The sign atop the diner just off highway 246 touted itself the home of the Lompoc Rockets, which must have been a point of civic pride. I was alone in the joint save Dinah, the young waitress and the line cook, who looked as though his name should be Arnie. A trio of guys who had been loitering for as long as I had just left, looking at me with the same inquisitive caution I had offered them. It was back to tinkling rain, downgraded from pissing for the last two hours.
I don’t particularly like traveling this neck of the woods when it’s raining on account of a particularly unpleasant experience I had long ago on the road leaving Santa Cruz. My friend Don Berkelwood and I went up there to visit our pal Yodis. It was charmingly illicit, and at some point Don convinced me we ought to cut our evening short and head back home. Normally that’s no problem when you’re around the corner from your place, but this was a few hundred miles…and still, after midnight, this seemed like a good idea to us.
We had not counted on two things. The first was an unexpected traversal of Highway 1, the result of our inability to correctly navigate to the 101, which would have been a smooth, simple drive instead of the winding, scenic cliffside coastal route we were on. The other was a storm system that rolled in, drenching the road. The two lane, ill lit, winding, cliffside coastal road. In the middle of night we drove, hoping to navigate those twists and curves without careening off the road in the pouring darkness. That was 100 miles of white knuckle travel I never want to recreate or relive.
So even with less treacherous road ahead, I decided to linger until there was no longer any hint of downpour to before leaving the central coast area.
Dinah bussed the now vacant table, and then came over to see if I needed a fresher cup of coffee.
“I can get you an apron if you want to stay longer…have you do some dishes,” she remarked.
“”Are you closing or throwing me out? Or are you just flirting?”
“Those are my two options?”
“So far…”
“You’re not from around here,” she added obviously.
“I see it’s ‘flirting’ then…”
“Play it cool and it may be,” smiled and went back to the counter area. She brewed a new pot and returned with a new cup of hot coffee.
“What’s this in-between,” she inquired, brushing a blond lock behind her ear.
“Pardon?”
“Here. What is this in-between? You’re gone when the weather clears…what’s your story?”
“You are most definitely flirting,” I accused her. “And I accept.”
“Oooh, you’re gonna be disappointed. I don’t know if you can handle a broken heart at your age.”
I countered, “I’ll have you know that I’m at least five years younger than you think I am. Those other guys more your type?”
“I don’t date musicians.”
“Those guys were musicians? They looked like roofers…they’re closer to my age than yours.”
“Could be,” Dinah said, “but they’re a band. Seen ‘em in Santa Barbara and SLO once or twice. Not bad, but not motivated enough to make it. Even if they didn’t have some kids, they wouldn’t be going anywhere. Small towns can sometime be the biggest black holes.”
“I know what you mean. I used to see quite a few. But isn’t that what makes them quaint and homey?”
“If that’s what small towns mean to you. You’re not a salesman. Why’d you travel so much?”
“Used to be in television. Got to ‘see the countryside’, as they say. Now I spend a few minutes here and there just talking to people.”
“I hope you’re not a comedian,” she said seriously. It made me laugh.
“No, right now I do speaking engagements. Y’know, motivational and educational stuff. Students, companies…prisoners. My name’s Sheldon,” I introduced myself, extending my hand.
“Really, the comedian thing isn’t your strong point,” she said as she gave a soft courtesy shake,” Sheldon.”
It got chilly, even though the door wasn’t open. Outside, the rain picked up, as though break time was over.
Dinah slid into the opposite side of the booth with her own cup of coffee and sized me up for a moment. “So, Sheldon, why so glum?”
Was it that obvious?
“No,” she replied, “but I just have a sense about people. Comes from being an artist.”
“A bullshit artist?”
“More like rendering. Painting. Some graphic design. Little touch up?”
I nodded and she fetched the glass urn off the warmer to top us both off. “And yet you’re here playing coffee queen of Lompoc.”
“Yep, I create art, and read people, but mostly I’m an ambassador of java.”
“Nice work if you can get it,” I added. “But, yes, perhaps I am a shade less than sunny.”
“Old lady?”
