Tag Archives: writing

Coming into Morro Bay in the gloomy grayness that passes for dawn in California, I finally saw my first sign directing me towards Route 5, er, I mean, THE 5; so I turned left at the light onto THE 41 and followed it through quaint little towns, past wineries, and up and over and around some more mountains and finally onto THE 5 south.

I’d left San Simeon early because I’d heard horror stories about traffic around Los Angeles. Maybe because it was early, or maybe because it was Saturday, or maybe because whatever it was, but I cruised right through L.A. Along the way I saw the Capital Records building and some of the L.A. skyline that seemed vaguely familiar, a faint memory from a movie or a TV show, and then I was south of the city. No muss, no fuss, right?

Wrong. THE 5 just waited until the twenty mile stretch between San Clemente and Oceanside to show me just how well-deserved its terrible reputation truly is- five lanes of bumper-to-bumper southbound traffic hurtling along at eight to ten miles per hour for two hours. ilovecaliforniailovecaliforniailovecalifornia.

So I got to San Diego a little later than I’d planned and met my father and his wife, Vicki, in the parking lot of the senior living facility they call home. After lunch at one of the two restaurants in their Old Folks Home, they showed me around and the place is beautiful. Sporting three pools, two restaurants, a fitness center, and several game rooms and small libraries it is luxurious. Think upscale hotel or cruise ship.

After the tour, they took me to the front desk so I could sign in and get my key to the guest room I’d be staying in and be assigned a parking place so I wouldn’t get towed. My father and Vicki showed me where my guest room was and got me oriented so that I could find my truck again and then they went back to their apartment to take naps or whatever it is old people do during the afternoon.

I had originally planned to stay a day or two but after I parked my rig in my assigned spot and was walking back to the guest room along the quiet subdued hallways with my backpack and toiletry bag that I began to realize that I couldn’t stay.

Decades and centuries ago, in a different life, myself and the man I worked with (an owner of the company I worked for) had replaced the phone system in a different Old Folks Home. One not nearly so luxurious. Think Motel 6 or maybe some roadside motel that rents rooms by the hour. For safety reasons and because a system cutover has to be as transparent as possible, we had to do the bulk of our work after 10pm when, presumably, most of the inhabitants would be asleep. Which, in reality, as it turned out, was not the case.

Working that night, seeing those lost and lonely souls wandering the halls and listening to their cries and moans and sometimes, screams left a lasting imprint on me. And as I walked back to my guest room passing the inset apartment doors of the residents, each with their little alcoves of treasured items or pictures they want to share, and with the easily replaceable engraved nameplates of the inhabitants, I started feeling the same feelings I’d felt that night long ago.

I locked myself in the guest room, made a cocktail and took a shower and then, later, during dinner with my father and Vicki, broke the news to them that I’d be leaving in the morning. I told them that it was because it’d taken me two days longer to get to the west coast. I told them that it was because I had to be back home by June 10th. I told them I wasn’t sure how long it would take me because of route I was planning. I told them reason after reason- but I didn’t tell them the truth.

So, the next morning, after I’d packed up, I took the guest room key to their apartment and we had coffee and chatted and then said our goodbyes and as I was slowly driving across the parking lot in the gloom and grey of another California morning, I saw my father walking towards the front office to return the key and I beeped a goodbye.

He half turned and half waved, a gesture of, maybe, farewell or, perhaps, of dismissal and continued walking; it wasn’t until few moments later, as I was turning onto THE 5, that it occurred to me that I’d probably never see him again.