Points West, Part 4: Lonelyville

Barrelling through the Land of Enchantment, we finally make a late-morning stop at the much ballyhooed Clines Corners. A sort of truck stop/elephant's graveyard of tchotchkes combo that heralds its impending arrival on scores of billboards scattered for seemingly hundreds of miles in any direction, Clines Corners has been a Route 66/I-40 landmark for more than seventy years. With rows upon rows of useless, dusty whatnots, clay pots, dreamcatchers--and just about anything else you can think of--it's been a watering hole and re-fueling stop for my family for at least three generations. In fact, on this sunny, bright morning as we traipse through the narrow aisles, it doesn't seem to have changed much since I was last there in 1992. True, the plastic shark jaws are no longer in evidence, but there are jars of Prickly Pear Jelly and boxes of chocolate covered cherries that don't seem to have seen a dust cloth since the end of the last millenium. And there are still stacks and stacks of tee-shirts, plastic sunglasses, shot glasses, leather geegaws, and really, when I think about it, just too damn much stuff to continue going on about. Suffice it to say, the sheer abundance of junk is mind-boggling. Clines Corners, alone, must be supplementing the income of at least half the families in Beijing.

What we're really after, though, is food. There's a mini-Subway located there, but the horde of flies buzzing around the sandwich-making board discourages any further consideration of that option. There's also a little diner with it's own separate kitchen, but you'd better like fried eggs, bacon, and the usual artery-clogging trimmings, because that's about all that's on the menu. Declining the offer to satiate my hunger with a piece of dry toast, I set off across the parking lot while my partner orders the breakfast special of Heart Attack on a Plate. Inside the gas station, I find the usual assortment of candy bars, beef jerky, pork rinds(!), and chips. Finally, partially hidden by the cash register, a small basket reveals a cache of energy bars. Sifting through the dusty pile, I realize that even a lot of these (allegedly) healthy treats are loaded with saturated fat. Spying a Cliff Bar, I wipe off the dust and determine that it is the Carrot Cake flavor that I normally disdain. However, today I'm desperate, so I go for it, opting to wash it down with a full-strength Pepsi (yes, I know how much sugar I just consumed, but, didn't I just say that I'm desperate, dammit, and I'm on vacation, so give me a break!). Back in the Clines Corners diner, my partner is mopping up the last of his breakfast with toast slathered in butter. He eyes my dubious prize and pays for his meal.

* * * * * *

As we cross the border into Texas, the landscape gradually flattens out into the vast sprawl of the Great Plains. The towns here, like most others we've passed, are few and far between. There is a sameness to them that seems to grow more pronounced the farther we travel. The ubiquitous grain elevators, the squat, retro gas stations, the unelegant, roadside cafes with their cratered, dirt parking lots filled with pickup trucks--after awhile, you think, "Didn't we already come through here?" But, of course, these places, these lonely, dusty towns, they are all different, and each has its own distinct personality. I know because I grew up out here in towns just like these, and none of them are the same. As forlorn and desolate as they may appear to a stranger traveling through, these towns are all home to somebody; lives unfolded here and dreams were dreamed just as sure as they were in New York, or San Francisco, London or Singapore, or anywhere else where people come together and make a community.

* * * * * *

West of Amarillo, I spy the Cadillac Ranch a few hundred feet south off I-40. Of course, it's not really a ranch, just a bunch of classic Cadillacs buried nose-down to their back doors in the hard prairie dirt of a field. An eccentric millionaire named Stanley Marsh 3 had it installed as an art exhibit and, over the years, it's developed a certain reputation as a must-see roadside attraction. People are encouraged to spray-paint the cars with graffiti, and at certain times, the cars are completely repainted to reflect special occasions or holidays; for example, they've all been painted green for St. Paddy's Day. When I ask my partner if he wants to stop and see the cars, he declines, so we keep driving until we reach the city limits of Amarillo. As my mind is clicking off the number of relatives I have currently living in Amarillo, I am suddenly startled by the amount of road construction that's going on; the entire city, as far as I can see, looks like it's being re-paved and widened! We stop for gas and then drive to a Schlotzky's Sandwich Shop, which I haven't seen since leaving Texas back in 1999. It's good, although my partner doesn't completely understand my enthusiasm for the sandwiches. I guess you just have to grow up eating Schlotzky's to really appreciate them--sort of like Sonic Drive-In's or A & W Root Beer Stands or Charcoal Ovens, which we don't have in southeast Florida, either.

