It was one of those days.
Yari and Jürgen called first thing in the morning to say they’d be late. Because of their timing, and since I needed to arrive early to work to unload and properly hide my belongings into the office before my coworkers arrived, this meant that we could not do home orientation. I had this notion of preparing them for every potential issue in person, demonstrating how to keep the legs on the decorative bookcase I’d made from buckling or how to position the car without parking (or causing someone else to park) over the lines. Type A things. Things I now had to let go of having control over.
Breathe out.
We decide to meet at my office. This seemed like a good idea until Jürgen got lost driving there, because he’s Austrian and driving in Los Angeles for the first time, so who knows where the hell he ended up. So I keep on nervously walking into and out of the office, driving my coworkers batty. Upon arrival, Jürgen doesn’t have the full amount of money he owes me. He must attempt to withdraw the rest from a bank. But he can’t withdraw it from the bank, for he has already withdrawn too much money in the past 24 hours. So he pays me in cash, a couple hundred dollars short of our agreement. I take it in stride. After all, I know where he lives.
The work day is a stressful one, with me trying to coordinate last-minute meetings with schools. I end up making two appointments in South LA that afternoon, my attention focused on the reality of needing to deposit my rent cash and figure out how I was getting to the airport in the morning.
Any time I left town, I usually parked in my work’s lot and took the quick, $1.00 bus to LAX. I’d become comfortable with public transportation during my time in Chicago, so this was an appealing option. Plus, I was never comfortable burdening anyone with giving me a ride, unless I am dating someone because there’s nothing quite so romantic as the curbside Casablanca kiss.
The problem is the morning’s flight is at 7:00, so I need to arrive at the airport before the bus was operating. I’d have to either take a cab, park at the airport, or leave on a late bus and sleep in LAX overnight. Hardly a cut-and-dry debate. I’d have to think it over.
My other issue is the bank deposit. Quirk Alert: I still bank with my original Florida credit union. Over the years, I’ve taken advantage of direct deposit and, occasionally, send a check home for my parents to deposit. I’ve never thought much of it as an inconvenience. Until now. I had nearly $1,000 in cash and no way to deposit it safely.
Anticipating this problem, I had done a little research and found that through a network of credit unions, there was one accessible ATM in Los Angeles that would accept my deposit and divert the funds to my bank. So at the end of the work day, I leave work to the ATM. Having not used an ATM since 2010 or so, I forget my pin number. The first three attempts at remembering lead me nowhere. Finally, it occurs to me that the pin number is, of course, the four-digit code I used to use at the grocery store to get cash back.
At this point, however, my account had been locked, meaning I can’t deposit using that ATM for the next 24 hours. The Jürgen ATM special, the curse of the day. I’m honored to be a sweepstakes winner.
So I have a decision to make: Take the money, nearly $1,000 in legal American tender, with me to Chicago and use cash for every possible transaction. Or, as I have been familiar doing since I was an 11 year-old hiding my baseball cards in the family washing machine during vacations, I can ignore the .01% risk of theft/fire/abrupt commercial eviction and hide the cash in my office.
Paranoia is a funny thing. It can morph a seemingly logical idea into a wooden whorehouse of mistrust, turning every screw of doubt deeper into the floor of the subconscious, cracking its precarious foundation until every sinful thought soaks into the shag from a muddy, mired underworld of despair.[1] It totally sucks.
Ultimately, I choose the office.
Except when I arrived to the office to stash the cash, my key refused to open the door. That’s funny, I think, I use this key every day of my working life and it’s never done this. Confusion gave way to curse words, and after ten minutes of berating every inanimate object involved, I hear a vague mental whisper of advice from my father.
“Graphite, son.”
Exactly! Graphite, the locksmith’s trick for sticky unlocking foil. Keyhole lube. Lubricant which I have conveniently located… in my apartment. Aside from being a forty minute round-trip drive away, it is also now occupied by the Europeans. What other instrument does man use when he needs a bit of lubricant, but has no obvious instrument of wetness handy? That’s right: spit.
It works right away. This is both relieving and completely infuriating. To think, there is a whole industry based on selling graphite to access fickle keyholes. And the answer was, quite literally, right on the tip of our tongues. I have to bitch to someone. I call by best buddy, Kevin, for support.
Kevin and I have known each other since second grade. He’s a voyeur of the umpteenth degree, raising it to the level of vicarious living in every aspect, elevating to an artistic plane the skill of narrative appreciation. The man could get joy out of hearing your story about saving a quarter on a bag of oranges. As long as somewhere in the story is a remotely attractive cashier, or even just a descriptive mention of the hanging of round citrus in a mesh sack. You know, like a pair of balls.
Kevin’s last name is Hitchcock, and very early on in pubescence he earned the nickname, “cock”, so my audience must forgive me when rarely refer to him as Kevin. Cock, then, listens intently to the goings on about my day, agreeably polite about my ATM maladies despite the fact that my frustrations are 100% my fault. And he manages to fish out a detailed illustration of Yari, with whom he determines unequivocally I should copulate. Rarely is the determination elsewise. Such is the way of the Cock.
Hanging up with The Cock, I feel immediately renewed. I take my $1,000 in cash and find it a proper hiding place. Half in a desk drawer tucked inside a pair of socks and another half in a copy of Alfred Lansing’s Endurance. Subtly apropos to my adventure.
The evening proceeds with my usual packing routine. Identify one item for packing, try to remember which bag or box said item was stored in, furrow brows, locate item on third attempt and pack it. By 9:30, I had completed my task and decided to catch the 1:45 bus to LAX. My first home-free night would be spent sleeping at the airport. (Note: I hadn’t at this point decided to commit 100% to office sleeping; I’d wanted to try my car, too. Will add that.) I’d even located a complimentary transit card to get me there. Score.
When I board the bus, the complimentary card doesn’t work. The driver tells me, tersely, that this card is only for the train system, which I guess is a separate entity. Fair enough. I’ve grown accustomed to being wrong today.
Because I don’t have exact change, I overpay for my fare and take a seat. When I do, I get a call from Jürgen. Someone’s car is in his parking spot. I walk him through the steps of how to tow away the culprit. The day is ruthless. I’m actually looking forward to getting to the airport so I can close my eyes and end it.
Just before midnight, I arrive at my final resting place. It is in the baggage claim area, on a low ledge usually reserved for unclaimed luggage. I have a ledge all to myself. Luxurious:
Bed.
I blow up my inflatable camping sleeping pad, insert my earplugs, and cover my head with a cotton hoodie. I sleep soundly in each twenty minute segment between PA announcements for delayed flights and baggage arrivals. The day couldn’t have ended any other way.
