But Not For Me

Don't put the King of the Road on a cruise ship.  He'll merely think the Hollywood Freeway is preferable, as passage on that thoroughfare usually takes less than a week.  There is no pretension in that mode of transportation; his surroundings are as plebeian as his Chevrolet.  The traffic creeps but does not toss and turn his stomach.  Aggravation---well, that's his choice, or the whole experience can be reduced to a breath and foot play meditation.  This act feels rather foolish in his stateroom.  After all, the money has been spent, and he might as well take in as much of his surroundings as possible.  But it's all like a Vegas casino on the high seas---initially amusing in it grandiosity and tackiness, then overwhelming and depressing.  He looks for the parking garage, but there's no escape in his Chevrolet.

Venus Reclining: One of the more extreme decorator touches.

The ship is Dutch, a race he connotates with Danish Modern, with its sleek and spartan requisite. A nod to the Queen Mary is to be expected, but one wishes it was not executed by the same design firm Trump uses.  Metallic finishes there are a plenty, of varying hues, all in the same room.  Since the ship sails back and forth between two climates the color schemes shift from aqua and rusty coral to navy and purple.  Patterns abound, as they hide wear, but of course they aren't subtle or imaginative or even fun.  Are these stateroom drapes a cross section of kidneys?  Or is that just the Meclizine?

Boredom is banned on board---which means there are no quiet public places.  The many bars give some respite, but they usually lack the view one is paying for.  The crow's nest, with its acreage of glass looking out over the sea ahead, seems a natural spot for quiet sophistication, but more often than not someone is braying trivial matters over a microphone there.  The King of the Road burns his fingers unscrewing the bulbs from the crystal table lamps---their reflection on the windows hide the glaciers out ahead.

Barbie, in Forest Ranger mode, comes aboard to narrate the scenery.  She sounds like no ranger you ever heard---she's breathless, even shrill: You are seeing what most people only dream about! The King of the Road doesn't quite know what is implied, and he definitely doesn't like to be told how to feel about glaciers---or the diamonds to buy in the port towns, for that matter.  They were both being sold at about the same level, after all.  But he obeys Barbie's command to go out on the slippery, windswept deck to take in all the elements of the view.  Visually, the glacier does not impress more in a subfreezing windchill---but yes, something memorable does happen: Marjorie Glacier decided to shed some of her outermost garment.  The noise is far from silken.  It is a sound for the ions: far off, sharp then broken---as if a thousand grand pianos were being dumped into the sea.

Margerie Glacier

Yet the irony chafes---this ten story tall, quarter mile long pleasure craft, belching greenhouse gasses as it glides by one of the last 'living' glaciers.

By two, threes and fours these sea skyscrapers line up in port and purge themselves of passengers, doubling the population of the environs.  Strolling around town is not enough of a experience, although some towns are thoughtful in their posting of local history for the education of the stroller.  There, is of course, shopping---and a Middle Eastern man addresses the King of the Road and his companion from a doorway: Hey, guys, look me over.  King of the Road duly looks over his jewels, but not his diamonds.  But wait, there's excursions, too!  Buses to parking lots crowded with other buses constantly unloading and loading passengers who just took another photograph so common Facebook can identify it.  Overhead helicopters chop-chop-chop those willing to pay for a rarer experience---to actually walk on a receding glacier.  King of the Road doesn't understand---except the all too human need to conquer every physical obstacle it faces instead of merely observe in awe and reverence.

Worth twenty bucks.

There are Gala Nights to 'evoke the grand traditions of cruising', all the while failing to mention that past glamor was based on class division, as there was then no access between third, second and first class accommodations and amenities. Ladies don their serviceable little black dresses by the dozens, while the more flamboyant sprout rhinestones and colorful drapery.  The men appear to be going to a monthly business luncheon, and with about as much enthusiasm.  Photographers are there to record this costume party.  They are also present at every disembarkation, steering you to pose with the plush whales, jolly black bears or serious eagles that are the trademarks of each port.  At twenty bucks a whack, these photos probably have the most rewarding profit margin for the cruise line.

Unscheduled scenery

Near the end of the cruise, the ship detours from the Disneyland atmosphere.  A passenger has developed a medical condition and must be released at a remote port so to be transported by air to Vancouver.  The ship slips by little islands and wild shores to a small town that if not charming is at least authentic.  The woman is well enough to step onto Lifeboat 13 in her complimentary white robe before an audience of perhaps a thousand hanging from the railings.  The Coast Guard cutter 'Cape Farewell' accompanies the lifeboat just in case she has plans to deposit contraband in one of the little coves along the way in.  Some local folk come down to the dock to see why the sea skyscraper is there, but everything proceeds at an uninteresting pace and most of rail hangers step back for bingo and/or the cocktail of the day.  The ship continues homeport-ward on this more scenic route, this most Inland Passage with land features close at hand to relieve the eye.

The King of the Road is overjoyed to learn he's eligible for expedited disembarkation---mainly because his Chevrolet is parked in the port garage.  He and his male companion join the small crowd filtering down the gangplank, and all goes well until a uniformed old queen notices the King of the Road is only carrying a modest attaché and garment bag.

"Where's you baggage?!" barks the queen.  "You can't tell me you just spent a week on board with just that!"

Nonplussed, The King of the Road looks back for his companion with his sanctioned large piece of luggage.  He's close enough behind to suggest he's party, but apparently the old queen's gaydar is busted.  A woman pushes forward with her socially acceptable luggage, trying to get around the bottleneck.

"Oh," says the old queen, taking her as the King's.  He waves them on with the back of his hand, and the King of the Road rolls his eyes and sighs free at last.

When Interstates Fail

Anyone who has read one of my travelogues knows I avoid the Interstates.  They are boring. If one sees something of interest beyond the fence, they must drive miles around to see it up close---if the point of interest is accessible at all.  Way Out West services are spotty, and the masses are thrown together at preordained stops, and all wanting to be somewhere else.  Eye contact is avoided, the desperate ignored.  Where are we? is the phrase most often overheard.  The Interstate World is very narrow, and very long.

That said, I am thankful the Interstates exist. They handle the majority of our nation's traffic, so the secondary roads I choose to drive are relatively free of the annoyances once so common to cross country travel: The slow truck, the tailgater and head-on collisions.  And while services on these roads between towns have largely disappeared, the ones you find are glad to see you---and you're likely to walk back to your car with a memorable experience.  Or at least an interesting one.