With the labyrinth of road construction, we, of course, miss the turn we're supposed to take that will lead us northeast of town, through Spearman, Perryton, Booker, and beyond. No, we remain on I-40 for the next hour and a half, searching futiley for a highway that heads north, in the direction of the town where my parents live. Finally, we find the coveted turnoff, which leads us to Pampa, Texas, a town that has changed drastically since my youth. And by changed, I'm talking about the appearance of a number of fast-food chains and hotel/motels. Driving north past Pampa, we find ourselves in the midst of some unsuspectedly awesome scenery. The pancake flatness gives way to steep, treeless mesas and deep canyons, and dried-out riverbeds which serve as highways for meandering herds of lazy cattle. As much as the description sounds the same as what we've already seen in New Mexico and the Oklahoma Panhandle, it isn't; its spooky and unearthly beauty is all its own. Many years ago, friends and I traveled down this highway from Perryton (the next sizable town to the north of Pampa), but I'd forgotten that this little stretch was so astonishingly gorgeous (to me, anyway).

A little further up the road, flatness returned and predominated for the remainder of our trip. Perryton, Texas, the town where I was born, has, roughly, 10,000 people. As we pull onto Main Street, I notice more chain stores--the usuals--that have sprouted up and overtaken the businesses I remember from my boyhood. The old hospital where I was born is long gone, but the movie theater that's been around since at least the 1940's--maybe longer--is still there, and still showing first-run movies. Unfortunately, the Ranger Drive-In, the scene of many happy childhood memories, has gone the way of most of the other drive-in movie theaters out here. Too bad. During any given week, you might see a recent John Wayne western, a Hitchcock film from the fifties, or a brand new British import. Whoever ran the drive-in in those days had eclectic tastes, and I think that probably had a huge influence on my own tastes in films.

Leaving Perryton, we mull over the option of turning east and going through the town of Booker (15 miles away, pop. 1200), the home of a large majority of my mother's family, or continuing to drive north and then cutting back east and, in essence, covering a distance of a little over 100 miles, with virtually no towns to impede our progress. Aware of my inclination to stop in Booker for a prolonged visit with relatives, we decide to continue heading north, eventually reaching my parent's house at around 5 in the afternoon.

* * * * * *

The next day, my partner backs the rental car out of the driveway and heads for Wichita. He's leaving a couple of days before me in order to get home to Florida and get a little grounded before starting his new job the following Monday. My parents and I drive to Darrouzett, Texas, (pop. 320 or thereabouts, and pronounced Dair-zett). We have arranged to meet my cousin, Toad, and his wife for lunch in a tiny restaurant on the western edge of town. Toad has lost weight and looks really good, and seems pleased to receive this news. We're in the heart of "deep-fried" country, so there's not much on the menu for me, although I finally choose the ever-safe, ever-boring, ever-dried out slab of grilled chicken breast which fails to thrill me. Visiting with Toad, however, proves to be interesting, if not thrilling. If his wife and my parents weren't around, he could probably deliver some really good dish. However, good taste and discretion must be observed, so none of the gossip is particularly titillating.

After lunch, we bid adieu to Toad and the wife, and we drive the 10 miles to Booker, Texas. Booker began life as an Oklahoma border town named LaKemp. Many of my relatives who originally settled this part of the country lived in LaKemp and its environs. Around 1918, the railroad was laid about 15 miles southwest of LaKemp, just across the Texas state line. Seeing the wisdom of having their town situated along the railroad, the town's fathers packed up everything, lock, stock, and barrell--buildings, houses, sidewalks, people--and relocated the whole town to Texas. And that is how LaKemp, Oklahoma, became Booker, Texas, in 1919.

Booker doesn't look the same as it did when I was growing up, and even then, it didn't look the same as when my mom was a girl. There were originally trees planted down the center of Main Street, giving the town a shaded, elegant air. Apparently, drivers in those days couldn't avoid hitting the trees because they were summarily yanked out, and the main street widened. The old movie theater was still around when I was little, but I can only remember seeing a couple of films there. Chiefly, what I remember about the movie theater was getting locked in the bathroom and screaming to high heaven for someone to come and get me out. The original drug store is still next door, although without the soda fountain and tin ceiling that were removed even before I got out of grade school. Charlie Hargreaves' wooden barber shop with its colorful pole out front is long gone.

