Where It All Begins

Day 1: The Animal Training Saga Continues

Six-thirty in the morning is a lovely time for sunrises, morning walks, a moment of self-reflection, meditation and…driving on the icy roads of Northern Michigan. This is where the animal training saga continues; on back roads and blizzardy highways, with my sister squinting ahead at the open road as the wipers sweep back and forth across the already-dry windshield.
“Are you going to turn those off?” I asked.
“No,” she said. I fell asleep to their rhythmic fwwp, fwwp and awoke to find myself curbside at the Grand Rapids Regional Airport. It was time to embark on chapter two of my journey. It was time for dolphins. Inside the airport the attendant at the Delta check-in counter gave me a sideways glance that says, “It must be your lucky day” as I placed my pre-weighed bag onto the scale. 49 pounds. No, 50. If it weren’t for my father I’d be lost in this world, forgetting the essential things in life, like weighing your luggage before you leave the house so your attendant can give you meaningful looks for your pre-meditated precision. I lugged what would be all of my possessions for the next month over to the TSA officer standing by the machine that seemed to simply eat suitcases whole. As he rattled off his spiel and I denied all possession of firearms, fireworks, lighters, explosives and such, I said a little prayer to the luggage gods hoping this wouldn’t be the unfortunate day some idiot lost my suitcase. I rounded the corner to head toward security and was met head-on with a less cringe-worthy unfortunate scenario. You always wonder what jerk caused the security line to wind out into the food court when it’s your turn to wait in line. Someone smuggling exotic snakes in their pants, forgot to put their indispensable lotion in their suitcase, etc. It ranges from psychotic genius to negligent traveler in my mind. As I stood in line and stared longingly at the closed Pizza Hut only steps away from me, I noticed what I like to call a “creeper”. Not someone who’s creepy, but rather someone that encroaches on your space in an incremental manner, inches at a time, until…they’re breathing down your neck and you wish they’d chewed some gum before deciding to invade your personal space. I moved forward with the line, she moved forward and then some. Finally I looked over to inspect what I was dealing with. She was no older than twenty, dyed hair, Coach bag, big diamond earrings. Tapping her foot incessantly as if this line was just the last darn straw in her patience hat. And it was.
“Where are you headed?” I asked.
“San Francisco. My flight departs at 10:10.” It was 9:45. So, the foot-tapping was warranted, as was the creeping.
“You should just cut everyone,” I said.
“I tried that, but the guy got all pissed,” she replied.
“Just go person to person and ask if everyone’s okay with it. He can’t stop you from doing that.” She sighed.
“I hit a fox on the way here. Busted my radiator. I had to take a cab here.” She said it as if all cabs were hot-beds for cockroaches and heathens alike. “It has been a shit day.”
“Geez, I’m sorry,” I said. “I think you’ll make it though. You can cut me.”
“Thanks,” she said, rolling her eyes. I think this was aimed towards the situation and not my offer…I think. Long story short, she got through security and found herself waiting at the gate for a flight that had been delayed. It all seems to always work out in the end, some just end up with higher blood pressure by the time they get there.
On the plane I got stuck next to a sigher. A sigher with bad breath. Really bad breath. Every five minutes he’d sigh, and by some miraculous feat of diffusion his breath would be up my nose despite the space between us. So it goes. The next plane I got three seats to myself. Proof that the world maintains some semblance of balance.
I arrived at Miami airport well-rested and ready to begin the next leg of the journe: my first Greyhound Bus ever. Now, to found the bus stop…
After asking four unsuspecting people who looked to have some authority of the place, I came up with two things: 1) the bus stop is at concourse E 2) the bus stop is too far to walk to. And yet, I walked to concourse E. Now started the chain of confusion. I walked to the public transportation office to find the desk unattended and a man punching and screaming at a ticket machine in the corner. Giving up on that option, I finally hailed a taxi after a man told me the walk would be too far. A man from Pakistan drove me to the station where upon entering I was greeted with a roomful of glazed stares that all rested on one cumulative thought: you don’t belong here. I took my place in the corner of the room and waited. When the bus arrived I followed the Mick Jagger look-alike aboard and took my place at the front of the bus. The woman two seats away from me picked up her cell phone and began to ramble on in Russian. I waited for the doors to close and read a book until there was no more light. Then, I slept. When I arrived in Key Largo I called Jessica, one of the trainers, who came to pick me up. As we drove down Allen Avenue to the house where I’d be living I noticed something wonderful. It was too dark to see where they were, but there was the subtle scent of lilacs as we drove down the road. Parked in my landlady’s overhang garage was a white Mustang convertible. This is likely where my dad will get jealous and pretend that he doesn’t want a Mustang, doesn’t want to be golfing in Florida and doesn’t wish his daughter didn’t pick such a damned expensive school so he could rent a nice place to escape the cold Michigan winters. And this would also be the place where my mom lets out an envious groan as I tell her that not a block away is a canal where you can sit and watch manatees swim.
Judy, my hostess for the month, opened the door and two little terriers ran out to greet me. Judy is almost exactly what I expected: dyed blonde hair, a permanent scent of Virginia Slims marinated into her dark leathery skin. She’s got those legs that don’t seem to quite match the rest of her body, long and skinny and without much curve so that they seem to disappear into her loose short shorts. I was promptly introduced to Lil Bit and Curtis, the two exuberant terriers bouncing at my feet while intermittently pausing to scratch themselves. I suspect that they have fleas. Curtis is ten years old and has cataracts in both eyes. He has also already taken quite a liking to me, as he is sound asleep in my bed as I type this. Lil Bit is not so little. She was supposed to be just seven pounds but is a whopping fourteen instead. I suspect that her fleas are much worse than Curtis’.
While I was promised wireless internet and cable I have found that both promises have come up short, as I have a DSL cord that is only available to me in a less than reclusive office and one channel which is currently playing “The Bachelor”. And yet, I have a pile of books on my bedstand. There never was such a wonderful persuasion to read as the absence of technology.
Tomorrow will be my first day at the facility, eight in the morning, bright and early. I have no idea what to expect except one thing: it sure as hell will beat winter in Michigan.

More to come...