But in the West there is often few choices in getting from A to B in a day or two.  And so I decided this time to not to take that misnomer, The Loneliest Highway in America, US 50, and stick to Interstate 80.  After all, I had never seen the landscape east of Elko, Nevada, and the Interstate is the only way to see it.

Google Maps didn't make it look very attractive.  Interstate 80 appeared to mostly cross sage-dotted alluvial fans bisected by narrow, rocky ranges.  Perhaps if I had played with the 3D effect I would have had a better idea what we were in for, but---as I've said, there are no other choices, so one might as well be disappointed or surprised in the moment of driving.

MAP:

Elko, Nevada to Evanston, Wyoming

Despite the smoke of numerous wildfires in the West, it was a scenic drive east of Elko.  Or at least one wished it was clear enough to really enjoy the snow-streaked Ruby Mountains to the south.  The landscape, dotted with sage but also blotched by invasive platinum blond cheat grass, is indeed a vast alluvial fan---so large in scale that one is rarely aware of the formation but only of going up or down or crossing a plain at a lesser gradient.  It's a high land, and the mountains are always sinking to the horizon.  The mark of civilization is light, and signs of the past seem to disappear fast.  Exits like Beverly Hills lead to nothing more than a canyon oasis for RVs---any forty-year old dreams of a chic ranchette subdivision are as fleeting as the clouds overhead.

We stopped in Wells because gas is cheaper there than Elko.  After filling up our Spark (54 MPG), at one of the truck stops, we wandered north into town.  I'd always been curious about it, especially since a 6.0 earthquake effectively destroyed the old business district in 2008.  The buildings remain, topless, walls torn away to reveal forlorn rooms of abandoned hotels and boarding houses.  The only lasting visible aid given the district are large, heavy duty tarps offering coverage like worn out shower caps.  The buildings are irredeemable, as any real commerce had already waned long before the quake.  Men lurked in the alleys---perhaps squatters.  The business blocks could be no more ghostly if not located at the end of fifty miles of dirt road.  The quake dealt Wells with only its second (and presumably permanent) population decline in its almost 150 year history---quite remarkable for a rural Western town, so often subject to the slightest whims of the economy.

A bank residence.  Wells, Nevada.

Around the corner, facing the railroad tracks---an orientation that became obsolete when cross-country auto travel became common in the 1920s---is a fierce little bank building in the classical mode.  Long since a residence, it is perhaps the only place of note left in town---besides Donna's Ranch half hidden across the tracks.  The Best In The West Since 1869.  A secondary boast is perhaps even more impressive: Open 24 Hours A Day Since 1869.  Which really must be a historical record of some sort for any business.  Although many men of note have passed through the doors, the boxer Jack Dempsey is perhaps the most enduring icon.  His first wife, Maxine, worked there for eight years.  Today, four independent contractors work at Donna's, and if your curiosity must be satisfied, the whole desultory business is explained on their website: Donna's Ranch.

East of Wells Interstate 80 makes a comfortable climb up a canyon to Pequop Summit.  It's quite scenic, the gray, rugged canyon walls dotted with juniper trees and other mountain desert shrubbery.  At the time of our passing, construction moved all the traffic into the eastbound lanes, so as we casually climbed behind laboring semis we could muse over the object they were building over the westbound lanes.  It appeared to be a ginormous corrugated steel tunnel or shed, much taller in clearance than any vehicle needed.  There was no explanation posted, which seemed odd.  It was not until we approached another, completed set of tunnels over the Interstate that we figured it out: a wildlife corridor pass-over.  The steel 'tunnels' are covered with impressive amount of fill, so that crossing over is almost like any other animal trail. I was amazed at the effort, so far away from most people's concern.  Too bad similar efforts can't be pushed through in exurban areas, where wildlife is being cut off from their native territory.

The eastern descent off of Pequop Summit is a surprising drop compared to the climb on the west side.  I threw our Spark into neutral and caught up with passing traffic for free---and even passed it.  To the south is a circa 1930 alignment of old US 40, stripped of its pavement.  It starts off straight enough down in the valley, then struggles about two thirds of the way up and curls about, trying to mount the face of the range.  It's the only old road visible from the Interstate east of Elko.

Hotel Oasis, circa 1950.

We swooped into Oasis like a descending eagle, duly noting the large, derelict building just north of the Interstate as we flew by.  I would have taken a look if I didn't have to drive nine miles just to turn around.  Which is, perhaps, the reason for the eventual demise of the Hotel Oasis and all the accompanying businesses.  The Vegas-esque success of West Wendover to the east on the Nevada/Utah border was certainly no help.  But even without that Americans on the Interstate rarely get out of their car, and when they do, it's usually for a national franchise.

There are two more broad valleys to cross before one unceremoniously plummets into West Wendover.  The landscape has forgone all earthly pretense by this time. The Interstate cuts through the jagged lunar-like mountains and darts out onto the endless, glistening salt flats.  The casinos attempts to surburbanize the immediate surroundings only make it seem more like a spaceport.  It does not matter, as life is spent indoors here.  A large sign advertised Penn & Teller, and I had to think a moment aren't they hot in Vegas? only to realize that was probably ten years ago.  I think I rather be Charo in Laughlin than Penn & Teller in West Wendover.  At least she'd have a nice view out of the window of her declasse hotel suite to soften the thud of hitting bottom.

The Bonneville Salt Flats hold interest for a few minutes---and maybe a few minutes more if it's clear and the mountain ranges rise crisply out of the glistening white expanse.  But it was not clear, only glare on glare, and it was a good time to hand over the wheel at the rest stop and nap for awhile.

There were several false promises of the Watsach Front through the haze, but once we escaped the Interstate at Magna and passed by the molybdenum plant we popped out into the sprawl that is Greater Salt Lake.  The Watsach was unmistakable, even through the smog.  There is much talk of how cosmopolitan Salt Lake City is now, and it appears so---with all the adjacent annoyances of traffic, ugly shopping centers and endless town homes hopscotched across the weedy plains.  I had planned on some thrift shopping and a lunch at some local place of interest, but the heat and wind just made me cranky for a big salad.  Besides, our Android powered navigation was not cooperating in giving us such details, so after picking up some milk and cheese for our electric cooler at a WinCo, we drove on to the next shopping mall and had salads in an overly refrigerated Black Bear Diner.  Our waitress was from San Bernadino and probably self-medicating.  Or should have been.  Her attention varied from zero to overly personal, but she got the job done, the salads were good and there was enough left over to put in our cooler for later.  Which, unknown to us at the time, came in very handy.