The post office, where my great-grandmother labored as postmistress for more than thirty years, is also gone. I can still remember the sound of her weight creaking on the old wooden floors of that building as I watched her sort mail on hot, summer mornings. She had seven children and many of them still resided, along with their children and grandchildren, in Booker, so her house was always filled with the sounds of plates being passed around a large dining table, of voices raised in animated conversations and clearly defined opinions, of boisterous activity, and of laughter, tears, and love.

Across the street, the bank has enveloped nearly the entire block. There used to a pool hall (which served as my grandfather's second home), and Lehman's Grocery Store--both razed to make way for progress. At the north end of Main Street, my Great Aunt Agatha's husband, Uncle Louie, had the Conoco station for many years; it now sits empty and crumbling.

Nearer the south end of Main, the historic Cochran Hotel once loomed over the better part of a block. Storied and majestic, jammed with many rooms, enormous lobby, a popular coffee shop, barber shop, and beauty salon, the hotel provided a fitting stopover for cowboys and oilmen, alike. Later, during my lifetime, the habitues became a little less monied, as the development of interstate highways found Booker increasinly isolated from the larger, developing centers of commerce. Toad's parents owned and operated the hotel, although it was built in the 1920's by someone else. When I was a kid, I used to tag along with Toad and explore the building. A polished wooden railing on the staircase led to a second floor of long, dark hallways, and high-ceiling rooms with wrought-iron beds, and residents who invariably smoked and appeared to be up to something unsavory, as the faint scent of whiskey trailed in their wake. I had a great, great aunt named Muriel who had come out west during the oil boom of the early 1900's. She was a tough cookie who worked as a prostitute for awhile in the boomtown of Borger (although our family really doesn't talk about that to this day). By the time I knew her, she had long since settled into married respectability, motherhood, and widowhood, and seemed ancient to me, and probably was. I remember her sitting in the coffee shop at the Cochran Hotel, with her colorful skirts and jaunty hats, her wrinkled face powdered and rouged, her mouth made up with bright red lipstick, as she smoked endless cigarettes and held court for her fascinated (and often scandalized) townsfolk. I can also remember my grandfather posting me as a lookout, keeping an eagle eye out for my grandmother or any of her relatives, while he conducted flirtatious tete-a-tetes with various waitresses at the coffee shop. It was only much later, after I got to be 13 or 14, that I realized what he was up to, but by then, I was hitting on the waitresses myself. At the end of the seventies, Booker lost a piece of its history when, one night, the Cochran Hotel exploded, engulfing the entire building in flames and completely destroying it. Miraculously, no one was injured.

* * * * * *

When we arrive in Booker, our first stop is the nursing home, where the last of my maternal grandmother's siblings now resides. My Great-Aunt Thelma, looking exceedingly thin and wan, is, nevertheless, enthusiastic in greeting us. There is some sort of monopoly-money auction going on in the main room and a nurse is surrounded by white-haired people in wheelchairs. Some of these people, my mother tells me, I should know from my childhood, but they no longer look familiar to me, nor I to them, so I don't know who's who and decide against going around the room and introducing myself. I'm having a nice, little visit with Aunt Thelma and really appreciating how lucid she is when she suddenly declares that those people bidding on items in the auction are just "plain foolish". She then proceeds to tell me that these people are paying $100 for a candy bar ("Can you imagine?" she hyperventilates). When my mom reminds her that it's monopoly money and that she should get into the spirit of the game and make some bids, herself, Aunt Thelma looks at her as if she's lost her mind. "I'm not spending $100 on a candy bar or a piece of gum! Do I look like I'm crazy to you?" She says this to me, and I just smile and feel like I've wandered onto the set of a David Lynch film. Aunt Thelma and her husband never had kids of her own, so she always liked me, especially when I was a little kid. I can't think why, because she didn't like many people, especially after you passed the "cute" phase, which, for her, ended when you were 8 or 9. Still, after getting past being seriously pissed off at me for reaching adolescence, she returned to being the funny, fun, generous woman that very few people were ever allowed to see. She's the aunt who turned me on to Agatha Christie, blueberry pancakes, ping-pong, Cocker Spaniels, and to singing verses of "Que Sera Sera" after watching "The Man Who Knew Too Much at--where else--the Ranger Drive-In. Now, I don't know what time zone she's inhabiting, but, even in her befuddled state, I don't want to piss her off. So I smile, and I think how sad it is that certain things have to change, that great-aunts get old when they should forever be singing and flipping blueberry pancakes in the kitchen, and that little boys grow up and go away and no longer have the time to drop in on people who once loomed so largely in their lives. I always think that maybe next time, the next time I come home, I'll make a little extra time to spend down there with Aunt Thelma. But, time always runs out. Always. You don't get it back.