“The oldest. Mother went to move in with the infirm aunt, but she fell of the wagon. Spent a good two hours talking her situation over with her the my car before I came in until she finally convinced me that she was still on the mend and that I needn’t worry even though my aunt was totally unsure how to deal with it. Then there’s one of my colleagues, who I’ve got the hots for, and even when her divorce is finally over, I doubt she is looking to get a new dad for her daughter right away. I don’t even know if I’m up for it. And I can’t even get into the story about one of my former best friends that I haven’t spoken to since I nearly murdered his career and put mine into limbo. But other than that, things are okay.”
Dinah put her cup down the table and leaned in, looking me square in the eye. “If he goes into the walk-in freezer,” she gestured with a nod of her head towards “Arnie” in the kitchen, “I’ve give you a handie under the table.”
I glanced over to see him with his back turned, watching a small black and white TV perched high in a corner, and looked back at Dinah, who was still looking right at me.
“Perhaps not, Sheldon…guess I’m not going to get as big a tip.” Dinah frowned and sniffled, busting my balls.
“No, I’ve got one for you…get your shit together and stop wasting your time here.”
“Gee, thanks,” she smiled in an overdone manner.
“Really. You talk a good game, but all you’re ever going to do is make somebody’s cup of coffee a little more interesting. That all you’ve got to offer?”
She softened up at my calling her out, but said nothing and bowed her head a little.
“How old are you, Dinah?”
“Just about to turn 20.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Kids?”
“NO!”
“Sick parents? Crippled sibling? House arrest?”
“Uh, no.”
“We’ll, other than being a touch impressed by yourself, there’s no reason why you can’t do whatever the hell you want to do. Because being a diplomat for coffee is really not a career move.”
“The truth,” she began to admit,” is that I don’t want follow my dreams and then have them crushed and fail.”
“So this is safer? Easier?”
“In a way,” Dinah clumsily defended herself.
“Look,” I told her, trying to sound wise without that stern parental tone that makes people tune out, “I’m a grade A, number one, top flight asshole. And that’s not an apology. I’ve been pissing people off and making friends out of enemies - and sometimes enemies out of friends for longer than you’ve been around. For the most part, it’s been fine, but I have done and said and behaved in ways that I couldn’t just brush aside. So never mind that that’s one of the reasons I’m here and not doing blow with Russian supermodels in a corporate jet headed to St. Barts.”
“So if I’m an asshole, as you say, I’m going to kill my dreams?”
“No…I’m saying that despite the fact that I can be, I still did what I wanted and wasn’t disappointed. I’m as much a victim of my success as I am my failure, but you can’t really have one without the other. And you can’t be afraid of that.”
“Which? Succeeding? Or screwing things up,” she asked.
I thought about that for a second. “Maybe both.”
In my satchel I fished around in the pockets until I found a stack of cards bound with a rubber band, and separating one from the group.
“There’s a guy who I met once or twice at our company…Amos, he does the same thing but his main gig is making art. I’m sure my boss would be glad to ask him to take a few minutes and chat you up about options and direction. It’s probably better coming from someone in the same field than what I have to say.” I handed her the card with the agency number on it. “Just gimme a few days to get it together.”
“Wait…Amos Staley?”
“Um…yeah, that’s him.”
“Oh shit,” she gushed, “he’s like one of my favorite artists! And you know him? No way!” She lost about a decade and was excited like unwrapping the Barbie dream house on Christmas.
“Is he any good?” I had no idea. Nice guy but a little odd.
“Uh, yeah! He and Banksy and Damien Hirst are probably the most popular underground artists right now.”
“They anything like Thomas Kincade?”
“That motel room quality landscape garbage? I don’t think so!” Dinah was right. Kincade was garbage, which I knew even without much background in art.”
“So that’ll maybe get you going and consider pursuing art a little harder?”
“Yes! Thank you so much Sheldon.”
“You’re welcome, Dinah.”
She flashed another guilty smile. “It’s Katerina,” as she grabbed the nametag on her pocket. “Dinah from the diner just sounded funny to me.”
It amused me. “Okay, you’re welcome…Katerina.” We smiled and sipped our coffee.
“So…what’s the cook’s name?”