I chose to dogleg through downtown Salt Lake, passing by the University of Utah and up and out via Emigration Canyon. It was a fairly uninteresting drive through town, my attention mostly given to being in the right lane at the right time while trying to stay out of the locals way.  Above the University is a famous spot called This Is The Place Heritage Park, where Brigham Young proclaimed It is enough. This is the right place. Drive on. This proclamation was shortened to This Is The Place as it was relayed back through the wagon train.  Somehow I think those poor Mormons would have turned their handcarts around if they faced that sight now for the first time.

We rounded another climbing curve on the boulevard and came upon a perfect match of our purple Spark, right down to the sunroof.  It was the first time we've seen one, so I honked a greeting---but even though the horn commands like a Buick, it did not arouse the driver from his texting.

Emigration Canyon is interesting, inasmuch that it reminds me of Laurel Canyon in Los Angeles.  Not so intimate in scale, but a motley assemblage of homes, from old weekend cabins to mansions---the residents of many persuasions, as indicated by a rainbow flag.  Eventually civilization is left behind, and the road curls on up above the smog and into the cool blue ether at Live Mountain Summit.  A turn onto Utah 65 continued our climb to Big Mountain Pass (elevation 7420 feet) covered with spruce and aspen groves.  The heat returned as we dropped down to East Canyon Reservoir, but at least the air was clean and the wind was tamed to a breeze.

Modern Motel, Echo, Utah, circa 1962.

At Henefer we continued east on old US 30, which runs adjacent to Interstate 84 and 80.  At Echo the old road widens briefly to four lanes divided, showcasing a short stretch of postwar roadside Americana that no longer serves the public but is still in reasonably good shape.  This incarnation of US 30 likely had a very brief heyday, say circa 1950-60, before the Interstate took all the traffic away.

The landscape at Echo grows colorful, as one expects Utah to be, and even more so as one continues close to the red cliffs east on old US 30.  Eventually this 1930s alignment rejoins Interstate 80 (the circa 1920 alignment is abandoned alongside the railroad tracks), and with no alternative that is the way we went.  We were enjoying the fact that we were within a dozen miles of our destination, Evanston, when we skimmed around a curve and found the Interstate had come to a halt ahead of us.  I coasted to a stop and turned off the engine.  No traffic came from the other direction.  Not a good sign.  We were entering another construction zone that suggested two way traffic on one side of the freeway, with the other side torn up.  Another bad sign.  I switched from SiriusXM to AM, but KSL in Salt Lake was only reporting on local traffic woes.  The sun was burning me, so I switched seats with my husband.  Against my advice, he pushed the OnStar button, and the man on the other end was of no help at all once he figured out where we were: beyond all secondary roads, and he didn't know the cause of the problem.  A few cars started using the emergency u turn in the division strip to go back down the canyon.  Since I was not in the drivers seat, we sat.  Emergency vehicles passed us on the shoulder.  An hour passed.  Finally we started creeping up to the next rural interchange to nowhere, where a policeman was turning everyone around.  A semi had gone through the temporary barrier head-on into a car.  Word was passed down like it was on the emigrant train, but the energy was anything but jubilant.  Truckers pull over to nap off the expected six to eight hour wait.  Motorists were a little less laid back.

Before the Interstate blockage, this lovely scenery east of Echo.

"NO!" the policeman yelled at a passing car.  "DON'T DRIVE ONTO THE WESTBOUND LANES!  THEY'RE BLOCKED BY EMERGENCY AND CONSTRUCTION EQUIPMENT" 

He ran his hand through his hair in exasperation and sighed as he explained for the umpteenth time to the next car that there was no detour available.  Well, by his manner you could tell there was something of one, but nothing he'd want to send hundreds of impatient, inexperienced drivers over.

"I'm not sitting here in the dark with a bunch of crazed urbanites pissing in the brush," I growled to my husband.  "There is a way around, but it's long.  So what?"  I added, showing him the map.  "I rather be driving and getting to our non-refundable room that sitting here. I drove that road once some 25 years ago.  We should get into Evanston by midnight." 

This detour was 127 miles long: DETOUR

We headed back down to Echo, passing the backup that now extended for some five miles.  We got off the Interstate at Coalville and I kicked my husband out of the driver's seat.  I filled the gas tank, as I knew there was no more gas for the next hundred miles.  After I got back into the car and as my husband lingered in the store in search of ice cream bars, a lady in a champagne colored Cadillac pulled up beside me and started filling up, too.

"Are you driving up to Upton?" she asked.  Apparently our California plate let her guess at our predicament.

I glanced down at the Official Utah Highway Map in my lap. "Uh, no."  I had seen that shorter route she mentioned, but the pavement ended at the Wyoming border, and I wasn't looking for that kind of adventure after sundown. 

"Oh, I thought we could go along together.  I was talking to my father in Evanston, and he gave me the directions, but I don't know.  I've never taken that road before."

"We're going via Kamas."

"Oh, that's a nice drive.  Long, but you won't have any problems."  She looked down onto my lap.  "Can I look at your map?"

"Sure," I replied, and handed it over.  She studied it, but I'm not sure if she knew what it meant with the line goes from solid black to thin broken parallel lines.  At least she was driving a Cadillac, and OnStar would find her if she got lost or stuck somewhere.

KSL was finally reporting the Interstate closure at the Utah/Wyoming border.  I kept it on AM, jogging between Salt Lake, Los Angeles and Seattle stations, even if the radio's performance was annoying compared to the GM/Delco product I have enjoyed in the past---or even the radio in the ten year old Prius we just traded in.  Satellite radio is just another step removed from your surroundings.

It was well past sunset when we entered the Watsach National Forest, but twilight lingered for a good hour and a half, pink and turquoise and lovely.  The gloaming veiled the fact that the forest was not nearly as nice at it was when I last came through in the 1990s.  Bark beetle had destroyed most of the old growth, and they stood like gray skeletons over a younger and fortunately relatively healthy forest.  The forest was also packed with vacationers, their eyes aglitter from our headlights like so much wildlife.  We climbed and climbed, and the air grew cold as we topped out at over 10,000 feet.