* * * * * *

My grandfather was a huge, if unlikely, movie fan throughout his life, so I (along with my sister and cousins) grew up going to the movies, just as our own parents had done when they were growing up. A sturdy, fun-loving cowboy/rancher who favored boots, big hats, and bigger cars, my grandfather was the ultimate John Wayne fan although, to be honest, he could be happy watching almost any movie. He was also a colorful, charming cad with many girlfriends, and a wife at home who was not much amused by his behavior. They were a perfect example of two people who should never have married. Both came from fairly well-to-do families, and both were spoiled by their parents: my grandmother because she'd been a sickly child and required a lot of attention, and my grandfather because he was the only son, and the inheritor of the family name, as well as the family fortune (his father didn't believe in banks so wasn't much affected when the Great Depression hit). They had three children in rapid succession, and I don't think ever said another civil word to each other during the remainder of their 45 years together. Their rows were legendary, with my mother (at age 5) once climbing in between them to try and tear them apart. Living through the 1930's and early '40's, my grandmother spent much of her time in a lonely farmhouse north of town, raising her children while her freewheeling husband gambled and chased around with other men's wives. He worked, certainly, as it required intensive labor to maintain a ranch that was besieged by dust storms; however, he had a steady supply of hired men that he kept busy while he slipped off to play.

There was never any question of divorce. My grandmother's family was awash in tradition and deep Southern roots. Divorce was an insurmountable scandal (as my grandmother's sister, Virgie, discovered when she rid herself of one Mr. Booth). So she watched their children grow, throwing herself into their lives and into her church, getting more bitter with each passing year. They moved to town when my mother was in high school, and this way, my grandmother (who never drove) could walk to the homes of her sisters and cousins. One by one, their children left home, they married, they presented them with grandchildren, life went on, my grandparents became more estranged. By the time their youngest son was killed at age 27 in a car crash, they pretty much lived separate lives, even though they still resided in the same house (I never knew them to sleep in the same room, much less the same bed). Of course, since there was no emotional connection between them, they could be of no comfort to one another, relying instead on their (then) considerable number of "kin" to get them through, and of course, my grandmother's unshakable faith in her vain and jealous god.

Being completely self-absorbed, it was never in doubt that my grandfather would recover from the shattering loss of his son; my grandmother was a different story. She lived for another 14 years but never got over it. I lived with them, on and off, all throughout my teens, during holiday periods and long summers, when I worked on my grandfather's ranch. I was their oldest grandchild; my mother and I had spent the first two years of my life with them after the army decided to station my dad in Germany, so their house was always my other home. I remember the bitter quarrels that still raged between my grandparents, and I remember her crying, later, and calling me by my dead uncle's name--many, many times. It finally came to me that she wasn't confusing our names--she was still a relatively young woman, and our names were quite different--but she was pretending that I was him, pretending that her dead son was still alive, back home and living under her roof once again. His marriage, the birth of his child, his death, they hadn't happened. He was a youthful teen again, the apple of his mother's eye, the last buffer in a despised marriage. I was aware of this but I couldn't tell her to stop calling me by his name. I let her pretend, thinking it couldn't hurt. When the time came for me to leave, as it does for all kids, I simply left. Although I wasn't going far, I wasn't coming back, not for any long periods of time like before. The implications were clear. She couldn't pretend any more. While the grandson would return for brief visits, the son had gone forever. The game was over.

My grandmother was strikingly good-looking, with cornflower blue eyes that looked liked Elizabeth Taylor's. She was a demonstrative, passionate, immensely loving woman with a quick wit and hilarious sense of humor. But there was always something overwhelmingly sad about her; there was the loss of her son, true, although I believe that, when I was around, she could forget for awhile that he was truly gone, even if I could never, really, take his place. I think, though, it extended beyond just that. I think the sham of her marriage--that really big lie--bled her of happiness first, draining her over the period of years that she and my grandfather busied themselves putting on a face for the community. Not that anyone was fooled. While my grandfather's antics were well-known and much-discussed in the coffee shops and farm stores in town, my grandmother dressed to the nines and held her head high as she walked across town in an endless march to the homes of the people who loved her, the family she trusted. Forever stuck in a time warp, she clung to the beliefs and ideals of a generation of southerners who once dwelled in a land that had fallen long before she was born.

