A Vagabond August

To recap: August 2014. A vagabond wandering around Louisville, Colorado.

My original plan upon arrival in Denver was to spend a few days getting acclimated and hunting the usual online places for potential projects before the Man came for a week-long visit. Then, we would be happy-go-lucky tourists in Colorado for a spell, while I waited for the job callbacks to come pouring in. He would then fly back to Atlanta, gather his belongings, and move to Pittsburgh to close on his house on August 26th. I would spend more time in Denver, job-hunting and whatnot, and then I would go to Moab, Utah, to visit with Spawn for a few days. After that, I would think about October and beyond.

But after this happened, I had to come up with a new plan. And, unfortunately, my mind was cluttered with panic. $100 a day for a hotel wasn’t something I had factored into this adventure at all. $300 a week for an extended-stay hotel amongst a rainbow of ne’er do wells would kill me. So what to do, what to do?

“Just wait until I get there. We’ll figure it out.”

“I can’t afford to pay for a hotel for two months while I look for a job.”

“I know.”

“I can’t afford to pay for a hotel for two months while I look for a job.”

“I know.”

Rinse, repeat. Rinse, repeat.

Almost immediately, something wasn’t quite right. He couldn’t seem to focus and he moved a little – I don’t know - aimlessly. If I had to explain it to someone in the airport parking lot, I’d say that in the few minutes since landing, he just seemed like a fish out of water.

I drove him around a little. First through downtown Denver and then, after a quick stop by the home (Quality Inn), to Boulder. We parked to walk around downtown a bit and stopped at a kiosk full of various tourist maps and pamphlets. He found one that said BOULDER in big block orange letters and handed me his phone.

“Take a picture of me?”

“If you move a few feet to the left, I could take a picture of you with the actual city in the background.”

“I want a picture with this.”

(That would be the only picture he would want in all of Colorado. And he’s a picture guy!)

Of all the places we could have gone to for dinner on Pearl Street, he chose The Cheesecake Factory. He got the shrimp with angel hair because “that’s what I always get at home” and barely ate.

“Do you want a box to take it home?”

“No, thank you.”

“Do you want to split a piece of cheesecake?”

“No, I’m full. Get a piece if you want one, though.”

It just felt like another disappointment. First, the neighbors, then Iowa and the apartment, and now this. And I couldn’t make sense of it. Just before he boarded the plane, he had been so excited to come.

Maybe he was just tired? Maybe it was the altitude?

“Did something weird happen on the plane?”

“No, why would you ask that?”

“No reason.”

After dinner, I tried to get him to walk along Pearl Street with me.

“Let’s go in the bookstore.”

“I’ve been to bookstores.”

“After dark, we can watch the hippies.”

“I’ve seen hippies.”

“What do you want to do?

“Just go back to the hotel.”

(And it would turn out not to be for the obvious reason.)

It was almost dusk when we drove from Boulder to Louisville. It was just beautiful to see the sun setting behind the mountains along the way.

“Look at that. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

“What? What am I supposed to be looking at?”

I tried over the next day or two to find something that he wanted to do. No, to the Rocky Mountain National Park. No, to a hike in Chautauqua Park. No, to the Denver Botanic Gardens. No, to Estes Park. No, even to a simple walk along Boulder Creek. I’d suggest, like a good, albeit accidental and MIND YOU HOMELESS, hostess, and he’d reject and change the subject.

“Well, what do you want to do?"

“Just be with you.”

Made no sense at all.

But trying to figure out what was wrong with him took my mind off my own troubles. I had no room in my brain to regroup for my new and improved Denver plan.**

So, we headed to Moab, Utah, to see Spawn. I changed plans with my son at the last minute, because visiting him was priority, second only to my job search, and I needed to make sure that got done. Unfortunately, Spawn knew nothing about the Man, because he was supposed to fly home before my originally scheduled visit. I wasn’t anywhere near ready to discuss any love-life nonsense with Spawn. We don’t do that.

It was a really nice drive. We stopped in Dillon, Colorado, where the pizza and haze of pot smoke over the pretty little town were just what the doctor ordered for both of us. Even working things out with a Toyota Corolla at Vail’s elevation wasn’t enough to worry us. We spent the drive playing old-fashioned car games and passing love notes when we were stopped in traffic, which was a lot of the time.

Our only mistake was driving from Denver to Moab on a Friday afternoon. There are a few electronic signs along I-70 that basically tell you, “Yes, your drive sucks today, and it will suck again on Sunday when all you crazy weekenders return to the city.” Lesson learned. Beautiful drive, though, until I realized that what should have been a six-hour drive turned out to be a Friday eleven.