The downgrade into Wyoming on Utah 150 is steeper than the ascent, and a few people had found our detour from the opposite direction.  First there was a large semi crawling along, and then a Greyhound bus with PORTLAND glowing above the windshield.  It was hardly doing better than the semi, and one can imagine the unrest on board after some ten miles at maybe less than twice that speed.  And then there were the curves on the other side to look forward to.  Fourth gear and calculated braking held our Spark back at around sixty.  The high beams picked out roadside reflectors at more than a mile away, which was reassuring, but I was a bit anxious about deer jumping out onto the highway.

The road flattened out into a more gradual, rolling decent.  Eventually we passed the spot where the map said the road from Upton came in, but now in studying Google maps it suggests the main unpaved road went straight into Evanston.  I wonder how clear that was with only a strip of dull yellow left on the western horizon.  At any rate, we made it onto the empty streets of Evanston and into our motel room by 10:45 pm, which was well ahead of what I anticipated.  I ate the rest of my salad and promptly went to bed.

The Class of '61

Any class reunion that is not your own is the best class reunion.  Generally not much is asked of the spouse, at least directly, and one's emotional detachment from the proceedings allows for amusing character studies.

Or a license to ignore it all and play Hearts on your iPhone.

But I'm not that certain old man I observed, playing electronic cards from under the tablecloth. I thought that after fifty-five years it was high time my husband went to a class reunion.  So did certain 'girls' who have found him on Facebook in the last few years.  Never mind that he didn't remember any of them.  His memory of high school is simply sitting in classes and working late after school.

"I don't remember anyone."

"But they'll remember you."

I suppose that is not at all reassuring, having people blab at you that you have no recollection of at all.  At first my husband, in his typically frank fashion, simply used this broad truth when he was at a loss on how to respond, but more often than not there was at least a mutual memory to spin off of.  Or deadly curiosity.

Well, I set up that scenario.  I suggested matching shirts that my husband had sewn us several years ago.  Black and tan, with a pattern silhouette of a cowboy and his dog.  Blue jeans.  I wore my boots, which make me about ten inches taller than he is---and taller than most any other man in the room, even if I'm only five-ten without heels.  We entered the restaurant, and above the roar of the crowd came a squeal of delight from across the room.  A pretty lady edged her way towards us, looking much like her 1961 self featured on the name card on her chest.

The shirts in a different setting.

"I'm so glad you two came!" she said, giving us both a big hug.  I knew more or less what the girls on Facebook looked like, and she was not one of them.  In fact she never knew of my husband in high school, but she obviously knew who we were.

"How long have you two been together?"

We told her nineteen years, and that we had drove all the way from California for this occasion.

"California!  You know, as soon as my son graduated from high school, he went straight to California.  What else could he do in 1981?"

I thought there were plenty of closer escape routes in 1981---Boston, New York---but I suppose San Francisco is about the farthest away one can get from a New England mill town.

"Are you on Facebook?" she asked.

"Yes, are you?"

"No, but my son is!  His name is --- "  She had to have been voted the sweetest girl in high school.  Alas, we did not have a yearbook in hand to check on my intuition, but I did take his name down and contacted him on Facebook, joking you know how mothers are.

Another woman called our attention and took our picture from about ten feet away.  As far as I know, my husband never got to talk to her.

Our go-to Facebook girl escorted us to a small table we were to share with her husband.  He was of the small fireplug French farmer type, not handsome but nice looking with a complexion that made him look at least ten years younger.  We took an immediate liking to him, and the feeling was mutual.  Since his wife was on the reunion planning committee, he had been put in charge of the scholarship fundraiser raffle, a task he didn't seem to begrudge a bit.  This is not the first marriage for either one, and there was a sense of honoring each others efforts.  We bought tickets.

There was a man on the reunion planning board that was even more gaga over us than Her Sweetness.  He was yet another man with a good complexion, although not as firmly planted on his face.  His wavy white hair hovered around his head like a halo, giving him a spinster's air. I kept imagining his 'do cropped on the sides, the wave saucy on his forehead, as he kept touching us, hugging us.  Finally he passed by my seated husband again and kissed him on top of his head.  He was that happy that there was an out gay couple at the reunion he helped planned.  We got his story in bits and pieces,  mostly in the present tense: Senior housing, not out in that setting.  Besides the planning group, his church seemed to be his only social venue: "They're very accepting." The pianist for this occasion was the church pianist---a gay teddy bear, a very good player but totally unnecessary in the din.

Oh, the teacher that got arrested for improprieties with male students had to be discussed:

"I hated him," my husband said.

"Oh, I had a crush on him," mused the spinster.  "He gave me a ride once.  Just a few blocks ... "

It seemed the spinster's life had only gone a few blocks in any direction.

Drizella, unseated.

There were people of interest we never met.  One was Cinderella's Wicked Stepsister, Drizella.  She was the spitting image of that Disney character, and she was spitting mad that someone took the seat she has saved at a large table.  She raged at her husband over the indignity of it all, secretly aware that it had been done on purpose.  No one wanted to sit next to her.

Drizella's husband had a similarly long upper lip, but it was not set in umbrage like his wife's, but for the fact that he had very long chest hair that had wandered up his neck like Boston Ivy.  His nose was simply trying to escape the indignity of it all.  I suspect he felt this strange lack of grooming was his one personal victory over Drizella, never realizing that it pleased her by giving her something else to bitch about.

Actually, Mr. Drizella did come up to us with an inquiry.  Unfortunately, my husband was pleasantly occupied with someone else, so I had to field the question.

"My wife wants to know why you're wearing matching shirts."

I regarded him with a mixture of diffidence and disdain:  "Because we came together."

This didn't seem to make sense to him.  Too bad my husband was unavailable.  He would have simply said because we're married and watch Drizil get all flustered.  Ask me a personal question, and you'll get a personal answer.  I can't wait to be old enough not to give a shit.

"What's the pattern?"  As if it was cryptic or something.

I looked down, my hand smoothing my view.  "A cowboy.  And his dog."

I looked back up at him coolly, and having sensed he'd get nothing more from me, Drizil wandered back to Drizella to file his report.

