Jan. 5, 1998: Glad 2BN Glendale

And, indeed, it was lights-out for those cats at about 6:45 on Monday morning. Beth was having none of Callie’s hiding under the bed trick — went right in after her — and the carriers were soon stuffed and loaded into our barely-recognizable car, and we into our Isuzu Turbo huge-windowed cab, the accelerator mashed into its position against the floorboard and 60+ mph average began counting down the 370 miles separating us from the property we’d agreed to lease for the next twelve months. Arizona continued impressing us with multi-colored silhouetted mountainscapes, and Saguaro Cacti covering stretches of mountain range most other plants had given up on. We thought about stopping before Blythe at the border to California, to take a picture. By then, Beth had been driving for about 40 miles. The “Now Entering State of California and Western Time Zone” sign was in the middle of a bridge across a river — no room to stop. However, after another sign, “All Vehicles Must Stop Ahead,” we found plenty of parking space at an agricultural inspection station. I think Beth was a little disappointed that I confessed about the oranges in the cab from Orlando neighbor Marshall. “Oh yes, we’ll need those,” the lady said. They had us open the back of the truck. This might have been a real bad time for any less experienced packers, but the door slid right open and — as if by some magical gravity of itself, “the load” — our stuff — hung there: bicycles, garbage cans, upside down desk chairs, straps securing the whole thing in on the one side, while the motorcycle was gently pressed against the left by our mattress, the box spring flying in T-formation over the motorcycle, mattress, and the front porch of our possessions. It was a thing of beauty. What the inspection ladies saw, though, were the plants we’d been trying to give away to several of the folks who helped us over the last few days, (Catherine, Randy and Selena). They pulled our plants out, looked at the roots, called in assistance and received it in the form of more inspectors who argued about how much to check them until they were satisfied they’d checked them enough. We coughed up the oranges and were allowed to proceed, so we did.

The mountains that arose as we neared our destination got bigger and bigger. Finally, our maps had names for them. We stopped to call the power company to get our power turned on and the phone company to get our phones fired-up that day, since we were a little ahead of schedule. Green lights were given and acted on. Before driving further, I insisted on taking a picture of us in the California desert with the snow-peaked mountains in the background and the Golden State’s purple desert flowers clustering from the sand (didn’t turn out). When we got within 40 miles of our destination, we started calling the mountains in the distance our own, and looking hard at them as we passed from the 2,460-mile blur of “Scenery” that changes into “Home.”

That very change began to occur quickly. We soon ran out of turns from our interstate, I-10, onto 210 West toward Pasadena, past Arcadia where Beth will be picking up some shifts at the Outback Steakhouse, past Pasadena where we caught 134 West, got off on 2 (Glendale Freeway) South, then dove off the freeway to find a street we could place on our Rand McNally LA Street Guide. It wasn’t long before we found Verdugo, the pathway to our home, then came Barrington Way, and the little building we recognized from the pictures.

It was about two o’clock in the afternoon. We got stuck at the gate but heard voice of property manager Ondine call, “Roger?” She came out and we had a time checking out the gates, the property, and the townhome we’d eventually come to accept as ours. When we compared what a great and clean home we’d left in Orlando to what we could see of the condition of the exterior and interior of the building, much was left to be desired. Anyway, since we weren’t in much of a position to go anywhere else, we signed the lease and came to terms with our disappointment in the course of laboring to pull apart “The Load” and move the pieces into unit three. With the arrival of our things, the place grew more acceptable. We knew it had a lot going for it. The neighbors started appearing and introducing themselves; that was nice. It seemed to be a charming area. When we took a break, we rode our bikes around the corner to get a bottle of Evian (that tell you something about the tapwater?) and saw that our neighborhood was indeed looking cool.

Later, after unloading at least 10-feet worth of our 15-foot truck into the place, we closed everything up, let the cats out of the bathroom, and went to find some food. One of our neighbors, an old codger-looking whiskered guy named Pete Weismuller (said Johnny was his uncle) told us there was a new Chinese restaurant right around the corner. The one we found wasn’t new, but it did the trick. Soon, we were back into our new home with our cats and most of our stuff. We looked forward to being done unloading the truck, but both wished it would unload itself. I called my mom and she breathed a big sigh of relief. After that, Beth and I did the same thing. While I was getting the computer set up, she built the bed. I found a couple of friends in Orlando online and shocked them with the news. “You’re where?” Then I went in, took the issue of Glimmer Train short stories we’d saved for the trip but misplaced until only an hour before from Beth’s sleeping hands, and climbed into my own bed, in my own bedroom in Glendale. The trip was finished, and now it can rest.

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