Cluckers Clucks America - Day 1

~Morning~

My eyes forced themselves open. Ouch, rough night. I checked my watch: 11am. Oh, crap.

Pulling myself together, Robbie and I finished loading the Jeep, stuffed so tight with my belongings that not only could we not see out the back, but also the rear speakers were completely muted, the rear wheel-wells nearly sat on the tires, and the doors and trunk would fling themselves open as if propelled by a spring if given the chance. After grabbing a bagel in hopes of calming our stomachs (queasy stomachs would actually be a theme of the trip), we departed. It was 12:30pm. We were leaving a solid 7 hours later than planned.

With a fresh layer of tape anchoring Cluckers to the hood, we pulled away from the Montwood one last time. It seemed only fitting that we would start our trip in Santa Monica. Coast to coast on Route 10. We snapped a few pictures from Ocean Avenue, prepared ourselves for what lay ahead. The idea was to drive until we dropped. We could both catch a nap during the afternoon and if we were feeling good once we got to Phoenix, we'd keep rolling all the way to Las Cruces, New Mexico.

After a bit of traffic slowed us down out by San Bernardino, Route 10 opened up before us. We parted ways with Route 15/40 (the crowd heading for Vegas), cleared ourselves from Palm Springs, and hit the open road. El Burro Volando was cruising, Cluckers forged ahead, and with the help of gallons of Gatorade, our headaches were dissipating.

We grabbed a mid-afternoon lunch in Blythe, California, a few miles from the Arizona border. So far, we hadn't seen much. A windfarm a couple hours earlier and a lot of desert. A different desert than the Mojave: less sand and more scrub brush. Shortly after leaving Blythe, we passed through a poverty stricken trailer park straddling either side of the highway. We believed it was an Indian Reservation, though we weren't entirely sure. That was eye-opening, indeed: hundreds of trailers sprawled out in the middle of the desert, thirty miles in every direction from other signs of life. A far cry from the affluent regions of the country we'd both lived in our entire lives.

Brian had described this portion of our journey, which turned out to be the first three days, as "a whole lot of nothing." He couldn't have been more spot on.

~Afternoon~

The real excitement of Day 1 came around dusk, about 50 miles from Phoenix. Caught in a patch of traffic (ie. four cars), I smelled burning metal. It was unpleasant. I glanced at Robbie, asked, "You smell that?" He nodded, made a face. "Maybe it's the car in front of us." I checked my gauges, all seemed well. Sped around the other cars, leading the way. The smell persisted. We spotted a gas station/towing service coming up at the next exit. "Should we stop there?"

Now, common sense said pulling into the gas station was the right move. But male pride told us otherwise. We looked at each other, agreed to "Wait till the next exit." As soon as we passed, we realized we shouldn't have. The smell persisted and although no smoke was coming from beneath the hood, we both suspected something not so good was going on. We pulled off Route 10 at the next exit, which just so happened to be out in the middle of nowhere. "It's ok," Rob offered, pointing out a sign off the exit ramp, "we're near a nuclear power plant."

As soon as we eased the Jeep onto the gravel shoulder, it started making a pretty nasty sound. I turned it off and jumped out, fearing the worst. Opened the hood and was greeted by a face full of smoke coming off the serpentine belt which turned the radiator fan, AC adaptor, etc. Uh oh.

After pointing vaguely at parts of the engine and trying to both sound knowledgeable, we decided we'd try to turn on the Jeep. Maybe it had just needed some rest. To cool off. I turned the key and that didn't go so well. The Jeep howled in protest, a violent grating sound. Robbie guessed that one of the pulleys had seized up on us. We decided it was time for our first lifeline.

Here's where I gained appreciation for doing this trip in 2009. Robbie pulled out his Iphone and used the GPS to triangulate exactly where we were. He then punched in "towing services" near our location and was able to find out the name and phone number of the place we'd passed a few miles before. He got them on the phone, explained what had happened. The guy suggested that before we call a tow truck, we try contacting a "mobile mechanic" named Carter who worked in the area. Evidently, this guy Carter would come to us and might be able to fix the Jeep at our location. If he was able to figure out what was wrong with the Jeep, and had access to the parts, he'd be able to save us the towing fee. Plus, it was already getting late and garages wouldn't be open to fix the Jeep until tomorrow afternoon, if not later.