Well, there was the added mistake of my choice of footwear in the desert. Don’t wear flip-flops around cacti. I got stabbed by an evil that gave me something akin to poison oak with a 102-degree fever for days.

It came as a shock that I wasn’t alone on the trip, but Spawn understood my predicament after some explanation.

“I thought I’d show you Canyonlands, Arches, my work, and a cool restaurant in town. On the way back to Denver, you should take Highway 128, because it runs along the Colorado River, and it's really pretty.”

The visit was a little awkward but a lot of fun. The Man and Spawn had mad respect for each other in an arm’s distance sort of way, and oddly enough, I think the Man just wanted to make the visit easy on all of us. We took lots of pictures, had nice meals, and learned a lot about the area.

Then, on the last morning...

“My mother died.”

“Huh?”

“My sister just sent a message on Facebook.”

“Do we need to get you to Pittsburgh?”

“No.”

I knew of her advanced cancer stage and that she had rejected suggestions of any surgeries that might prolong her inevitable. I also knew of her desire to die quietly and uneventfully. She wanted no fanfare, not even an announcement. And I knew that she and the Man had not been in touch for a while. Having my own parental communication issues, that was a familiar situation, and I didn’t question it.

The drive back to Denver was a lot shorter but no less unusual. We were driving back to a hotel where neither of us knew what to do next. I tried my best to ignore reality for a little while longer.

“We’re supposed to take 128, the scenic route, remember? The turn should be right along here somewhere.”

He started talking about something else, and I didn’t see the sign.

“We must have missed it. Can we turn back?”

“We’ve gone too far now." 

Next, more what the hell have I done, but east of the Mississippi.

**(in hindsight) Well played, my friend. Well played.

Sorry, Folks. Iowa's Closed.

In National Lampoon’s Vacation, the Griswolds arrive at Walley World to find the parking lot empty. Clark, the father, assumes their bad travel luck has finally changed, that the gods are pleased again, that they had caught the early-bird amusement park worm and were the first ones to arrive. He leads the family on a happy, jumpy, slow-motion race to the entrance only to be stopped by security guard, Russ Laskey.

“Sorry folks. Park’s closed. Moose out front shoulda told ya.”

This exact same thing happened to me in Iowa. Well, not exactly exact, but close.

I didn’t think I needed hotel reservations for a two-day road trip to Colorado. I thought I would just stop somewhere in Iowa when I got tired of driving. Iowa, for god’s sake.

First hotel: “We’re all booked.”

“Okay, thank you. I’ll keep driving.”

Second hotel: “We’re all booked.”

“But the parking lot is empty.”

“They’re on their way.”

Third hotel: “We’re all booked.”

“What the hell is going on?:

“Sturgis.”

Well, that at least explained the 55mph packs of motorcyclists on the highway.

Fourth hotel: “We’re all booked.”

“But you’re not on the path to Sturgis.”

“No, but we are at the mall exit. And it’s Saturday night. And people come from miles around...”

Sorry, folks. Iowa’s closed. Cow at the state line shoulda told ya.

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“Turn around?”

So I kept driving. And I kept stopping every so often to ask about availability. I felt like Jesus. Or Mary. However that story goes. (Yes, I know I could’ve checked online at this point, but I felt like I might be rewarded with sympathy points begging in person.)

Around this time, the Man called.

“Where are you?”

“Nebraska. Can’t find a hotel.” And I explained the horror of my first-world problem.

“Well, you’ll find something. I’m going to barbecue some chicken on the grill for dinner.”

*Now, I’m a grown and independent woman. My damsel in distress act isn’t what it used to be, what with all the single parenthood, rust, and cobwebs. Of course I would find something. But if a person has pretty much promised to be my soft place to land, wouldn’t one think that said person would offer some sort of something? Isn’t this what men are for, anyway? That and cutting grass and shit?*

I finally found a nice hotel (without any assistance, mind you) in Grand Island, Nebraska, a state ahead of the motorcyclists. I was also a day ahead of schedule now, so I reserved a room for two days, thinking they’d descend the next day and that’ll show ‘em.

Ask me what there is to do in Grand Island, Nebraska. Worry, that’s what there is to do in Grand Island, Nebraska. I encountered wholesome folks who seemed very content and stress-free, but I was on foreign soil.

Jump ahead to two evenings later when I arrived in Denver. I was ready to get my house-sitting task list and settle into my new home for the next two months!

