Take that time in San Francisco, for example. They gave me a cherry red hardtop mustang because they lost my reservation for a “supercompact-mini-tricycle-size-car.” I drove north to the city, through South San Francisco and directly into downtown. Henry was working late, and I was strung out from the long flight from the East Coast, so I just drove around awhile in the cool evening air, looking for a welcoming place. I had gotten on the plane straight from work and was still wearing a suit with a loosened tie—a small roller bag in the trunk.
I’d tell Henry where I ended up and he’d meet me later.
Everything vibrated in the air, the high of being in a new place forced me into a different frequency, some different asymmetrical rhythm that clanged against the mindset I had left behind somewhere during the day over the Plains states probably.
I ended up somewhere in the Mission, at a place with exposed pipes on the ceiling and mid-volume, medium-intensity techno music playing. There was a bright open kitchen that overlooked the main eating space, and only a few tables were full. I pulled up a stool at the darkened bar and ordered a Maker’s on the rocks.
I drank it pretty quick and looked at the all-California wine list and pretended like I was going to order a bottle to make small-talk with the cute bartender.
“I think I’ll just have another one of these,” I said, shaking my empty glass so that the ice jangle jangled against the sides.
During these first few hours in a new place. That’s when things always got the lowest. The questioning of my long-term-objectives. The familiar wearing of a sense of anonymity. The constant worry about the bag that I left in the care. I used to enjoy all of these things. Would have called Nicole by now and had her come to the hotel. Almost thought about doing it anyway, at least as a distraction. Things that no longer seemed fun. But worse than that. Things that no longer seemed original. And maybe they never were anyway.
“Thanks,” I said, as the bartender brought me the drink.
And on top of it, the ridiculous red mustang. I would rather drive around town in a scooter than inhabit a vehicle that seemed, to me at least, to signify the collapse of masculinity. Some other decade’s vision of power and muscle reduced into a plastic wind-up toy for guys like me who have their reservations lost byh rental car companies. Who, upon stepping off a plane, can no longer even hope for the contemplative perspective that makes a new place seem full of possibilities.
Rather, just the knowledge of used up activities. Of things that can no longer be done with any actual excitement. Met now, upon disembarkation down the jetway and into the city of a sharp, inescapable, and lonely exhaustion.