Robbie called Carter and he said he was about thirty miles away fixing another vehicle. He'd come to us next. That done, we hunkered down and waited. Did I mention that the temperature had dropped from 75 to 45 in about fifteen minutes? I lifted the trunk and my overnight bag self-ejected into my arms. A little less than an hour later, Carter arrived.

~Night~

It took Carter about five minutes to deduce what was wrong with El Burro Volando. Shrugging a small flashlight against his neck, he ripped the guts out of my engine and explained that the mechanic in LA had tightened the new belts too tight when I'd taken the car in to be serviced. That, combined with age, had fried the bearings on the AC Adaptor and had caused the pulley to lock up. It probably didn't help that we'd been using the AC that afternoon for more or less the first time in six months or so. Anyhow, Carter looked at us, said he needed to head into town to grab the parts. Did one of us want to go with him? I looked at Robbie, hoping he'd offer. He didn't. So I hopped into Carter's van and left Robbie out in the desert with no hope of escape when the power plant failed.

As we roared towards Phoenix in Carter's van (which had over 450,000 miles on it - the sign of a good mechanic), I reflected on Day 1 of the trip. So far, nothing had gone according to plan. At this rate, it was going to take us weeks to get across country. But I couldn't deny that everything was pretty awesome so far. Other than the fairly legitimate concern that this mechanic guy was going to kill me and feed me to the locals, I was pretty content.

Going into town turned out to be a 60 mile round trip. Plenty of time to get to know Carter's family history. He and I talked real estate, politics, and foreign policy. I learned he didn't think too much of Mr. Obama, he didn't like Mexicans, and the government was trying to steal his damn land. He'd been living out near Buckeye his whole life - his brothers, his father and grandfather all had - and they were all mechanics. He'd driven down to Mexico to the grocery store and seen maggots on the meats, and someone had recently tried to pay him in drugs for fixing their car.

We got back to the Jeep, replaced the AC Adaptor, and El Burro Volando roared back to life. Reborn. Unbelievable. Carter followed me to the next exit, a truck stop a few miles down, and we concluded our business. I asked him how much we owed him for his services. He pursed his lips, looked at the starry sky, and said, "I don't know. How does $200 sound?" He didn't take credit cards and my checkbook was buried in a mountain of junk in the Jeep. All I had on me cash was $120. He shrugged, looked at me: "That's fine. You can just mail me the rest when you get back."

Robbie and I got back in the Jeep and looked up to find a trucker in a sleeveless denim shirt, tattooed from shoulder to wrist, grilling the hell out of us, a 9MM on his hip. On that note, I hit the gas and got out of there, back on the road. Nothing like a couple California fairies to serve as target practice before the big Mexican shoot.

It was 9pm and we still hadn't reached Phoenix. Robbie had a family friend who lived in Scottsdale whom we had originally planned to have lunch, er dinner, with. We called Brooke and she offered to let us crash at her place for the night. We stopped at an In-N-Out for dinner, scarfed down the most delicious double-doubles ever, then took the 101 loop around Phoenix, past the Cardinals stadium and through Glendale, eventually pulling to a stop at Brooke's pad out in the suburbs. A bunch of enormous cacti in the front yard. We crashed at about 11:30 or so. Las Cruces could wait another day.

Lesson of Day 1: Learn to Slow Down

Cluckers Clucks America - Day .5

The story of my trip across country really starts the day before we actually departed, specifically once the sun went down. After a chaotic final day at the 'Glass in which I jammed in hasty goodbyes, tried to explain what my job actually entailed to my replacement, and stuffed my face with yet more farewell cake, I picked Robbie up at the Westwood/UCLA Bus depot.

We headed back to the Montwood to drop off his bags and pack the car up. This brings me to the subject of my Jeep. Rob and I had decided to name her "EL BURRO VOLANDO." That's Spanish for "The Flying Donkey." This seemed an appropriate name as we had brainstormed earlier in the week that a good way to make some money on our journey was to shuttle illegal immigrants across the Mexican border as we passed through southwest Texas. Stuff a few Mexicans in amongst my bags of dirty clothing and Ernest Hemingway novels and wave to the border patrol as we cruised past. Booyah! El Burro Volando!