I don’t particularly like traveling this neck of the woods when it’s raining on account of a particularly unpleasant experience I had long ago on the road leaving Santa Cruz. My friend Don Berkelwood and I went up there to visit our pal Yodis. It was charmingly illicit, and at some point Don convinced me we ought to cut our evening short and head back home. Normally that’s no problem when you’re around the corner from your place, but this was a few hundred miles…and still, after midnight, this seemed like a good idea to us.
We had not counted on two things. The first was an unexpected traversal of Highway 1, the result of our inability to correctly navigate to the 101, which would have been a smooth, simple drive instead of the winding, scenic cliffside coastal route we were on. The other was a storm system that rolled in, drenching the road. The two lane, ill lit, winding, cliffside coastal road. In the middle of night we drove, hoping to navigate those twists and curves without careening off the road in the pouring darkness. That was 100 miles of white knuckle travel I never want to recreate or relive.
So even with less treacherous road ahead, I decided to linger until there was no longer any hint of downpour to before leaving the central coast area.
Dinah bussed the now vacant table, and then came over to see if I needed a fresher cup of coffee.
“I can get you an apron if you want to stay longer…have you do some dishes,” she remarked.
“”Are you closing or throwing me out? Or are you just flirting?”
“Those are my two options?”
“So far…”
“You’re not from around here,” she added obviously.
“I see it’s ‘flirting’ then…”
“Play it cool and it may be,” smiled and went back to the counter area. She brewed a new pot and returned with a new cup of hot coffee.
“What’s this in-between,” she inquired, brushing a blond lock behind her ear.
“Pardon?”
“Here. What is this in-between? You’re gone when the weather clears…what’s your story?”
“You are most definitely flirting,” I accused her. “And I accept.”
“Oooh, you’re gonna be disappointed. I don’t know if you can handle a broken heart at your age.”
I countered, “I’ll have you know that I’m at least five years younger than you think I am. Those other guys more your type?”
“I don’t date musicians.”
“Those guys were musicians? They looked like roofers…they’re closer to my age than yours.”
“Could be,” Dinah said, “but they’re a band. Seen ‘em in Santa Barbara and SLO once or twice. Not bad, but not motivated enough to make it. Even if they didn’t have some kids, they wouldn’t be going anywhere. Small towns can sometime be the biggest black holes.”
“I know what you mean. I used to see quite a few. But isn’t that what makes them quaint and homey?”
“If that’s what small towns mean to you. You’re not a salesman. Why’d you travel so much?”
“Used to be in television. Got to ‘see the countryside’, as they say. Now I spend a few minutes here and there just talking to people.”
“I hope you’re not a comedian,” she said seriously. It made me laugh.
“No, right now I do speaking engagements. Y’know, motivational and educational stuff. Students, companies…prisoners. My name’s Sheldon,” I introduced myself, extending my hand.
“Really, the comedian thing isn’t your strong point,” she said as she gave a soft courtesy shake,” Sheldon.”
It got chilly, even though the door wasn’t open. Outside, the rain picked up, as though break time was over.
Dinah slid into the opposite side of the booth with her own cup of coffee and sized me up for a moment. “So, Sheldon, why so glum?”
Was it that obvious?
“No,” she replied, “but I just have a sense about people. Comes from being an artist.”
“A bullshit artist?”
“More like rendering. Painting. Some graphic design. Little touch up?”
I nodded and she fetched the glass urn off the warmer to top us both off. “And yet you’re here playing coffee queen of Lompoc.”
“Yep, I create art, and read people, but mostly I’m an ambassador of java.”
“Nice work if you can get it,” I added. “But, yes, perhaps I am a shade less than sunny.”
“Old lady?”
“The oldest. Mother went to move in with the infirm aunt, but she fell of the wagon. Spent a good two hours talking her situation over with her the my car before I came in until she finally convinced me that she was still on the mend and that I needn’t worry even though my aunt was totally unsure how to deal with it. Then there’s one of my colleagues, who I’ve got the hots for, and even when her divorce is finally over, I doubt she is looking to get a new dad for her daughter right away. I don’t even know if I’m up for it. And I can’t even get into the story about one of my former best friends that I haven’t spoken to since I nearly murdered his career and put mine into limbo. But other than that, things are okay.”