A tiny woman then came up to inspect our shirts.  She was a seamstress, so apparently she had the right to do so.  Her own costume were expertly tailored, but not timeless.  Her brown A-line skirt that reached just below her knees and fussy patterned blouse screeched 1977.  Her cute little body and unlined face would have been a knockout in a dark sheath dress, but it was plain to see that she had no idea on how to be anything but dowdy.  She grabbed my wrist to inspect my cuffs, ran her fingers over the yoke and turned out the collar at my throat.  She pronounced all to be very good.

"And you're from California, so you can name your price," she said, turning to my husband.  "I gave up sewing garments.  People here pay more for slipcovers than wedding dresses."

In my telling you may think this reunion was full of seventy-three-year-olds fresh from frolicking in the the fountain of youth, despite their shortcomings in personal style, but there were indeed some gargoyles of both sexes, as well as people who looked fabulous yet old.

The buffet meal was fantastic, especially considering that the whole shindig cost only $25 a head.  My twentieth had cost $60 apiece for crappy food and a crappier d.j.  My thirtieth didn't even happen because of indecisive egos.  Obviously our parents have better budgetary skills---and they know how to K.I.S.S. and make up.

A man paused at our table.  His beauty had gone a bit pudgy, but that only made him look fifteen years younger.

"I saw you two eating breakfast this morning.  I was at Jean's, too, with some friends."

I had a vague recollection of him, sitting nearby with several men of similar eye appeal.  We were all dressed more casual at the time, so we had caught his eye even without the shirts.  He now looked a bit senatorial in a jacket and tie.

"Where are you staying?" He seemed to be following his intuition.

"Motel 6," we answered unabashedly.

"So am I," he replied, not so relaxed over that declasse fact.  "I have my new cocker spaniel with me, and as you know, that's about the only place that's pet friendly. What room are you in?"

"123."

"117," he chuckled.

He seemed reluctant to go more into depth, so he simply laid his hand softly on my shoulder and then moved on.  However, this was not the last my husband saw of him.

It was time for the raffle, and Facebook Girl really needed a cigarette.

"I'm taking your husband out into the parking lot with me," she growled in my ear.  "I need to talk to him.  You have the raffle tickets..." she added, as half an apology.

"Don't worry about me, dear," I replied, patting her arm.

Sitting alone at the table, the subject of idle speculation around the room, was slightly unnerving.  My tickets and my glass of water were my only props.  I didn't win the box of taffy, the coffee mug and other silly prizes---and the grand prize, announced at the last minute as $290 cash---went to Drizil!  I'm sure it was the D's social score of the decade.

Long after the raffle had ended my husband finally reappeared. He assured me that my patience would be rewarded: "Have I got some stories to tell you later."

I told him about the D's social triumph.

"So that's why Drizella was so happy when she reached out and said hello to me when I came back in," my husband mused wryly.

As I mentioned earlier, this is not Facebook Girl's first marriage.  Her husband has children from a previous marriage, the youngest a son about five years younger than myself.  This son came out to his mother and brother and was very poorly received, so he was terrified of coming out to his father.  Facebook Girl convinced him that Dad would be alright with it, and he was and is very supportive of his son.  Perhaps to a fault, for the son has a penchant for Puerto Ricans and makes life decisions based on his loins, so they've had to bail him out several times.  "And we're too old to bail him out anymore."  So, upon hearing at the table of my husband's semi-retired drug rehab therapist status, I imagine Facebook Girl was eager to vent a story not many people care to hear, and to discuss strategy.

The simple fact that his son was gay had come up at the table.  "I just wish he'd find someone nice," Dad had said, glancing over at me.  "It's tough to grow old alone."  His tenderness expressed was now tempered by my knowledge of his fear and frustration of maybe not being able to help his son again.

The man who saw us at breakfast was out in the parking lot, too.  After Facebook Girl was finished, he still lingered, so my husband approached him.

"So," the man began.  "How long have you been out of the closet?"

And so two late bloomers compared notes.  Although this man had numerous affairs in high school.

The Boy Most Likely

"He was VIP in school," my husband recalled.  "Handsome, smart, popular, involved in many clubs.  The Boy Most Likely."

So to speak ...


Mr. VIP named the names of the dead he had done in high school, but was otherwise polite.  "Several are here, after all," he demurred.  "With their wives."  So he was a gentlemen in a precarious retro social position, and thus very discreet.  I wondered if I had had such an illustrious high school career that I would ever go back, although I guess he was also reliving the secret thrill of it all.  And obviously he still had friends locally, judging by the boys at breakfast.  Of course I cannot be sure they're 'boys', but they all seemed pretty much peas in a pod---poised, restrained.  Although Mr. VIP now lived in the Big City, there was something unworldly about him, that despite his sexy past he was perhaps closer to the aforementioned Spinster's life than one can readily imagine.

Being an afternoon event in a restaurant, the reunion promptly began to unravel within a couple of hours.  We lingered, among the last to leave as the dinner reservations started arriving.  The ladies leaving remembered my husband from grammar school, the old neighborhood, the grocery store he worked at---or simply said you're cuter now than you were in high school.  So true of many of us who suffered At Seventeen.

"So, are you coming to the sixtieth?" asked Facebook Girl.

"Yes," my husband grinned.  "I think we will."

"Good!"

"Good!" I echoed.  "That means a a new pair of matching shirts for us!"

The Kindness of Strangers

Summer in the Far West means one must climb and climb some more to escape the heat.  Nine a.m., 80 degrees on the Sacramento Valley floor.  82 at three thousand feet. 78 at four thousand feet.  Above five thousand feet there is relief, and after cresting the first ridge the cool mountain valleys lay ahead.  The road undulates through pine forests, the windows are down, the sunroof is open and we're chilled by fresh air for the first time in months.

The typical dome of high pressure was overhead, and even at six thousand feet we had not left the haze below.  There's always a wildfire burning somewhere these days---this time, hundreds of miles away at Big Sur, causing bad air advisories east of the Sierra crest.  Lake Almanor was steely smooth under a beige sky.  Birds walked on water in the shallows north of Highway 36.  The forest dried out east of here, the air slowly warmed, but not unpleasantly.  The heat only returned when we dropped into Susanville and then drifted east and south onto the high desert.  A column of smoke rose over the barren ranges of Nevada ahead of us.

