friend recently poked a book about nutrition at me, leaving me to wonder—doesn’t she know me at all? A well-written work of fiction can change your world view. It will stay with you for life. It also entertains. Some novels manage to do all three. Here’s what I’ve been reading:

Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr. A nonsensical title taken from an Aristophanes play concerning a fool who searches for the impossible rather than learn to live with reality. The blurb telling how the ancient text influences individuals throughout centuries left me skeptical. It seemed an unattainably lofty ambition and it sounded boring—Ancient text? Yawn. Also, this author wrote All the Light You Cannot See, one of so many overly lauded heart-rending World War Two dramas, which I’d found predictable and contrived, though it did win the Pulitzer Prize because, you know, WWII. In comparison, Cloud Cuckoo Land was a much better novel. And it delivered on its promise—the Aristophanes writings did indeed connect a young ox-driver from the fall of Troy, a POW in Vietnam, and a spaceship carrying pilgrims from a destroyed earth in search of a new home. The writing was flawless, the characters diverse and compelling. The imposing ambition fully met its promise. As outstanding literary works go, this one will still be on the must-read lists in fifty years. 

Go Tell the Bees That I am Gone by Diana Gabaldon; ninth in the Outlander saga. There’s really no point in my recommending it unless it’s to recommend the entire series, which I do, highly. If you’re my age and you’re just picking up the first book you’ll be happily occupied until you die. This installment is what’s expected—the continuation of the time-travel tale that began in Scotland right before the Battle of Culloden in 1745, through to this one, which finds the Frasers caught up in the American Revolutionary War in 1779. They’re all well-written and if anyone’s looking for a romping adventure with romance, pirates, and witches, well, there’s a reason why these books are so popular. However, this time I did get irritated because Gabaldon, working from timelines and family trees, brings back characters who last made an appearance several books ago; as a new book is only released every five or six years, continuity is lost. A swift reminder of who the character is and why he or she is pertinent should be included in the text, which is the way it’s usually done. At times I lost the thread because of not knowing who somebody was. While it’s my understanding that there’s a readers’ companion, I’m not going to consult an encyclopedia in order to read a book about time travel. That’s just silly. 

Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman. This won British Book of the Year five or six years ago. I read it then, but it recently came into my hands as a gift from a Master’s student at Exeter who knows my work well because she wrote her dissertation concerning my treatment of humankind’s relationship with material items. Her giving me this champion of a book told me that she saw the similarities in our work, in the wry first-person narrative, and in the contrast between tragedy and humor. If you enjoyed my work you’ll love Eleanor Oliphant; having received this book I remembered how great it was and I read it again. Eleanor is multi-layered and multi-flawed. Her sarcasm is harsh and her critical attitude is cringeworthy. She doesn’t grasp social norms, has poor communication skills, and has given up trying to do anything other than exist. Though her sharp wit appeals, she’s hardly likeable—but as her background is revealed, it begins to seem like the fault isn’t Eleanor’s, but every person who’s passed through her life, a communal guilt. Want a lesson in empathy? Want to root for an underdog? Juxtaposing tragedy and humor can be tricky, and Honeyman has a gift for it. I highly recommend Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine and, come to think of it, I’m going to read it again in five years because every once in a while a person needs a lesson in how to see invisible people. 

Troubled Blood by Robert Galbraith—JK Rowling’s mystery series, although why the pseudonym when everybody who cares knows Galbraith’s identity? In this novel the characters, Cormoran Strike and Margot Bamborough, partners in a detective firm, seek to discover what happened to a woman who’s been missing for nearly thirty years. Due to solving several high-profile cases, the firm has expanded so that now our two sleuths have taken on an office manager and a couple of consultants. These mysteries are driven more by character than plot. Cormoran is the illegitimate son of a rock star, has a narcissistic bipolar ex-mistress, and is a war amputee. Margot is haunted by rape, has been betrayed by her husband, and is made to feel inadequate by her family. As a reader, I care more about what’s going on between Cormaran and Margot than I do about whichever case they’re working on, though the plots are always well-thought out, with plenty of clues and twists. What draws me is the sizzling unfulfilled attraction—will these two scarred people ever be brave another to take the first step? This question’s what keeps me coming back. 

The Lincoln Highway, by Amor Towles. Because I loved A Gentleman in Moscow, I was looking forward to reading this. In fact, I placed it at the bottom my list because I wanted to savor it. Oh dear; I meant for this list to be a list of recommendations, but I warn against spending your money on The Lincoln Highway. I know how reviews can wound an ego, so ordinarily I’m firmly disinclined to offer negative feedback. But shame on Penguin/Random House. This poorly written, poorly edited road trip tale is the result of a publisher pressuring an author to dig into his old files, because after A Gentleman in Moscow anything, anything with his name on it will sell. With work a gifted writer can make any situation seem magical, no matter how pedestrian; but there’s nothing brilliant about this, so I must conclude that the work was not done. About a third of the way through, Emmet describes his mother going to the attic to fetch the picnic basket down to the kitchen. There was no beauty in the phrasing or originality in the observations, no reason at all for this three-page ramble to and from the attic. At this point I had to put it down because this sort of tedious narrative makes me feel nauseated and woozy. Meandering, uninspired, callow, and disorganized. Disappointing.

So that’s what I’ve been doing for the last four months. What will I pick up next? Recommendations?