The conversation with Todd began innocently enough. We touched on my ridiculous job, and how it was costing me my sanity, and how the card business was not working out, and we threw in a few new stories about our crappy neighborhood. Then, Todd began to disclose the reason for his visit. He wanted us to consider moving to Pollo Mierda (a small town outside of San Francisco) and caring for his home...rent free. We had heard this before, just the year prior, as he had offered his home for a period of a year, but we weren't about to give up my job, our home, and our friends for just one year in California. This time the offer was even more enticing. This time he said, "Listen, the house is just sitting there, and with the housing market the way it is, I won't be able to sell it for at least five years. Come down, bring your cat, all your stuff, and take advantage of this. Stay as long as you like. I've even got warehouse space for your cards. You could set up shop at my office, and work on getting the business back up and running."
Aster and I were speechless. I took a deep breath and then asked, "But Todd, what about you? Where will you live?" He turned towards me, paused, met my gaze and said, "I'm not coming back." At that point all I could do was blink and poop my pants. What else do you do when you feel like you’ve been given an opportunity on such a grand scale? It’s unattractive, but it’s understandable.
Nomads are defined as a group of people who have no fixed home and move according to the seasons from place to place in search of food, water, and grazing land. When I was younger, my nomadic tribe moved according to the whims of the government, and to keep Mama out of jail. It happens. You can only forge so many prescriptions before your local pharmacist gets suspicious.
In my 18 years living with my military family we moved 13 times. One year we were scheduled to move to Germany; however, Mama refused to go, saying that she couldn’t handle those “harsh German winters.” As if the temperature of a region mattered given that she only left the home once a month to get her nails done . She was like a a poor man’s Howard Hughes only with better hygiene, a manicure, and an Ogilvie home perm.
Given that Europe was no longer an option, the military sent us to Puerto Rico. Despite the constant warm weather, Mama rarely left the house. When she did, a dramatic event always ensued, especially if she ever left the base. I lived for her to leave the base.
In the two years we lived in Puerto Rico (according to her) Mama’s purse was stolen twice, she was involved in a high speed chase through downtown San Juan, and stalked by a “snot-nosed-pan-handlin’-midget” who once cornered her at a local pharmacy and peed on her favorite pair of Nine West shoes. It was like she was living a life out of one of her Sidney Sheldon novels. I used to imagine that Diane Cannon would play her in a mini-series. Fun.
Mama’s sanity was further tested when the island of Grenada was invaded in 1983. Not only would she not leave the base, but she refused to leave the home altogether. Daddy attempted to explain that we were in no danger, but Mama laughed and said, “The hell we are! This is an island, Colonel...they can get at us from all sides!” She would then mumble something about Sherman burning Atlanta, hurricane preparedness, and finding a firearm that was small enough to fit in her purse, but deadly enough to “punch a hole in those sons-of-bitches!”
Our three year Puerto Rican tour was quickly shortened to two. We moved back to the States where Mama no longer had to concern herself with the threat of an island invasion, and could troll pharmacies without the fear of being urinated on. Life was good.
Enduring a military life for 18 years, I had no worries about moving to California. Granted, it is much easier when the federal government is involved (like the bill) but why be worried? I would only need to secure employment, and recover from an eviscerated social life. At least we would be living in wine country where drinking before noon is not only permissible, it’s mandatory. We would be fine. Drunk, but fine. So, the decision was made. We would take a risk, and move to Pollo Mierda.
I can see that there is a definite "catch" to this, but I'm clueless. You've cracked me UP! The Puerto Rico digression is hilarious. I could read volume about that alone. I'm sure you could write them as well. I learned that it is mandatory to drink in wine country before noon ... fascinating. I'm heading to California in May, and my sister lives near several vineyards. It's going to be a good trip.
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