We don't go anywhere.
Well, we go to southern California once or twice a year to visit Chas's family, and that's fun, and important, because it's family. But other than that, it's rare that Chas and the girls and I go anywhere.
This is not a new phenomenon. When I owned my store I worked six days a week, often seven, and rarely went farther than 20 miles from my store and home. When that's how life is, you accept it, get used to it, and even prefer it. (It's a big stinky deal for me to go across town to Target or Costco on my way home from work, so I avoid extraneous shopping at all costs.)
So when, back in about 1996, Chas and I talked about taking a three-day road trip, it was a BIG. DEAL. We discussed the when and the where with lots of people, gathering suggestions. And I brought up our trip in a conversation with Laird.
Laird was a retired professor who had purchased a large and unique art piece from my store, a hand-built piece of decor that required lots of measuring and planning before he was sure he wanted to buy it. Over time I came to know this man, and learned that he had planned to put this lovely art in his beach house on the Northern California coast. We got along so well, Laird and I, during these intensive art measuring sessions and the subsequent layaway installments, that he invited me to come to the beach house for a weekend. Nothing improper, mind you; he invited me to bring my then-boyfriend Chas, too. Chas and I talked it over, and a one-night stay at Laird's beach house fit perfectly with our other plans.
We made the date.
The drive to the coast from the interior of California is deceptively long and difficult; while maybe 100 miles lie between us and the salt water as the crow flies, there is no direct road, and it takes about four hours to get there. By the time we reached Laird's very remote seaside home we were hot, tired and thirsty. Laird was very gracious and welcomed us into his home, offering us beers. (Chas especially was grateful for this.) Laird started for the kitchen.
As he continued to tell us about his tiny village by the sea, Laird strolled to the pantry, reached in, and pulled out a 5-pack of Coors, the freshness date of which had likely expired during the first Bush administration. I could sense palpable fear from Chas, whose idea of an old beer involves weeks, not years. Was Laird really going to give us warm beer from the pantry shelf?
Oh yes, he was. And he did.
We had dinner at the town's only restaurant, which was a cafe for the local fishermen. We drove around the town and walked on the beach for a while. Everything was friendly and peaceful.
Back at the beach house, we watched the sun set over the Pacific, which was literally a stone's throw from the glass. Laird was excited to show us his movie collection, so we went upstairs to the loft. There Laird had amassed an impressive collection of movies that could have served him well should he have wanted to open a video store. Most of them were date movies and chick flicks, which didn't really strike me as odd, but it worried Chas, whose taste runs more toward "Annie Hall" than "She's Having a Baby." Because TV reception was nonexistent in this part of the coast, and because cheap satellite hookups were still down the road, Laird's movies were the only entertainment choice.
"What would you like to see?" asked Laird. Chas looked at the lineup, and I felt a smart aleck comment welling up from deep within his quiet exterior. He didn't fail me.
"Oh, anything's fine, as long as it has Bruce Willis in it," he quipped. Now, I don't need to tell you that that was a hugely sarcastic comment, but I was absolutely sure that Laird would not read the sarcasm correctly. I tried to give Laird some clues.
"Ah ha ha -- Chas, you joker," I offered weakly, knowing that Laird would not get it. Of course, Laird didn't get it, and he proceeded to pull every Bruce Willis movie he owned from the shelves with glee. Later I would tell Chas what a dork he had been, and how he totally deserved to sit through "Hudson Hawk," or whatever monstrosity Laird brought forth. Two dreadful movies were selected, and we flopped down to watch the first. Chas was nearly in physical pain from the movie, but since it was all his fault, I kind of enjoyed his discomfort.
As soon as the first movie was over, Laird seemed predisposed to conversation, which seemed to be a blessing. Things are not always what they seem. Laird clearly wished to talk, and so we listened. We listened, and listened, and listened as Laird rolled out intimate stories from his crumbled marriage, which was not yet completely dissolved, but close. "We don't have thex," he confided, and yes, that's approximately how it sounded. I felt Chas flinch on the beanbag next to me, as I realized that my Bartender Face had once again thrust me -- us -- into the uncomfortable position of receiving juicy, intimate details of a relative stranger's thex life. Both of us were praying that Laird would suggest another Bruce Willis movie, and quick.
All of the talk about marital thex tired us all out, and it was time to call it a night. We were grateful to get away as the whole affair had become quite creepy. As Laird showed where we would sleep, Chas and I were overcome with a case of the willies. I was mildly convinced that Laird had closed-circuit cameras set up to spy on us, which was ridiculous and entirely possible all at the same time. Chas seemed to be a bit freaked out, too, so after brushing teeth and so forth, we slipped back into the bedroom and got into our jammies in the dark, just in case.
In the morning we headed off on the rest of our road trip. There was no more discussion of thex -- at least, not any involving Laird.
And no more Coors was imbibed forever.
(All photos stolen from these guys)
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