When she was 64, she died of ovarian cancer. It was my first year out of college and I had just moved to Oklahoma City. She'd had cancer for a little over a year but had, I thought, successfully fought it. I'd just been to see her in the hospital and, while she didn't look well, I didn't suspect that she was dying. I don't know if it's because no one told me, or if it's because I didn't want to know. But, I really didn't get it, not even after receiving the news from my dad, who called me when I returned from a long night of drinking strawberry daiquiris (which I never touched again). In a state of denial, I made the 200 mile drive in two and a half hours. Pulling up in front of the house that had served as my second home for so many years, I saw the many other cars jamming the driveway and street. It was early May, but a very light snow had, incongruously, started to fall as I walked to the front door. It was only when I saw the wreath, stately and funereal, hanging on the door that the realization of my enormous loss washed over me. I understand now how there are some things that you never get over. You get passed it, you move on, but you never stop missing those you love most. Like every other tragedy and pitfall in life, you deal with it, but this was something that took me many, many years to come to terms with.

My grandfather, to me, seemed unsure of how to respond. The woman with whom he had spent the past 40+ years fighting and ignoring was gone. Coincidentally, this was the same woman who had spent the past 40+ years cooking his meals, washing and ironing his clothes, changing his sheets, and cleaning his house. What was going to happen to him now? I don't know if he was temporarily grief-stricken or simply afraid for his own future, but my grandfather managed to shed some tears throughout the ordeal, as he put his good times on hold. It wasn't long before the chase started up again, however. He took up with the widow of his first-cousin and begged her to marry him, although she had the good sense to decline the proposal. Shortly after that, he moved a different woman into his house, and I don't know if they actually went through the ceremony or not, but in short order, he moved her right back out.

And then, one day, he met the Golddigger from California, a much-married, good-looking, high-maintenance dame, with the looks of a former showgirl and a bank account that reflected her marital endeavors. With dollar signs in her eyes (and lust in his) they stood before a justice of the peace and pledged to love each other in sickness and in health, til death did them part. What she didn't know--in fact, he'd told her quite the opposite--was that my grandfather had managed to run through a good part of his inheritance, and the money generated by his ranching enterprises.

By the time they married, the Golddigger had more money than he did, and when she found out, the shit hit the fan. He had a modest sum in the bank, to be sure, so she wasn't letting him off the hook that easily. Resolving to stay with him until they went through his every last cent, she put on her smiling face as she went about Booker, making friends and endearing herself to one and all. They traveled together, he bought her jewelry, they raced greyhounds. Once she had satisfied herself there wasn't another cent to be had, the Golddigger showed her true colors and moved out of the new house that my grandfather had bought for himself and the new bride to share during their golden years. Obviously, this didn't set well with him, and there was a lot of back and forth going on between them before he got bitten by the snake and, later, had a stroke. At this point, having had more than enough of both my grandfather and of the suddenly stand-offish citizens of Booker, the Golddigger retreated to California.

Unable to care for himself, and undergoing physical therapy, my grandfather entered the nursing home (the same one that Aunt Thelma now resides in), but tried every way he could think of to get out. When my mom's brother (who lives a couple of blocks away) took him for rides, my grandfather would refuse to get out of the car. There was a time, when he still had access to his own car, that he would leave the nursing home, park his car in my uncle's driveway, and sleep there. It was a sad turn of events that some of my grandmother's less charitable relatives ascribed to karma. Or, as they put it, what goes around, comes around.

As his health continued to deteriorate, my grandfather was moved to a hospital in Amarillo, from which he rapidly made his way to a hospice, where the doctors told my mother that "it could be any time". He held on long enough for the Golddigger to get wind of the fact that he was dying and that he may have had a hidden stash of money that he hadn't told her about, and out she came. My mother, all of 5'2" and 92 lbs., stood in the hospice door and told the Golddigger that she'd taken quite enough from our family and that if she wanted to get in that room, she have to get past my mother first. The golddigger retreated, my grandfather died peacefully, and the resultant funeral dinner was awkward, with my grandfather's children, grandchildren, and other relatives crowding a cluster of long tables, while the Golddigger and her brother sat alone. What was funny is that she honestly couldn't figure it out. "I was his wife," she said, shaking her head in amazement that she wasn't accorded any more respect than what was being shown at the funeral. When it was over, she drove off into the sunset with her brother. She was, she said, done with the lot of us.