However, as I began packing up the Jeep on Friday evening, one of my best friends from Spyglass, a plastic chicken I'd bought last year named Mr. Cluckers, fell out of one of the boxes. I picked him up and put him on the hood for a second while I loaded some worthless junk into the jeep. As soon as Robbie and I saw Cluckers sitting on the hood, we knew we'd found our mascot. Our hood ornament. And so we prepared ourselves for the trip, now titled: "Cluckers Clucks America."

Anyhow, with El Burro Volando halfway filled, we decided it was time to go get some food and beverages. With plans to meet everyone else set for later in the evening, we decided to get some sushi. In-n-Out was a consideration, as was Mexican food, but we decided both of those could be tackled in the first couple days of our journey. Once we left the West Coast, getting sushi wouldn't really be an option. I didn't want to jump to conclusions, but something told me sushi from Las Cruces, New Mexico or El Paso, Texas just wasn't going to be the same. A couple tall Sapporo's, some sushi, and one big glob of wasabi later, we headed out to the bars.

Now seems an appropriate time to bring up my initial plan for departing LA the next morning. The plan was to pack the rest of the car up on Saturday morning and leave Los Angeles at 5 or 6am, well before the traffic would start, and well before I'd have any doubts about leaving the warm weather. A good plan... in theory. What I failed to recognize was that my logical plan was about to be shot to hell by my friends anxiously waiting to celebrate me departure. My sorrowful departure vs. their celebratory farewell. Advantage celebration: they could sleep it off well into Saturday.

When the first round of Patron shots hit the table, I realized we weren't going to make our 5am departure. Bon Voyage!

The World's Finest Chocolate Bar

I could hear her voice as it carried through the kitchen. "Mike! Mike!" I stood perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. I had to come clean. Or did I? Maybe - if I waited her out - she'd get distracted and leave the room. Or maybe she'd think I was in my bedroom and would head that way instead. Then I'd be able to slip out unnoticed and escape to safety in the back yard...

I peaked through the narrow slits in the pantry doors. I was fairly certain that she wouldn't be able to see me from here. After all, it was nearly pitch dark where I stood. Silence. And then I heard it. Whimpering at my feet. I glanced down at a cute fur ball of a mutt scratching at the the pantry door. My Golden Retriever puppy, Jack. Trying to rat me out to the dreaded Mom, trying to lead her to where I wasn't supposed to be...

I eased onto my nine-year-old hands and knees on the opposite side of the cedar door, almost inaudibly whispering, "No! Stop it! Go away!" But he was a persistent little pup. I glanced behind me to where the half-eaten World's Finest Chocolate Bar with Almonds lay exposed on top of the box freezer where we kept the whole lot of them. The silver wrapper glinted in the soft light trickling in from the slitted doors. I was screwed.

I turned back to Jack just as a pair of feet appeared next to him. A woman's hand scooped up the little guy as I scrambled to my feet, holding my breath. I peaked through the door. There she was: Mom. She stood there, petting Jack, a knowing grin on her face. Quietly she asked, "Mike... are you in there?"

I contemplated not responding. Contemplated scrambling for cover behind the coat rack, burying myself from view. But it was useless. I slowly pushed open the door and stood there, guilty. Chocolate caked my face, stuck to my fingers. I smiled a chocolate stained smile at Mom, as if to say, truce.

Let's just say: she wasn't pleased.

-----------------

The World's Finest Chocolate Bar was the annual Little League fundraiser throughout my childhood. Every year, around the fourth or fifth week of the season, Coach would tote an enormous cardboard box of those things from his pickup truck to the dugout and give a package of twenty to each of us. Our mission - and we had to accept it - was to sell all twenty by the end of the season. Usually, there were one or two overachievers who would manage to sell them to his buddies at school. One year, I had some minor success hawking them at my church. Old people are always suckers for these things; I think it's the combo of helping a youngster as well as eating some chocolate. However, more often than not, Mom and Dad ended up buying the majority of the candy bars off their unsuccessful son.