Dinah put her cup down the table and leaned in, looking me square in the eye. “If he goes into the walk-in freezer,” she gestured with a nod of her head towards “Arnie” in the kitchen, “I’ve give you a handie under the table.”
I glanced over to see him with his back turned, watching a small black and white TV perched high in a corner, and looked back at Dinah, who was still looking right at me.
“Perhaps not, Sheldon…guess I’m not going to get as big a tip.” Dinah frowned and sniffled, busting my balls.
“No, I’ve got one for you…get your shit together and stop wasting your time here.”
“Gee, thanks,” she smiled in an overdone manner.
“Really. You talk a good game, but all you’re ever going to do is make somebody’s cup of coffee a little more interesting. That all you’ve got to offer?”
She softened up at my calling her out, but said nothing and bowed her head a little.
“How old are you, Dinah?”
“Just about to turn 20.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Kids?”
“NO!”
“Sick parents? Crippled sibling? House arrest?”
“Uh, no.”
“We’ll, other than being a touch impressed by yourself, there’s no reason why you can’t do whatever the hell you want to do. Because being a diplomat for coffee is really not a career move.”
“The truth,” she began to admit,” is that I don’t want follow my dreams and then have them crushed and fail.”
“So this is safer? Easier?”
“In a way,” Dinah clumsily defended herself.
“Look,” I told her, trying to sound wise without that stern parental tone that makes people tune out, “I’m a grade A, number one, top flight asshole. And that’s not an apology. I’ve been pissing people off and making friends out of enemies - and sometimes enemies out of friends for longer than you’ve been around. For the most part, it’s been fine, but I have done and said and behaved in ways that I couldn’t just brush aside. So never mind that that’s one of the reasons I’m here and not doing blow with Russian supermodels in a corporate jet headed to St. Barts.”
“So if I’m an asshole, as you say, I’m going to kill my dreams?”
“No…I’m saying that despite the fact that I can be, I still did what I wanted and wasn’t disappointed. I’m as much a victim of my success as I am my failure, but you can’t really have one without the other. And you can’t be afraid of that.”
“Which? Succeeding? Or screwing things up,” she asked.
I thought about that for a second. “Maybe both.”
In my satchel I fished around in the pockets until I found a stack of cards bound with a rubber band, and separating one from the group.
“There’s a guy who I met once or twice at our company…Amos, he does the same thing but his main gig is making art. I’m sure my boss would be glad to ask him to take a few minutes and chat you up about options and direction. It’s probably better coming from someone in the same field than what I have to say.” I handed her the card with the agency number on it. “Just gimme a few days to get it together.”
“Wait…Amos Staley?”
“Um…yeah, that’s him.”
“Oh shit,” she gushed, “he’s like one of my favorite artists! And you know him? No way!” She lost about a decade and was excited like unwrapping the Barbie dream house on Christmas.
“Is he any good?” I had no idea. Nice guy but a little odd.
“Uh, yeah! He and Banksy and Damien Hirst are probably the most popular underground artists right now.”
“They anything like Thomas Kincade?”
“That motel room quality landscape garbage? I don’t think so!” Dinah was right. Kincade was garbage, which I knew even without much background in art.”
“So that’ll maybe get you going and consider pursuing art a little harder?”
“Yes! Thank you so much Sheldon.”
“You’re welcome, Dinah.”
She flashed another guilty smile. “It’s Katerina,” as she grabbed the nametag on her pocket. “Dinah from the diner just sounded funny to me.”
It amused me. “Okay, you’re welcome…Katerina.” We smiled and sipped our coffee.
“So…what’s the cook’s name?”
---
The Talking Heads convention arrived unnaturally fast, making the days and weeks fly past nearly faster than my recollection. If the first month or so getting acclimated to working at Tanner was 1st or 2nd gear, the time since then was cranking in 7th – it just whipped by. The status quo had something to do with that, driving on auto-pilot as things settled comfortably into being routine, which was something I was not used to. I was adapting, but the traveling and frequency was nothing like what the show demanded. I thought it would be boring, but life had become comfortable.
Mother was still making Aunt Tilly nuts once in a while, but I found out that she was doing it more to inject a little fire into Tilly when she would get start getting depressed and unresponsive. I told her it wasn’t the proper motivator to shake Tilly from her downturns, but it was the only thing that got Tilly to snap back to focus by taking care of my mother and having to mind the benders. A pyrrhic victory is still a victory, I guess.