* * * * * *

At the home of my mother's brother, an uncle who is, physically, very much like his father, we see that his pickup truck is parked in the driveway. In the bed of the pickup truck is the long, very fat corpse of a headless rattlesnake. My uncle informs us that he stopped and killed it in the road earlier that morning. You don't just run over big snakes like that. Not only might they not die, but they can wrap around the axle of your vehicle, and they can get awfully, awfully pissed off when you try and remove them. At least, that's what I always heard. It doesn't take much to get them pissed off, anyway. Back in the early '90's, my grandfather climbed out of his pickup truck in a field and stepped right down on top of a rattler. The snake bit clear through his boot, indirectly resulting in the long, slow decline that eventually led to his death. We spend some time with my uncle and his wife, still pretty but very frail, having spent the past two years battling stage four lung cancer. Every few weeks, she and my uncle climb into the car with their only daughter, and they make the long, ten-hour drive to Houston, where she undergoes her chemo treatments. And, so far, it's all been worth it; she's survived much longer, and done much better, than anyone expected; even the doctors think that it's nothing much short of miraculous. I'm not much one for religion, but obviously something's working, and I'm thankful for that. I also get to visit with their oldest son, my cousin, Mark. He's a couple of years younger than me and just became a first-time grandfather! Normally, I wouldn't be telling it, but my sister--four years younger than me--has a three year old granddaughter, so I've had time to accustom myself to the fact that I'm getting to be of a grandfatherly age, although if you ask me, I will lie to your face and subtract ten years from my actual age. It's always fun visiting with my uncle and his family, but we still need to make one more stop before we leave Booker.

* * * * * *

The Heart Cemetery, just south of town, occupies a smallish, flat, arid piece of land that was once being encroached upon by an ever-expanding prairie dog town. I don't know whether or not the owner of the neighboring land exterminated the prairie dogs (I suspect he did) but it seems that the danger of the little creatures joining departed loved ones has passed. My mother still feels a family duty to visit the cemetery every time she comes to Booker. Well, it's full of our family members; most all of the people who used to join us at my great-grandmother's dinner table when I was a kid now reside there. There are dozens of them, maybe hundreds, all relatives of either my grandfather or my grandmother. You'd think that the henhouse hum of giddy conversations would still be echoing through the cemetery, but it is quiet, and the only movement is that of the wind jostling the American and Texas state flags at the top of the flagpole. I know why my mom comes here, although I can't really explain it. A few years ago, I had driven over by myself to see some relatives. Before leaving town, I decided to drive out and visit the graves of my grandparents. Standing out there alone in the cemetery, with only the wind and the sound of a distant tractor for company, I thought of what a lonely, lovely, peaceful place it was; next to the prairie dog town and the infinite flatness beyond, it was a sweet, dead village filled with beautiful memories and the enduring love of the ages. Jolted back to reality by my mom pointing out the ostentatious and rambling monument to bad taste that a cousin has erected for her recently-departed husband, I steer the car onto the highway and speed away, towards home.

* * * * * *

Back in the little house behind my parent's place, I catch the Andy Warhol flick and drift off to sleep watching "Basic Instinct 2", for which I have developed an unaccountable fondness. The next morning, my dad drives me to Wichita to catch my flight back to Ft. Lauderdale. Neither of my parents looks like they feel particularly well, so I am not feeling good about leaving. After my dad drops me at the airport, I sit and wait for my flight to board. Of course, it seems like I'm sitting there for an eternity, although, in actuality, it's probably less than an hour. On the plane, I make the acquaintence of my seatmates, a friendly, chatty farm couple from western Kansas. They're on their way to Atlanta to visit a daughter, who, it turns out, was once a flight attendant for our airline, Air Tran. As we cruise into Atlanta, we start hitting some turbulence. We circle Atlanta Airport as the clouds grow darker and the plane gets jumpier. The pilot announces that we're diverting to refuel because, what with the gas crisis and all, the planes aren't being flown with full tanks and, well, we're about out of fuel. What? The farm wife next to me widens her eyes and asks me if the pilot just said what she thinks he said. I assure that he did as her fingers dig into the arms of her seat. The flight to Macon takes another thirty minutes, although we spend an additional forty-five minutes circling that airport. We finally land and spend yet another forty-five minutes on the tarmac as our plane is re-fueled.