Now, once I reached this point, two things would happen. Dad would remove two or three of them from the package and would place these chosen few in the family freezer in the kitchen to be snacked on at random. I suspect they made many a midnight snack for the parents back then. The rest of the World's Finest Chocolate Bars with Almonds would be stashed in the large box freezer tucked away in the pantry. Buried deep in the freezer alongside jars of Mom's homemade preservatives, pounds of sausage and beef given to us by neighbors that Dad was too polite to say no to, and a seemingly endless supply of patriotic, red-white-and-blue popsicles, the remaining candy bars were listed as "off limits" to my brother and I.

I don't want to paint the picture of myself as a chubby, chocolate loving youngster. I was far from that growing up. My chubby disposition and affinity for all things chocolate didn't rear its lovely head until I was in college. As an adolescent, I was always undersized, skinny as heck. That being said, a candy bar here or there wasn't cause for alarm. It was more about the principle: Mom and Dad forbid me from eating them; could I follow this order?

So, this ample supply of World's Finest Chocolate Bars with Almonds awaited discovery in the family icebox in the pantry. Mom and Dad stored containers full of winter caps and mittens, sports cleats and farm tools, on top of the industrial sized freezer. This, they believed, was a formidable defense against the curious muscles of a nine-year-old son. In retrospect, they weren't far off. If Mom and Dad had left me home alone, I could make as much noise as I wanted trying to move all the objects off the freezer. Under such circumstances, pulling off this candy-heist would have been a piece of cake. Unfortunately, Mom and Dad didn't really trust me. That being said, stealth was my only option...

So, stealing these candy bars became a game of cat and mouse between my mother and I. When she wasn't looking, I would sneak into the pantry, shutting the doors behind me. In near darkness, I would try to move the heavy crates off the icebox without hurting myself or knocking anything else over. More often than not, I would bump a mop or broom over, raising the alarm. Yet sometimes, I maintained anonymity. Once the top of the freezer was clear, I would unlatch it (this thing was old fashioned) and would break the rubber seal. A blast of cold air would hit me as the light came on within. Peaking over the rim, there they were: the box of World's Finest Chocolate Bars.

And so, I reached inside and grabbed one.

Where to Begin?

A few years back, I remember sitting down at a desk in my family's Virginia farmhouse, staring at a blank screen, and writing these same three words: "Where to Begin?" It was Thanksgiving break, I was sixteen years old, and I had a week of freedom to write whatever I wanted. A year and a half later, I finished a 22o page novel that had begun with those three simple words. It's hard to believe that those words snowballed into something so damn big. And my God, a lot happened in between.

It seems almost hypocritical to start a story, a blog - any piece of writing for that matter - with these words. For in truth, there is so much already being brought to the table when we sit down to write. So I suppose the better way to look at it is: I'm beginning from this specific point in my life. Wow, that was easy. So where am I in my life right now? While that is certainly a topic for a long and consuming post, I won't even touch that one for a moment.

For now, my topic is writing. It's what I've always wanted to do and the sole reason I moved to Los Angeles, leaving all my friends, family, and loved ones behind. Writing: that which gives me the greatest happiness and fulfillment in life. Writing: that which makes me a better person and inspires me to succeed. Although I imagine that I'll be ranting about Fantasy Football a great deal in posts to come, perhaps posting some short stories, journal entries and random thoughts, I expect that a great number of posts will revolve around or in some way come back to writing. Consider this for a moment:

"Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy... Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink. Drink and be filled up." (Stephen King, On Writing)

Never mind the fact that I read almost three hundred pages before King imparted these nuggets of wisdom. For sure, the book was inspirational and poignant from beginning to end. But this paragraph aptly summarizes a great deal of what he is saying throughout. We write for ourselves and for those we care about. We write to make ourselves better and, at a most basic level, to make ourselves happy. If there's one thing I've noticed about myself as I continue to get older, it's that my moods and psychological stability are directly related to the success of my writing. If I am making progress each day as a writer, I am happy. If I notice a regression in my written thoughts, my mood pays the price.

I'm not sure that I've truly accomplished what I set out to do when I started this post. My gut suspects that I have not. Yet I've certainly taken a step forward by popping my proverbial blogger's cherry. I look at what I've written above and think to myself, I'll get there. Patience, young grasshopper. I see a lot of information about myself above. Perhaps not exactly what I set out to uncover an hour ago but a starting place nonetheless. And that is where I will begin...