From the outside, it was a beautiful old house sub-divided into four apartments. It was situated on a tiny corner lot in a very hip, eclectic, and active area just north of downtown. From the inside, another glimpse into hell. (We're up to three now, should I be lucky enough that you're still following along: 1) the devil neighbor’s (Have I ever mentioned my neighbors?) U-Haul, 2) Iowa, and 3) this apartment.)

Now I’m no diva, but I am menopausal. It was 94 degrees in Denver. It was August. This was normal, nothing to be alarmed about. Unless a person, during the six months of conversations and arrangements, failed to mention that she has no air conditioning.

“It didn’t even occur to me.”

“You’re from the Midwest. How could it not occur to you?”

“I have lived here for 15 years.”

“You’re still in America. Just 3 states over and 15 years. You have to have a memory of air conditioning.”

“You can keep the windows open for air.”

“Well, sure. The foot traffic and street pavers will be nice company.”

Yes, street pavers. A big-machine project involving tar in 94-degree heat.

“I can take you to the store to buy some fans.”

“Maybe I should just sleep outside. It’s cooler out there than it is in here anyway.”

“Well, I’ve been cooking.”

I think I started panting. I was a dog in a hot car. 94 outside, but 130 on the inside.

(I won’t go into any great details, but the tour is what really sealed my fate. The bathroom at an acceptable temperature was hard to stomach, but even more troublesome under sweaty conditions.)

We parted ways.

I called to tell the Man, of course, who was appropriately outraged and supportive, but strangely (again) offered no help.

“You’ll find something. I’m having leftovers for dinner.”

I was still looking for a hotel at 10pm, when he called back.

“I didn’t hear from you. Where are you?”

“Between Boulder and Denver. Still looking for a hotel.”

(Now, I admit that I should’ve calmed down, found my center, pulled up the Wi-Fi at a McDonald’s, and just reserved a hotel. I think that, in my defense, I was overwhelmed with what I should do for two months instead of just focusing on what I should do in that moment, for that night.)

“Thanks for worrying about me.”

“You’re a grown woman. I know you can take care of yourself.”

I did what any grown, independent, together, with-it, hot, menopausal, frustrated, pissed-off woman would do. I started crying. And hung up.

A few minutes later, the Man called back.

“Go to the Quality Inn. There’s a room there waiting for you. Just sleep. We’ll figure the rest out later.”

So, to the Quality Inn in Louisville, Colorado, I went. And let me tell you. Louisville, Colorado, is no place for the faint-hearted. According to the Wiki, the median income for a family living there is $81,512. For every public school, there is a private one. Every year, the city lands at the top of the list of the 100 best places to live in America by this or that magazine. And if that all weren’t enough, there’s like only one Panera.

Regardless, as I drifted off to sleep that night, what was supposed to be the first real night of my new adventure, it occurred to me that, in the blink of an eye, I had become one of those people on the news. I was now the sewer rat type, hanging my head in tattered hoodie shame, hunting the ground for damp cigarette butts and cleaning them off with my dirty fingers, swearing to the reporter that, really, I don’t know who has the meth. Granted, I was a little better dressed and a lot better fed, but I was still, by definition, homeless. And shaky. I had driven cross-country (almost, well, not really) in a Corolla packed full of two months’ worth of basics (which included an outfit or two for job interviews), and now had nowhere to be and a whole lot of days to get there.

Next, a visit from the Man, a trip to Moab, a death, and a decision.

Since This Has to Start Somewhere

Some folks know how my adventure began, but only a precious few to whom I am still apologizing know the gruesome details. And by gruesome, I refer, as I usually do, to my next-door neighbors (Have I ever told you about my neighbors?) in Butler-Tarkington who had moved in during the summer of 2013 to give me a glimpse into what Hell will be like.

As much as I (still) hate(d) these people, they served two great purposes: 1) They forced me to escape regularly to the convent to write my little book about post-single motherhood that had called my name for three years, and 2) they made me even more desperate to leave Indiana.

I wasn’t even supposed to be here after my son graduated from college and moved away in 2012. I don’t belong anywhere in particular, but I knew I didn’t belong here. For years, I had imagined myself living out my days in Maine. I guess I was overwhelmed with how to make that happen, because the result was a sort of paralysis. I prayed, prayed, and PRAYED for signs from the Universe about the when and where of getting the hell out. The when became more urgent and the where less important each passing day next door to the devil people. As odd as it may sound, they were my primary catalyst for change.

By the start of 2014, I was determined to go but still had no plan. I began seeing a man in Atlanta with whom I had been in a relationship back in the ‘90s. He was making plans to retire to his hometown of Pittsburgh.

