Miki poked her head in in the morning, and whispered the plan. Something about how she was going out, going to be back, Dave would be around, that we’d get a ride to the auto shop on time, etc, etc. I remember her voice being gentle and soothing. It reminded me that I’d been around unsavory characters for 15 days, and that I was desultory.
Eventually the fellas got up and we hung out with Dave. It was Dave’s birthday. We wished him heartily. We all talked about UFOs and Area 51, Dave’s military service and how Hurt Locker was bullshit (I knew it!), and metal vet Dave Mustaine’s drug habit. A common conversational theme since we watched Some Kind Of Monster in Birmingham was how Dave Mustaine his a huge douche bag for crying over how he sold 15 million albums in Megadeth instead of 90 million albums like he would have had he been allowed to remain in Metallica. In addition to these conversations, we also consumed Eggo waffles. And I took in their beautiful, beautiful house.
We got a ride from both Dave and Miki to the auto shop. We rode in their huge, huge Tahoe. I’m not an SUV lover – quite the opposite. But after 15 days in the van, I did my best to bask in the luxury. And being desultory, I tried to take it like Lil’ Wayne: “Fuckin the world and I ain’t cum yet.” On the way, both Miki and Dave agreed with me that Beatles > Stones.
Long story short: we got the van. But the nice auto shop ladies advised that we not drive it over 65 miles an hour. And the keys wouldn’t come out of the ignition. We found this out down the road. They advised via phone conference that we pull the gear shifter up way hard (it was the kind you pull up and down next to the ignition, as all Town & Countries do).
I texted the appropriate parties that we’d finally escaped Tucson once we were outside of the city limits. I wanted to be sure even if we broke down even a mile down the road that my words would still be true. But that didn’t happen. We got passed Tempe, passed fucking Phoenix, passed Arizona into California.
The drive was about nine hours. It was hot as shit. The desert was dead, little towns we drove by were ghost towns with structures made out of rotting wood. There was no escape from the heat, and I just kept lathering my body in sun screen. It was like driving through a thermal-nuclear apocalypse.
We got into L.A. listening to Radiohead of all things. It was an unsettling soundtrack, and downtown L.A. at night looked more like Gotham City than I’d ever seen Manhattan look. I’d only been to L.A. when I was nine years old or so. I have very little memory of it, and besides, I think most of my time was spent in Irvine or some damn part of Orange County.
In brief: We saw Max’s sister / met up with Sarah. The show happened. I hurt my back headbanging. We slept at Max’s sisters. There was four of us now.
I wanted to feel like this but instead I felt like this:
-for part of Friday May 11th, 2012