Traffic heading north on US 395 has been oddly sporadic---and then we learned why: A electric sign flashed ROAD WORK AHEAD POSSIBLE ONE HOUR DELAY.  There's nothing more fun that sitting on fresh asphalt while the temperature hovers in the upper 80s. I certainly will not idle away the time, but since the sun is directly overhead we're in the shade, and the breeze was surprisingly cool.  The breeze was also pungent with purple sage---a scent as calming as lavender.  I could have taken a nap if I didn't have to absently watch for the traffic to start moving again.  Exactly fifteen minutes later, it did.

Google Image

We coasted into Reno and then south of downtown to the Atlantis Casino to indulge in our favorite buffet.  The food is uncommonly good there, and seemed even better than ever.  Even the ranch dressing seemed homemade---not that gloppy cheap crap: Thin yet creamy, with a bright sharp dill and pepper flavor.  I was onto eating a small slice of prime rib when it suddenly didn't seem so good.  I pushed it aside and a waitress promptly took it away.  I sat there, rather rigidly, trying to stay in touch of my surroundings.

"Are you going to faint?" my husband asked.

I awoke, my face on the table in a pool of cold sweat.  A cluster of management floated around our booth.

"We call it Reno-itis," one of them said.  "People who aren't used to the elevation just go into a faint."

"I think it's his blood sugar," my husband corrected as he rubbed the back of my neck. "He does this very once in a while."

"This is so embarrassing," I managed to mumble.

"Oh, this is nothing to be embarrassed about," said another.  "Nothing like falling face first into a plateful of food.  That happens quite often."

I went out again, and then awoke with a glass of orange juice in front of me---and a man sitting in the booth with us.  Apparently he and my husband had been talking awhile.

"How long have you two been together?" he asked quietly.  I thought it was an odd question---until I slowly thought of my position on the table, my head down in the crook of my right arm, my left stretched out on table.  My husband is still rubbing my neck with his right hand, his left on the table.  Our rings match.

"Nineteen years," my husband replied.

"That's a long time," he said, obviously impressed.

He continued to make small talk.  At first it was quite personal, perhaps conspiratorial, but he then checked himself and spoke more generally.  Still we learned he had lived in the same general area of Long Beach that we had until three years ago.  It's strange how we keep running into old 'neighbors'.

"What's your birth year, Daniel?" he asked.  He was taking notes as the communicated with staff via his ear piece.

"1968."

"Whoa, you're only a year older than me."

I looked up from the sweaty crook of my arm.  He was a fireplug of a man, with salt and pepper hair. I would have been annoyed if I didn't feel so shitty, but since all he saw of me was my graying sideburns and thin spot on the back of my head, I had to give him slack.  After all, he presumed we'd be close to the same age.  And I knew he was asking my birth year so to credit our house card in some manner.

One of the women returned. "I think we should move you to the Atrium.  It's a little cooler there, and you can lay down on one of the couches with your feet up until you feel better."

We were rather surprised they didn't have a private room off the lobby for indisposed guests, but the offer seemed the best solution for the interim.  A wheel chair was brought, and my bent head and bald spot signaled to all diners that I was decrepit and should be pitied.  We made it to the emergency exit next to the bar when the sway of the chair took its toll.  I pressed my hands to my face and gave myself a lovely vomit facial.  Luckily our location allowed for instant access to damp towels before we crossed the very public lobby to the Atrium.  And I didn't get anything on my clothes, which every traveler is most grateful for.

I lounged most ungainly midst the plastic palms in the Atrium for some fifteen minutes, watching the glass elevators go up and their passengers look down at me.  Not really the best view for the nauseous.  Sharon, my attendant, returned to see how I was doing---and it was decided it was best to get me in our car and on the road again.  So, after equipped with many towels and barf bag, I was put into the wheelchair again and wobbled away as my husband brought our car around.  As we waited outside, my head bent down in order to keep everything down, a man started yelling at her from the parking lot.

"I need someone to help me find my car!"

"I can help you as soon as I get this gentleman in his car," Sharon replied pleasantly.

It was not the answer he was looking for.  "Walking won't do," he cried.  He was really agitated, perhaps strung out in some fashion.  "I need someone to drive me around!"

Sharon said nothing, thinking our tableau was explanation enough.

"I'm going to the front desk and RAISE MY VOICE."

I heard him walk away, and then Sharon sighed:  "Tuesday is now officially A Day of Entitlement."

Car and husband arrived, but the last few wobbles in the wheelchair were too much.

"Give me the bag.  THE BAG!"

Husband put it before me, I barfed into it, and the barf fell right out the bottom and went between the chair's foot rests and splattered all over the asphalt.

"There, there," Sharon said, rubbing my back.  "You'll probably feel much better now."

Well, as a matter of fact, I did. I laid back on the little leatherette passenger seat and unexpected dozed off in Truckee Canyon, awaking only when my husband asked for directions on where to get gas in Fernley.  It's always much cheaper there than in Reno.  Kala, The Purple Princess managed 47.8 MPG, very good considering all the climbing at the beginning of the day, without an equal amount of compensating downhill. 

My husband also bought himself a small soft serve, since he didn't get to visit the Isle of Desserts at the buffet.

Perhaps it's best not to advertise certain town names by their initials.

The Humboldt Sink is never a scenic repast.  At least the sun was behind us, and Kala's nano-ceramic window film cut the glare from the salt flats.  My eyes half closed, I could think of pioneers dumping priceless heirlooms onto  the desert, and the resulting reconnaissance treasure hunts: First by wagon, and then---for the lesser relics---auto trucks.

I awoke again in Lovelock.  We have spent time poking through these threadbare towns and searching out the remnants of the Victory Highway, so there wasn't much of a reason to do so again.  There is a pretty good stretch of the old Victory Highway north of Lovelock, however, if one is interested in pursuing such things.  It goes through a [mostly] failed ranchette scheme---one that was heavily advertised in the Bay Area in the 1980s.  The old road has better views than the Interstate because it's higher in elevation and occasionally changes angles.

We stopped in Winnemucca to top off the tank, gas being cheaper there than in Elko, our destination.  50.9 MPG, so The Purple Princess was now running practically ten miles a gallon above EPA highway estimate.  Feeling quite well again, I took the wheel and drove through town, which seemed more lively than in the past.  Mining seems to be on an uptick, and shuttle buses were carrying workers out of the canyons back to town.  On the Interstate, dozens of SUVs passed by in groups, sporting little flags of various design---meant to be easily identified out on the desert.  The vehicles were marked something like 'Small Mining Exploration'.