In March, a two-month-long housesitting gig in Denver later in the year fell in my lap. I knew a few people in Denver in my field, so I could go there and pretty easily network for a new job. I know great people in Boulder and Denver, and I might just have fun. Cherry on top: I’d be closer to my son in Utah.

MY SIGN. Finally. I would put everything I owned in storage in Indianapolis for the time being and head to Colorado. MY OUT. And not a bad out at all.

Man: “What are you going to do after Denver?”

Me: “I don’t know. That depends on finding a job.”

Man: “What about us?”

Me: “I don’t know. For now, you come visit me. And I’ll visit you when you get settled in your new house.”

Man: “Why don’t you put your stuff in one of those PODs? That way you can be more mobile. It’ll be easier to move when you know where you’ll be.”

Me: “Because it’s cheaper to just do storage for now. And I won’t be working initially.”

Man: “I’ll pay for it.”

Me: “Why?”

Man: “Because I’m hoping you’ll come be with me.”

Me: “That’s so nice. But it’ll just be cheaper for me to...”

Man: “You let me worry about cheaper.”

This had never happened to me before. Someone with a deep voice and noteworthy forearms offering to do something, pay for something, take care of something, make something easier? This wasn’t the first time my head had spun, nor would it be the last.

So, to speed up this tale to Kick-Off Adventure Day (KOAD, for short)....

It was a dark and stormy night.

Actually, it was a fairly comfortable July day. We’d had a mild summer up to that point and thank goodness, because I am not at all built for summer.

At 10:30am, the POD people made their delivery to my driveway. I was elated. That big white shiny box just waiting to be filled up with my stuff and my possibilities! My new beginning! I was about to be reinvented! Hoosier No More!! I was inches closer to fine! And, most importantly, the Universe was my friend again.

For two hours and twenty three minutes. (I looked at the clock, because I wanted to remember how long I had been one with Life.)

A little before 1pm, I heard the noise of an 18-wheeler, faint at first, but coming closer. The street is narrow with cars parked all along it, so if something like this was coming through, it was worth watching. I couldn’t see around the POD from my windows, so I was surprised to find out that it wasn’t an 18-wheeler at all once it passed my driveway.

It was the biggest U-Haul available to man. 

Then, it passed my house.

Then, it passed my devil neighbor’s driveway.

Then, it passed their house.

And, then.

It stopped.

Reverse lights.

Reverse beeps.

Damn thing backed right into devil neighbor’s yard and stopped at their devil front porch.

There I was in my tiny house with the POD to my right and devil neighbor’s engorged U-Haul to my left. I would live in a tunnel for the next few days while we both loaded our vessels. For a year, I had done everything I could to avoid looking at them or their vicinity, and now we had to lug our stuff simultaneously and side-by-side? (I had a fleeting thought that, with my luck, I would get stuck behind them on the same Denver-bound highway, but I reassured myself that Hoosier devils like these spend their lifetimes close to where they were spawned, and this devil family of five or seven (I was never quite sure) had been spawned in Broad Ripple, a little village just a couple of miles up the road.)

Believe me, I wanted to go, but we had a deal, the Universe and me. There had been long talks about signs. I needed them. I still do. I’ve always lived by signs. Was this a sign that maybe this philosophy wasn’t such a good idea? That nothing was a good idea? Was this a sign that It was going to start taking back signs? Was this a sign that the stars weren’t aligned quite as perfectly as I thought? I started the day excited and happy, and ended it in the fetal position on my unassembled bed, surrounded by the typical moving mayhem, listening to the rather loud gnawing in my stomach warning me that this was just the beginning (in so many ways).

It goes without saying that I carried on because wheels were already in motion. And also because wanting out something awful trumped any screaming intuition.

The dichotomy of this day foreshadowed many just like it that would come over the next year. I would soon feel the highs of a love like I have never known and the lows that make me question if any of it was real.

I am still learning to live with the chastising certainty that I will never have that answer. And I’m learning that where? Back in Indiana, of course. And already, although not nearly as desperately (yet), looking for signs about how to get the hell out.

God said no.

What the hell, April?

I have a specific goal in mind for 2014, and I am trying to do five things each day targeted at this one goal. A lot of it involves money. So, when a part-time evening job fell from the sky, I took it as a sign (as I tend to do about things) and signed up. It only took 7 days to get fired. I was assigned to score standardized tests for 4th grade math students. Apparently, there were wizards in other rooms monitoring activity and scoring the scorers, because every night we had to check our “report cards” on the work we did the night before. Three nights below a 90% accuracy rate and you were ousted. So, on my third fail, something had to be done about me.

