Walking to work this morning, listening again to the Mosdub album, I thought of three things. The first was that the US Census Bureau had apparently visited a lot of random spots on the sidewalks. Sorry we missed you notes are everywhere. They must be polling squirrels & stray cats. Then I thought about how it was Cinco de Mayo and last year at this time I was in sunny San Diego, well-tanned, well-worked, and on the next day, well-wrung through the booze ringer. Seis de Mayo last year was an absolutely terrible day and this year, I will do absolutely none of those terrible things again with the hopes of not falling into that same trap again.
It was the first morning I woke up and wanted to leave. I thought about just dipping out, hitchin' a cab to the airport and just falling into the wind. As soon as my eyes opened, they hurt. And eveything around me smelled like gin & tequilla. I took a shower that felt like it lasted for eight days. That was not long enough. One thing you learn to appreciate as you get older is hotel showers. You're not paying for the hot water.
At the airport, a stones throw from dangerous ol' Mexico, the dry air and dusty wind gusts coupled with the already rising temperatures produced beads of boozy sweat and I felt like there was a clouded up dome around my noggin- muffling sounds and blurring my vision. The dome needed to be cleaned. But it would have to wait because according to the Internationals, the road needed to be closed in a few days.
You look terrible, one of them said.
So I hoped on the Iron Horse and peddled down the runway, past the Customs guys and the old-timers tinkering on their one-seaters and went to visit the Airport Manager- asking him if he minded shutting down a few roads on short notice. I don't know if his office was really as hot as it felt, but I couldn't understand how a man worked in such suffocating conditions. Then I realized it was probably me and my domed head and boozy sweats and man I hoped he wouldn't get too hip to my condition or that condition would quickly become a situation and soon enough an issue and then the paper trail alone would be the end of me.
But no. The end of me was the Iron Horse; an unlikely foil on a morning where I could least afford my friends to become my enemies. The bike broke down, it wouldn't bike. I threw it ten feet. Then I felt bad. So I walked over and picked it up. I might have apologized to the Iron Horse. The domed head leads to a fractured memory, a distortion of the facts. Fuel guys from the airport drove by and waved, asked if I needed help.
Only the kind you fellas can't provide, I mumbled through a smile.
I reported the news to the Internationals and they said I looked pale. I was also winded, but they didn't say anything about that. They didn't mention the boozy sweats either. They asked if I was okay. I would be. Later.
Helpies came to the rescue with a well-placed golf cart and over the course of the day, I swore off drinking roughly 9,348 times, saw Jesus five times, questioned the meaning of life 824 times, and almost fell on my face nine times.
Nine times.
Yep. In a row.
One time this year will be acceptable. Also in a row.
First Phillies game of the season tonight with the Ladyfriend. Moving on, moving forward and moving again.
Go Phils. See you soon San Diego. You're beautiful.
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