The sun dropped down low behind us, picking the scenery up out of the haze and causing the temperature to slowly drop away from one hundred degrees.  The Purple Princess climbed Emigrant Pass without much ado, and then rocketed down towards Carlin in neutral.  She's a real 'high roller'.  By the time we made it our neon signed motel, she was ticking along at 54.9 MPG.

Hello, Girls!

"Would you like to make a non-slip tie rack? In that case put a couple of cup hooks on the back of the closet door and stretch a rubber band between them, one that's about an inch wide, and your husband's ties won't slip. Now if only you could be as sure of your husband ..."

It was yet another sundry household hint, served up with a side of sarcasm by Allen Prescott, 'The Wife Saver'---a daytime fifteen minute radio show that ran for most of the 1930s on the NBC-Blue Network. In a wilderness of sobbing soap operas and matronly home economists, his was a voice unique: a man that didn't feed off the fears of housewives or speak of them as ladies as they toiled over the washtub.  They were just the girls.  Sure, such a greeting today is cringe-worthy unless delivered in clear camp mode, but in the context of the times such a salutation was also an invitation to step back from the daily household grind and muse doesn't this job stink just a little?

And, perhaps, a very few of the girls understood just what kind of man Prescott was.

Hello, girls!

Radio was just as good as Hollywood in making up stories, yet the ever-pending-disaster situation that was live broadcasting was fertile ground for one-in-a-million chances and freak successes.  It could be true that Prescott pestered his boss so much for a coveted newsman slot that the boss stuck him with the job of dispensing household advice. It could also be nothing less than a personal insult from his boss.  Whatever his beginnings, Prescott performed a perfect I'll show you.

And show them he did.  The radio industry didn't understand the success of 'The Wife Saver', or at least pretended not to. The men that ran that industry and the sponsors that paid for it all never asked women their opinion of it, even if the show was resolutely broadcast to them.  Daytime radio tread a very fine line in trying not to offend anyone's sensibilities, however archaic or male-centric.  Women were not to be too distracted from their household duties, so their entertainment was best if it was musical, instructional or inspirational in a soapy kind of way.  Comedy was too distracting or even subversive---and besides, no one ever studied what women thought was funny anyway.  The only judge of success was fan mail and, into the later 1930s, ratings.

When pressed, the radio industry thought the success of 'The Wife Saver' was based on the very idea of a bachelor telling women how to run their household.  Could anything be more ridiculously funny?  After all, of the other very few forays into daytime comedy, such as 'Sisters of the Skillet', the men were always mocking the household hints genre and those who queened over it.  However, Prescott  publicized the anger, frustration, and boredom of the nation's housewives with knowing asides.  For example, when he suggested that women find a new way to do an old household chore, he claimed that doing so would "leave you wide open to find something else you'd rather not do".

 Prescott presides over a male fantasy of housewifery. 

Unsurprisingly, Prescott's sense of humor required manhandling by publicity.  In his initial splash of national success, he was photographed with scantily clad 'housewives' while posing with a string mop like a demonic Roman orator.   This is how radio brass and the sponsors wanted to imagine the girls he endlessly addressed on the air, and by inference, project the idea of him as a crazy straight man.  The photo, however, tells a certain truth in that Prescott's interest does not linger on the illusion presented, but is focused directly on his true audience.

As 'The Wife Saver' labored on into the 1940s, Radio and Television Mirror reported that Prescott was "a husky, handsome chap who doesn't fit in at all with one's mental picture of a man who presents household hints on the air."  The taint of femininity never was far behind him, and great daytime success kept the man in his place and away from the prime time he always coveted.  Yet his $20,000 annual salary (over $250,000 in today's dollars) was a pretty nice consolation prize.

In 1941 Prescott changed the name of his show to 'Allen Prescott Presents', but the show's content was basically unchanged: household hints, sewn together with humor and music.  NBC did give him a prime time trial in 1944, when radio talent was scarce due to World War II, but nothing long term came of it.  Then Prescott himself went off to war, serving in the Air Force on the Aleutian Islands---in a huff of sorts, one can imagine.   He was forty years old and in a mid-life crisis.

Prescott returned to radio in 1946 and into the burgeoning syndication market.  Improved technology allowed for high-quality transcript recordings and low cost flexibility for local radio stations, which grew exponentially after World War II.  Again NBC handled the proceedings, and the name of the show reverted to what everyone remembered: 'The Wife Saver'.  While popular, it may not have been like what long-time listeners recalled: Surviving recordings are quite dull in comparison to the 1930s scripts.

Like many radio performers, Prescott tried television in 1947.  'The Wife Saver' had only a five-week New York run in an era when daytime television programming consisted largely of test patterns.  It's likely the concept didn't suit the medium, as showing a handy hint not only slowed the proceedings but also looked less clever than it sounded.

The Wife Saver continued in radio syndication throughout the 1950s in an ever-dwindling market, with the last demo tapes being made in 1963.  In between recording transcriptions, he substituted for radio's venerable The Breakfast Club host Don McNeil and apparently had a respectable run on daytime television in Philadelphia as a talk show host.  In the end, however, he never escaped his own creation.  Allen Prescott's 1978 New York Times obituary opined: "Allen Prescott, 74, 'Wife Saver' was defined by his association with the program."

First edition, 1937

It is, of course, impossible to fully uncover the man behind the publicity---of what he wanted to be and what his bosses wish he was---to discover who he was in his private life.  Almost forty years have passed since Allen Prescott died; surely most of the people who knew him, even in his advanced years, are gone, too.  His scripts, recordings and memorabilia reside at the Library of Congress, yet perhaps one of most telling artifacts just came up for auction: A rather tattered first edition of Noel Coward's 1937 autobiography Present Indicative.  Inside it is inscribed: "For Allen Prescott and we hope it will be fun. 'Handmaiden'."

From a handmaiden

The script is decidedly masculine and the quotes suggest inside knowledge.  Was Handmaiden a campy friend or an effete personal assistant?  The 'we' is suggestive of the former---as from one member of a couple, but it also could speak of a social circle with a mutual understanding.  While the details are lost, the meaning remains queer.