Swarmy (I never got a full handle on his name) the Supervisor and I had a thing, so he got permission for me to move to Science. Lucky me. The training guide was 81 pages, there were four parts to every answer, endless “rubrics” (whatevah), and coyotes and wolves and pygmy rabbits and grass and pollen and most likely to eat and less likely to die and no way in hell.

Me: Listen, I appreciate this, I really do, but there’s just no way. Is there any other option?

Swarmy: Let me talk to my manager and see if I can get special permission to keep you in Math. I just worry about that new question we start scoring tonight – the one you saw at the end of last night’s shift - because I heard you asking the people around you about left angles*. Do you think you can do it?

Me: No, Swarmy, in fact I have little to no confidence in anything anymore. 4th grade math wins. I hereby bequeath you my badge.

*There is no such thing?!??

During those 7 days, however, I talked with a gal my age who sat next to me a lot (see accuracy issue above) and we got along swimmingly. What’s this? A new friend!?!??! That’s better than left angles any day. New friend also got fired on Day 7, so we exchanged contact info. Two days later, we met for dinner at which she:

1. Texted three people,
2. Talked on the phone to one,
3. Was rude to the waitress,
4. Talked VERY loudly about an ex-boyfriend’s body parts (there were children all around – this really doesn’t need to be said – there are gaggles of children in every restaurant on every street at any time of any day in this city),
5. Poured out an Oreo milkshake that she ordered before dinner (think salad or appetizer) on a plate and slurped it with a spoon and straw, and
6. Asked me one question and insulted my answer enough to make me ask for the check and walk out.

I spent that weekend vowing not to let Crazy kill my spirit and formulating a Plan B. How could I work smarter, not harder? Maybe I could move to a much less expensive and very temporary situation and save money rather than attempt to earn it at 11 o’clock at night.

I threw this new intention to the Universe and the very next day, an acquaintance of an acquaintance who was left with a big house payment after a divorce announced that she was looking for a “roommate” of sorts. We met and compared lifestyles. But thing was that she was a walking contradiction.

Example 1:

Her: I don’t go out much. I just like to read and work in my yard. 

Me: I have to fight hermit tendencies.

Her: Oh, I have hundreds of friends I could introduce you to. We’ll get you out there!!!

Me: Hmmm. Yes, well…

Example 2:

She doesn’t date but it took her all of about 8 minutes to talk about men. (If you know me at all, you know how much I do so dearly love to talk about men. Ugh and UGH.) She is extremely attractive. 58, looks 38. A runner. Blond. Peppy. And just a tinge of gullible that men of a certain age seem to really appreciate.

Her: I don’t date. I just turned a man down yesterday, told him that we’d see this summer when I’m off from teaching, but I really doubt that I will go out with him. Someone else emailed me from eHarmony this morning, but I just don’t know…

Me: Hmmm. Yes, well…

Her: I just broke up with a man who turned out to be a player. We’d sit out on the deck, he liked to grill, and we’d watch a movie or just talk, but when he wasn’t here, he was completely inaccessible and I found out he was a bar-hopper.

Me: Hmmm. Yes, well…

Example 3:

She has three grandchildren under the age of four. There were kid toys in the living room and a kid’s name on choo choo train parts on the door of a 3rd bedroom. There was a baby potty in the guest bathroom.

Me: How often do your grandkids come over?

Her: Oh, hardly ever. They live in Zionsville. Maybe once every few months?

Me: Hmmm. Yes, well…

I guess I was so into Plan B that these things didn’t toss around enough red flags, because I told her I’d sleep on it, and I did. I woke up the next morning still undecided.

Before leaving my house for work, I had an impulse to see if she has a Facebook page. And does she ever! Not a single privacy setting on that thing. Chock full of gal pal get-togethers, kid sleepover weekends (one for every weekend in March), backyard fire-pit/deck gatherings, and overall barrels of monkeys.

And yet I kept scrolling. That is, until God said no.

There it was. A possum. One possum picture after another. She and the possum were sitting on the couch watching TV, it resting its head on her leg. She and the possum were lying in her bed (its head was actually on a pillow). She posted something about fixing it a salad for dinner. It apparently needed the strength for the next photo opp: playing video games with the kids.

Yes, God said no. This is not for you, Karen. I am giving you blog fodder as a consolation prize, but this is not for you. Plan C, girl, Plan C.