Carla was still the object of my affection, even though she had me strongly parked in the friend zone. We’d never made it to a kiss – a real kiss, and it was dawning on me that it was probably not going to. All my pecks on the check, which I did with a good deal of women as a harmless greeting and satisfied my randy nature, remained harmless. I probably sealed my fate grasping at the little free time Carla had available, which also included taking Rochelle along. Though I did get to go to Disneyland for the first time in god knows how long. I’ve got a photo of the three of us on the fridge and a pair of Mickey ears with my name embroidered on the back.
And speaking of not getting laid there, I steered clear of Cami, or more like she of me. And I don’t blame her either for that. Our paths were a compilation of one wild and awkward event after the other, and if there was another to top the last, medical staff, attorneys on retainer, and public safety would all probably be involved. I’ve had women wake up from a drunken encounter and shun me, and Cami took the same route even though she took an earlier exit. I don’t think it’s just me, but a predisposed thing for some women. In her case, it was a reaction to what had (not) happened, dealing with the embarrassment of her actions. Though it also went the other way…
I was surprised to learn that Melissa had a sister who not only looked nothing like her, but was incredibly down for having a good time in the limited span she came out to visit, and then left without fuss or bother. Fran and I were going to watch the most recent F1 race, since he had a far larger television than I. In his retirement, he found the time to appreciate some of the different things that never rated before, but that also meant his proficiency in computers grew and made him the local guru. So much so that when Darlene came to visit she brought her laptop for a tune up, and it was keeping him busy during the time we’d planned. We didn’t watch the tape of the race that day, but we all went out for Indian food, and afterwards, Darlene warmed up much more than she’d let on at dinner. It was good that she was out there for a spot of business and had a room at a hotel, which made giving her a ride back better entree then looking for a subdued corner of Fran’s place to fool around.
It’s great that older women are whores – and I say that with respect. Not all of them, but a reasonable amount. When you get to a certain age, sometimes fucking is just fucking. It’s not like a 24 year old who is getting wasted or making a bunch of bad decisions. If you’re easy and willing when you’re well past your roaring 20’s, then at least you’re old enough to be able to deal with the situation – mostly by not making it a big, emotional thing. I wasn’t thinking about starting up with her and dealing with the fact she lived in Wyoming. On the plus side, that could eventually make Fran and I brothers-in-law if it was serious, but all it did was bolster my reputation as a sister fucker. It was never any of my friend’s siblings, but their girlfriends, wives, or female friend’s sisters, and it was enough times to carry the label.
I reminisced about the adult situations that occurred there at the airport Hyatt that weekend as we arrived at their sister location in Orlando. It was only three blocks from the convention center, and Nell was kind enough to get everybody their own room. We first gathered in the airport as she was coming from Montréal for reasons only she, Peter, Sunday and the American Express Black card knew, and together we waited for Tawny Prietch and Gorin Klaytchko, each of them coming from parts unknown to me. Tawny may be familiar to you as one of the girls on the ’96 gymnastics squad that won gold over the Chinese who were expected to dominate the competitions. Gorin was a business whiz who came to America during the height of the cold war from the USSR (as I will call them the same as he to be historically accurate). He managed to make a killing before Black Monday in 1987, and was one of the few who kept it afterwards and without jail time from the S & L crisis.
It looked like Nell was going heavier on the personalities and pseudo-celebs for her representation this year; Carla told me last year’s triple crown was an architect, a special ed teacher, and a Hispanic writer (presumably to give the group some ethnic flavor). Still, if the hype was to believed, it was a slim group who ended up going to these things, so I must have been doing something right, or at least in my past life. The four of us agreed to meet downstairs at seven to have dinner to discuss what we could expect from the convention, and more importantly, what Nell expected of us. And before that, I did what I expected of myself, which was to have a gin-gin (that’s ginger ale and gin) from the minibar, nap for an hour, and shower before reconvening.
