Living for today...

The last 350 miles of my drive is done. A beautiful apartment in L.A. was waiting for me. My unit is in a building from the 1920s, and what it lacks in modern upgrades is more than made up for by the spectacular views. The iconic Hollywood sign is in clear view, well as clear as it gets in L.A., from the living room window, as is the downtown area. Leaving Kingman, Arizona yesterday, I spoke with a few of the Best Western housekeepers. All of them were originally from California and noted that Kingman was a cheaper place to live. Two of them confessed that they were former party girls and came east seeking a simpler life away from the scene. Yes, I love to find out the origins of people whom I encounter, and I've already found out that Ana, who lives across the street, is from Costa Rica, and her Shitzu, Sunny, is 5 years old. Chico's human mother, Lupe, is from Nicaragua, and they live in the building at the bottom of the hill. In the past, probably in a need to feel safe, I've used this sort of information to concoct a personality profile. Now, I'm on a mission to meet people and not have to write their stories based on our dialogue; however, I'll never cease asking the "where are you from originally" question. Though, I'll save the story writing for the novels, stage plays, and screenplays.

On I-40 between Kingman and the California state line, there aren't many places for "services," a catch-all term for gas, food, and lodging. With my gauge on E, and the fuel light on for more than 25 miles, I got quite nervous. My car noted that it was 89 degrees outside, and I had visions of Shug, Phoebe, and I crawling across the desert in search of water. Dehydrated from the heat, we'd then pass out and get bitten by scorpions and eaten by coyotes. I took a few deep breaths and just practiced what I believed to be true, which was that I'd be fine. Sure enough, as soon as I came back to the present, an exit appeared. Yucca, Arizona, and there was only one small business there. The irony in that the simple, bucolic store was named "Gas, Food, and Diesel" and was on Proving Ground Road wasn't lost on me.

In Ludlow, California, I stopped to buy bottled water. I was parched, and I knew Shug needed to pee. Oh, and, yet again, Phoebe needed to be removed from her used litterbox. Repeating the familial shaming pattern of many generations, I said to Phoebe, "I can't imagine sitting in a box of sand after I've peed and pooped in it." But if truth be known, I thought, there was surely a subculture out there who got into such. I wrote a note to self to do a Google search using the keywords "human," "feces," "urine," and "sandbox," but I haven't done so yet. Once I opened the car door, I felt the 89 degree Mojave Desert heat. Gently pulling Shug's leash, I tried to get her to get out of the car. After briefly touching her foot on the pavement and feeling the heat, she quickly backed up and sat down in the passenger seat. That look of hers said to me, "Oh hell no!"

About 70 miles from Los Angeles, and a low battery message popped up on the screen of my Garmin GPS. The afternoon before when I'd gotten out of the car to get lunch at Dairy Queen, Shug got a case of separation anxiety, and accidentally unplugged the power cord. Whatever she did resulted in it no longer working. Well, I felt myself getting uptight, wondering how I was going to get to my place. My mind started racing a bit, and I was sure that I was going to get lost and get stuck in traffic, and Shug was going to get abducted, and Phoebe was going to be placed in foster car. I remembered to breath, and I got calm. I need to find a Best Buy that's right off the interstate I thought. Within 10 minutes, in Lucerne Valley, and I saw the Best Buy. I ran into the store, not wanting to leave Shug and Phoebe in the locked car by themselves for too long. Visions of Amber Alerts danced in my head. A designated expert in the mobile section of the store led me to the cord. "$128," the cashier said. "That can't be right," I said. "The guy back there said that it was around $19 or $20." After about five minutes of not being able to get the expert to come up front, I showed my tail, even though I tried my best to remain calm. "Ma'am, I've got a dog and a cat in the car, and I don't have time for assing around." She handled the situation with class, appeasing me and telling me that she understood, but the creases in her forehead with the slight frown let me know that I had perpetuated the stereotype of Southerners. She'd surely never heard that someone didn't have time for "assing around."

Right outside San Bernardino, California, on the highest elevation of the highway, I popped in a CD mix made by Monica. John Lennon's "Imagine" started up. My favorite song of all time. "Imagine all the people living for today." That's what I'm trying to do, but I'm sure that I'll falter from time to time. Sure, I'll continue to do a few personality profiles on people whom I meet, and I'll shame Phoebe or Shug again. I'll probably honk the horn at someone who is assing around. Through it all, though, I plan to keep trying to live for today.