When we take off to head back to Atlanta, the ominous, black clouds are swirling. We plow into the storm, and the plane jumps like a kangaroo sprinting across the outback. My stomach lurches and I wonder if I'm going to have to retrieve the barf bag from the seat pocket in front of me. After what seems like an eternity, the pilot steers us out of the turbulence and, soon, we're once again circling (a much calmer) Atlanta airport. We circle. And we circle. And we circle some more.

When we land, hours after our original ETA, we are told to hurry up and sprint to a gate that is roughly the same distance as it is from Macon to Atlanta. After hefting my considerably heavy bag through the airport and arriving at the assigned gate, the Air Tran lady informs me that my flight will be arriving at another gate and that I should hurry on over there. "On over there" turns out to be another considerable jog, but I am starting to get irritated and I damn sure don't want to miss my flight and have to stay in the Atlanta Airport. I arrive at the new gate, where I stand around waiting with another group of increasingly agitated passengers. We are then directed to yet another gate, where a different flight will be picking us up at 11:00 p.m. So, we all shlepp over to this gate, a motley crew, indeed, all of us hungry, tired, and bitching at Air Tran's incompetence, and promising to write letters and send e-mails to "whoever is in charge of this fiasco". We are advised to stay in line, as our flight will be arriving any moment. An hour later, we are told that the flight has been delayed by all the stormy weather on the east coast. Thirty minutes after that, when we're informed that we now have to wait on a flight attendant, who is stuck on another flight, there is mutiny in our eyes, murder in our hearts.

I stomp out of line and head for the News Exchange, where I make a futile attempt to buy a vintage sandwich and Coke from the African-American attendant. Shaking her head, she says sorry, she's closing. Disheartened, I walk across the corridor to the Phillips Crab dispensary. As I'm perusing the very limited supply of food, a young African-American man joins me. Suddenly, another woman walks up and tells him to go to the News Exchange Stand because the woman working there thinks that he's cute and wants to sell him a sandwich. Furious, I stand outside the news stand and watch the woman whom I now perceive to be a racist bitch sell the young man a sandwich and a soft drink. Inwardly, I seethe and promise to report this to her superior just as soon as I get back to Ft. Lauderdale. I finally manage to persuade one young woman working at an about-to-close booth to sell me something to eat. By this time, I don't even know what I'm eating; I'm so hungry that it doesn't matter. It's edible and that's all I care about.

Another hour passes, and the mutineers are dangerously close to stringing up the unfortunate Air Tran counter workers, who have called in for support. The extra Air Tran people are now giving us conflicting stories, none of which gel with what their co-workers are telling us, so it suddenly occurs to me that none of them know what the actual cause of the delay is, that they're all lying through their teeth, and that they've been instructed to do so by their supervisors. At some point, the allegedly unaccountably-delayed flight attendant arrives and is greeted by the collective glare of two hundred eyes. We are herded onto the plane well after midnight, and my list of complaints has grown so long that I may need a pen and paper to write them down. I don't want to forget one thing when I call Air Tran and the News Exchange headquarters!

* * * * * *

When the plane lands in Ft. Lauderdale at 2:15 a.m., I am still fuming. Storming off the plane, I harrumph my way past the stewardess as she wishes me a good stay in Ft. Lauderdale. We'll see about that, sister, I think to myself. I am petulant and pissy and unbearable, even to myself. My partner picks me up and, since I have forgotten not only what I ate in Atlanta but the act of eating, itself, I am famished. And there is nothing--nothing--open for the miles and miles we drive along I-95 as we get ever closer to home, and the empty refrigerator inside. When we see an open 7-11, I shriek for my partner to stop. Inside, the least offensive thing I can find is something akin to an Italian hoagie. When I attempt to pay the woman at the counter, I get a lot of attitude. What the fuck is this all about, I wonder? All of a sudden, I feel like Rodney Dangerfield. I have never been racist, have never approved of anything that smacks of racism, and I'm on the receiving end of a whole lot of needless bullshit. I decide to add 7-11 to my list as we drive home and I eat the tasteless sandwich. At 3:30 a.m., I finally climb into bed, my mind racing, demanding apologies for all the wrongs, both real and imagined, that I've experienced over the course of that long, endless journey. I want something for all my trouble, goddammit!

The next morning, I am rewarded with a migraine.