I was not disappointed to find that months away from cross country travel had little effect on the success of my trifecta routine, which left me spry and alert instead of jet-lagged. As long as you get a shot of liquor in you before you sleep an hour or two and take a hot shower, you’re golden. Gorin and Tawny did not look to well for their wear, and they too had covered some decent distance. Gorin was coming from a conference in Sao Paulo that he was a guest at; an old business contact of his was able to sell a few thousand extra entries with Gorin’s presence, and even though he probably tread close to Nell’s territory and likely spoke to the attendees, Nell did not seem to concern herself what happened in international waters, and certainly if it did not effect her deal with them. Likewise, Tawny was at the University of Colorado making an appearance at a US Nationals demo, using her accomplishments to lend prestige to the program and bolster the draw. The Tanner Agency was great if you had other primary fields you were active in, but it made me a little wistful, being singularly employed. That free time and burden of only one job paid big dividends for my waistline. I think I’ve dropped 15 pounds since I left CNC.
We were an odd looking bunch by sheer default of our separate personalities and backgrounds, which translated into our attire: pint-sized Tawny wore track pants and a tank top under an oversized cotton waffle long sleeve, Gorin looked like Rasputin by way of the Paper Chase, his long hair a strange combination with a corduroy jacket (complete with elbow patches), plaid shirt, and bow tie poking out from the sides of his massive beard that cascaded over like a waterfall, Nell sticking with her Italian Vogue look in a Missoni dress. Or was it Moschino? I don’t know which it was, but as usual, she looked both intimidating and incredible. My contribution to the quartet was pair of vintage grey jeans and black button down. We looked like an extras casting session.
Dinner was Greek, which was delicious, but a little distracting with the belly dancing and plate breaking. Nell gave us some directives for the next three days, but other than representing the agency for a few hours a day at the booth, we were free to not only look around and interact with the other speakers and groups, but also encouraged to attend some of the workshops and seminars. Many years ago I was at a convention for Head Start, the government funded program for child development, education, and parenting, covering a segment. It was a strange assortment of people and products looking to get a wedge of government cheese, with everything from potty training coloring books to school logos on backpacks. Other than the segment, I came away from it with a black newborn baby doll as a goof and a slight aversion to the massive halls of conventions.
I changed that tune once I got inside on day one, when I realized that instead of matronly old women and the dregs of Smalltown, U.S.A. it was 200,000 square feet of characters, which I was on first shift to roam free and chat with. To my chagrin, the room was arranged in a random configuration, so next to the podium manufacturer was a speakers bureau specializing in maritime experts, then a group that made marketing and promotional DVDs, and a wireless microphone company. It made me wish that I had Fran and a microphone to document the whole scene because it would have been hard to convince anybody that it was such a bizarre amalgam of companies and folks.
I’d taken a cursory lap around the floor noting the places I would spend more time at later; the booths with the models in front, the agency that had Leroy Kelly (Cleveland Browns, 1964 – 1973), a sign language only group…I was uncertain that I would be able to cover them all in the few days we were there. My time was almost up, so I hightailed it back to the booth to rendezvous with Nell and Gorin, who I would be replacing. I arrived and he was alone.
“Where’s the boss lady,” I asked.
“She is making deal with client,” he told me in English that after two decades living here never got perfected.
“Wow,” I marveled, “she doesn’t waste any time.”
“No, they come up and she start explaining what the agency do, and they take her to meet their boss and make arrangements.”
“Is she coming back soon?”
“I believe so…there she is,” Gorin pointed to the entrance of the hall.
Nell was surrounded by suits walking back to our 8’ x 12’ area, but it didn’t require them to get back to us for me to identify them.
“Sheldon,” Nell said, “I’m glad you’re here. These are new clients of ours –“
“Mason Burnett.”
Surprised, Nell said, “Yes, you already know him?”
“I do. Hello Jeff. Hello Ian.”
“Well, then, since you already know each other, are you going to tell me you know about their plans, Sheldon?”
“Well, that depends,” I said.
“Burnett Media are having a company wide banquet next month, and we will be sending a speaker. And if that goes as planned, we will be their exclusive agency for all company events that they request speakers for. Since you’re familiar with them, perhaps you can help me find which of our staff may be best suited for the task.”
“Of course,” I smiled. “I can think of plenty of our associates that fit the bill.”
And none of them were named Sheldon.
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