Operation:Freedom

essay

I'm sitting at a glass living-room table on the carpeted floor of a friend's rental unit in Bullhead City, Arizona, and the great experiment hasn't even started yet. Oh, I've spent the last five weeks tearing apart my home and my shop, winding down my business and transferring the drips and drabs to my friend so that it still has the appearance of life, but I haven't driven the first mile of Operation: Freedom yet.

Operation: Freedom. An interesting title, that. Pete (that same friend) and I were sipping some smooth Irish whiskey one night last month when I casually mentioned that I was sick of the life I was living.

"So make a change," he may have said. May have. Remember, we were deep into the bottle... all that remains of the conversation is a few bleary impressions.

I took another 'sip' (read: shot) and responded, "What kind of change?"

"That's up to you," he answered. "What are you sick of?"

I thought about his incisive question and realized I hadn't even compiled a list yet. What DID make me sick about my life? I had good friends, and a daughter I love. I was making good money (well, until the recession hit) and had earned the respect of my peers-- I was known as "The doorhanger other doorhangers come to when they're stuck," such was my experience. So what made me sick?

The crowded city

The traffic

The incessantly nice weather

The weird reactions of LA people

The boredom and injury which accompanied my job

And that was just to start. I turned to him and said, " Oh, everything."

That's when he said those fateful words which impelled me to make this change. He looked at me seriously through red-rimmed eyes and said, "Go walkabout."

He didn't actually say those words. What he actually said was "so leave," and now that I think about it I'm convinced he was just trying to get rid of me. But that's not important right now, because whatever his intentions might have been, he ignited in me a fire that caused me to say 'Fuck It! and do exactly that. Operation: Freedom was born.

The next morning (or afternoon, I forget how intense the hangover was) I began the process, closing down bills I had been paying for 25 years, giving notice, collecting packing boxes.

Side note: the best free boxes you can get are the apple boxes from the fruit store, which are designed like two separate box bottoms, one slightly larger than the other. Fill the smaller one and slide the larger one all the way over it. Not only do you get double-walled protection and no annoying flaps, but if you overfill the boxes, well, then that box is just a little taller than another one. Plus, all of your clothes come out of them smelling like fresh apples! Mmmmmm!

The boxes I found were from a busy middle-eastern produce store. They are so big they have a man stationed at the trash, taking apart and flattening boxes full time. And in true middle-eastern tradition, everything you buy is accomplished through negotiation. I didn't know that at the time. My process of box procurement was ineffective: First a sweet request, followed by whiny begging. Neither did well, and I ended up mostly with tomato boxes smeared with the slimy rejected fruit. At first. Then I watched some guy walk away with a tower of a dozen pristine apple boxes and I had to ask. "How did you manage that?"

He smiled. "I greased their palms, my friend."

Not being one to part with money, I withheld my 'grease' for a little while longer until I could stand washing goo-slathered boxes no more, then finally broke down and tried it (apprehensively).

Sixty beautiful apple boxes later, I had to admit he had something there. Those guys stationed at the trash bins don't make a lot of money, it seems.

Flash forward to the last packed box, placed into long-term storage. I'm days away from homelessness. I have a route planned (I'm heading up the coast, stopping only when they demand a passport from me) and have obtained last century's information packets, i.e. maps, from AAA. I've said my goodbyes.

Then my dear ex-wife (we're better this way. Don't assume the worst) says, "I want to go to Vegas. You have no responsibilities and I'm storing all of your shit, so you owe me."

I do indeed. So off we go to Las Vegas, quite possibly an even worse city than Los Angeles to find misguided souls living in dreamland, and we stayed for two nights (and 3 days!) in the Convention Center Hilton. The Star Trek thing is gone, so now all I have to look forward to is a poolside magician whose moment of triumph is 'accidentally' falling in the pool in his tux and tails, retrieving some sucker's playing card that was floating with all the others on the surface. Viola, he got it right.

There was also 'the deal'. With the recession looming, people are not flocking to Sin City like they used to, so all the hotels have some enticement or other to bring the suckers in. Our deal consisted of 2 nights stay, along with free coupons for the spa and alcoholic drinks and six buffets for two people, all for like a hundred bucks. Sounds good, right?

It's not. Oh, dear god, it's not.

We planned to eat only once a day, at the all-you-can-shove-down-your-cheap-ass-gullet buffet and thus making the trip even cheaper, until we learned that they don't bother changing the menu between meals. At all. Ever. We had dinner one night and lunch the next day, then breakfast on the last day. There were pork chops and cheese balls and sliced pies and fried everything, at every meal! After I choked down a breakfast clam chowder I swore I'd never eat another buffet. Like that'll happen-- the next time I'm asked I'll go. I'm weak that way.

We have friends in nearby Bullhead City, Arizona, across the Colorado river from Laughlin Nevada (the octogenarian's Vegas), and they implored us to visit, so how could we refuse?

We went out to eat at a nice (they promised) Mexican restaurant. It wasn't, but that wasn't important-- the company was good. Joining us was a friend of theirs, an 86 year old man with the disposition of someone half his age. He made his fortune in 'dirt' (his term), buying and selling land in the desert. He was telling a story about reshaping a valley with big equipment and my ex misheard one thing he said. She snapped up from her fish burrito and commented, "You couldn't get your rocks off with a black 'ho'?"

The old timer stared at her for a long moment and then burst out laughing, a deep guffaw that got the whole table chortling as well. He explained, "No, young lady. I said I was cleaning up some land, and my BACKHOE couldn't get some of the biggest rocks off!"

We laughed all night about that error. Bless her heart, my ex laughed harder than everyone. Long story short, I'm still in travel limbo.

Mistaken comedy aside, my trip begins in earnest when we return to La-La-Land on the fifth, after having watched the fireworks exploding over the casinos from a safe distance across the river.

Unless my Ex convinces me we also have to see the Grand Canyon. So help me if she does, I won't be responsible for what happens should she venture too close to the edge.