GO WEST
GO WEST
BY JOHN TUFT
I am writing this from Van Nuys in the inestimable state of California. I am living out the end of Good Will Hunting’s journey; I’ve gone to see about a girl. Like most things in life, it is a journey. I’ll. tell you more about the girl in due course. For now, let’s talk about the journey. It began this past Sunday at 5:30am in Trinity, NC when my so drove me to Charlotte airport. It’s been twelve years since I have been on a plane, and I dreaded the security ordeal. Much to my surprise I got the old man treatment; I didn’t have to take off my shoes and belt. Being a strict nutritionist, I breakfasted on Auntie Anne’s sugar and cinnamon pretzel buds. Fortified for the journey, I set out on the twelve mile hike through the endless corridors to my gate — at the farthest end. My knees begged me to reconsider my life choices, but I pressed on.
I found myself seated beside an absolutely beautiful woman of color, probably a few years my junior. Marilyn had a career doing logistical planning for the American Red Cross. She was rightly proud of her career, her husband and two sons who live in opposite corners of the United States. She was on her way to Los Angeles to meet up with one of her 8 siblings, a sister who for her own 80th birthday was going to visit Japan. When Marilyn found out that I was a writer, she then and there Googled me. That was a first. Someone finding my picture and information and waving it in my face, exclaiming, “You really are one. A real writer. I’m sitting beside a writer!” Boy, I wish my agent would get half that excited about me.
After five hours, we landed in LA and I immediately received a text that my expected ride would not show up for me. I was traveling with all my worldly goods in three suitcases and a computer bag. Which meant I had to wrestle them in an unwieldy parade of the damned through the vast spaces. The place from which I am writing did not have check in until 3pm. I’d left North Carolina at 9 in the morning and arrived five hours later at 11am. I had a four hour wait there in the airport. And down in the baggage claim there are no restaurants, no chairs, no creature comforts. I perched on the narrow window ledge and tried not to count the minutes.
Of course, my back, knees and hips had to add their two cents worth of complaints. I figured it was an hour’s ride to my destination, so at 2pm I set out to get a Lyft shared ride. Everything hurt by then and I was irritated and tired. Getting to the Lyft pickup meant a shuttle bus to a terminal 4 terminals over. I gave in to the fatigue and decided to go to a hotel for the night. Which meant…taking a shuttle bus. I went upstairs and out to the place where hotel guests wait. Three shuttles from the Sheraton passed me by so I dragged my weary body down a 3-mile sidewalk to where the buses did seem to stop. At long last one stopped. I struggled to get my bags off the curb…and promptly fell off the curb, landing in a heap on the pavement. Welcome to Los Angeles.
Four strong Angelinos promptly surrounded me and helped me to my feet. From then on I couldn’t touch my bags. The driver loaded and unloaded them at the hotel, got them inside, and got the bell staff to take care of me. The next morning, very sore and on unsteady knees, I got to ride with a young Filipino man who told me about his family and a Hawaiian grandfather who was the basis for his citizenship. I arrived at my new residence and was greeted by a very sweet and concerned Japanese woman who runs this place. When she heard of my infirmity, she moved me to a ground floor room, saving me walking up two flights of stairs.
The next morning, I walked the block to a McDonald’s for breakfast. The patron in front of me at the counter was an older woman, in a heavy coat and wool scarf wrapped around her head and shoulders. She was confused and having trouble articulating what she wanted. The woman behind the counter tried her best to find out what the customer wanted to eat. Finally, they got it straightened out, but the poor soul had lost in her brain the information that one pays for food at such an establishment. The employee, a woman in her late 40s helped her through the process of paying and the customer tried to walk away without her change. Finally, I was motioned forward.
I looked at this worker, straight into her eyes and said, “You did very well with that poor woman.” Her face immediately transformed into bright eyes and smile to match. “Thank you.” It makes a world of difference when people know that they are seen. That I looked, and actually saw her doing her best to be a kind human bean. Only later did I realize that there, but for the power of grace, went I. The poor confused woman bundled against what assailed her from all sides in her deteriorating brain. That could just as easily have been me. Struggling with pain and forlorn hopes in assisted living for that year. I can only hope that when you look at me, you see me. Or that person in front of you in line. Or the one sitting next to you…
Words are magic and writers are wizards.