Chevroladies

We're buying a new car.  I find no joy in it.  I'm not an auto huffer in desperate need of freshly manufactured inorganic volatile compounds, nor do my buns quiver when they slide over virgin, margarine-soft leatherette.  Well, they might quiver---but from age, not excitement.  It's too serious a decision to get all that thrilled about, and once all the research is done one must dumb down and step into the automotive circus sideshow of fluttering flags, leaping 'air dancers' and ginormous gorillas.  Because giant gorillas inspire consumer confidence nightmares.

My first encounter with a car salesman was at the tender age of eight.  I recall the baleful green glare of florescent lights, a candy machine that I was allowed to visit but once, but in the end nothing happened because my father never made a quick decision.  Well, not exactly nothing: As we crossed the lot back to our yet dependable car, the manager came running out of the building, jumped onto one foot to pull off his shoe and then waved the supposedly desirable yet sweaty object in the air.

I'd sell you my shoe but it's not for sale!

We scurried away to the safe confines of our Sahara Beige Plymouth Duster.   Mother, more gregarious than the rest of us, chuckled first.  His shoe?  What does that mean? In modern parlance, it was truly a WTF moment.  Needless to say we bought our next car elsewhere.

Flash forward some thirty-five years to a moment of casual car cruising.  We had arrived at an adjacent restaurant early, so we decided to kill some time looking at a new model.  Within seconds a salesman appeared---and I must clarify he was a man of color in a city of no color, because it's pertinent to the story.  Trailing him was a little candy blonde saleslady, apparently just learning the ropes.  He started his spiel; I explained we were just looking.  He pitched again.  I retorted a little less politely, pointing out we were meeting our niece next door in ten minutes.  Again he started, and I heard myself go shrill.  He retreated, but not without a loud aside to the blonde:

They're just racists.

I was too nonplussed to bitch slap him.  Well, okay, I really don't have that in me---and besides, he was too far away---but really?  You want to talk prejudice?  My husband and I will gladly compare notes with you.  I just don't want to buy a damn car today.

The candy blonde did not seem perturbed by his claim, only calculating.  Can I sell a car to a racist?  She then set a rather determined look on her face and glided forward with all the allure she could muster.  Why yes, I can sell a car to a racist.

We ran, just short of screaming.

I vowed then and there I'd never buy another new car, but ten years and 350,000 miles later, it's time.  To be honest, I've bought a number of new and used cars from dealers---and the experience has always been sort of like watching The Wizard of Oz, but less entertaining.   As the deal closes, I'm always muttering there's no place like home.  There's got to be a better way---and now there is:  It's called Chevroladies.


Really.

Vroom, vroom

Did you know that women account for 65% of all new car purchases and 53% of used car purchases in America and yet only 4.2% of Sale Associates are women?

Chevroladies aims to take the fear out of car shopping especially for women. We offer a no hassle, no pressure approach by appointment where you can work with a knowledgeable female Sales Professional in a comfortable, friendly environment. No games, just the information you need at the price you want. Simple and easy.

Swell!  Except the last time I checked I'm no lady ...

"Maybe we could go in drag," I mused to my husband.  "Or maybe we can be terribly modern and say we identify as Chevroladies."

Or maybe we can just call on madame herself---the sole Lady of the Lot---and perhaps get Chevrolady Service by inference.

But no, we're dealing with a car dealership, so it wasn't that easy.  Because we're men, I guess.

We called for Jane at the front desk, and she did appear---albeit in surprisingly unprofessional attire.

"It's my day off," she explained  "but Joe here can help you," she added, waving to an older gentleman hovering behind her.

"Oh, we're in no hurry,"  I smiled.  "Perhaps you can give us your card and we'll make an appointment."

Jane seemed a bit mystified by my formality.  "Joe's an excellent salesman."

Now was the time to gush about wanting to be a Chevrolady---or babble about really wanting to work with her.  I babbled.

"We really want to be your Chevrolet dealer," Jane replied automatically.  "I don't get a commission anyway."

Wannabe Chevrolady

I could feel my eyes roll back into my head.  It's not about you, honey.  At least not anymore.  I turned away and let my husband talk to Joe.  I simply don't understand why she didn't take my cue, hand me her card and chirp that sounds great, call me!  It's really that easy to make a potential customer happy.  Screw the protocol and hierarchy and the obvious wanting to be my Chevrolet dealer.  I'm not stupid.

Joe's a good guy.  He's their Senior Salesman.  No, that does not mean he's been there the longest, it means Hey, Joe!  Two old farts are fondling the subcompacts!  Get out there!  

That would be us.

Joe sat down at his computer and pulled up a page that looked suspiciously like the one I had been studying at home ever since it appeared online.  Perhaps he has access to some magic links, but no---I could have answered all my questions myself in my usual self-defeating manner.

No, only the black pit of death interior is available with that color. 

Have you noticed how the auto industry now abhors color?  Their lots and our streets are a sea of white, foaming with silver and shaded by black.  Throw in a few colors that even a two year old leaves in the Crayola box.  Gastric green, anyone?  Why has every subcompact made in the last five years been available in Gastric Green?  Can I order a car in primer and have it painted Mary Kay Pink?

No.

So we made concessions.  The black pit of death interior is okay, even if it climbs to 110 here in the summer.  That color is too dark, but at least its not a primary color.  It became as simple as wanting a fully equipped 2LT in that color with a manual transmission.

The Kalamata Kiss of Death

You want a 2LT with a manual transmission in that color?!

Um, yes. Is that a problem?

Well, dealers don't like 2LTs with manual transmissions---they don't move off the lot fast enough, so very few are delivered.  Our color of choice was not alluded to directly, but it was obviously the kiss of death:  It's the only color suggestive of a Chevrolady, and Chevroladies don't shift. 

So we had to Special Order, and the only person that does special orders is---Jane.

I could not refrain from smiling like a Cheshire cat as we sat at Jane's desk, but apparently she saw no irony in the situation.  It was just business, quickly done.  Sadly, any sense of progress ended when we asked for an estimated time of arrival.

You see, the Special Order is magically sent to Never-Never Land, where---in due time---it's made by oompa loompas and then transported over a vast ocean on a giant lily pad propelled solely by Mr. Toad. 

And that takes...?

"Two to four months," Jane replied.  "But don't worry, once your car arrives in Fremont, it'll get here in no time.  Our transport driver does his best for me because I give him bottles of wine."

Meanwhile, she could have the decency to supply me with a case or two....