This Thanksgiving marks the 384th anniversary of the first Thanksgiving, held in 1621 by the surviving 50 colonists, who shared turkey and Libby’s canned cranberry sauce with Massasoit and a smattering of Wampanoag men. But have you heard the story of the lesser-recognized but equally celebrated anniversary of The Night Ken Craig Was Jailed and Freed From Jail? No? Well, grab a drumstick, loosen your belt, sit back, belch, and enjoy this Thanksgiving yarn seven years in the making.
It all began on a cold, windy night in Tonopah, Nevada. It’s not in the middle of nowhere, but you can see it from there. This is one of those forsaken towns that live on highway 95, stretching from Las Vegas to Reno. (Highway 95 Motto: If you think the land is ugly, you should see our brothel employees!)
Driving back to Las Vegas from a Thanksgiving weekend in Lake Tahoe, I was approaching Tonopah around midnight. I had driven this road before and was already quite familiar with the way this highway posted its speed limits. As you near any of the mini-mining towns along 95, it drops from 70 to 25 faster than the IQ points of an Arkansas native sucking helium out of a balloon. The speed limit in Tonopah is so low it actually requires you to turn your car off and push it through town. So when I was on the outskirts of Tonopah, and suddenly realized I would need to fill the gas tank in order to make it to the next town, I didn’t exactly accelerate after flipping a u-turn to head back to the Texaco.
Apparently I was having Katie push the car too fast, because a cop pulled me over, directly.
“You were going 60 miles per hour!”
“That’s impossible! I just barely turned the car around – I wouldn’t have even had enough time to pick up speed!”
The cop disappeared for about five minutes, then came back…
“Well…how fast do you think you were going?” Translation: I have no idea if you were speeding or not, but I’m bored, there are no doughnut shops in Tonopah, and I resent you for it.
I looked through the windshield and saw a 45 mph sign a few yards in front of us.
“40 mph.”
“I see.” He disappeared again. This time he sat in his car. And sat. And sat. And sat. And then a second patrol car pulled up. Now I was surrounded by both Tonopah patrol cars. Because I looked so dangerous, this officer had actually called for back up.
Sgt. Backup walked up to the window and asked to see Katie’s license. I asked him why he needed her license, since she wasn’t the one driving.
“Because your license is suspended – and if she can’t drive this car, we are going to impound it.”
“My license is not suspended. There’s an error somewhere.” The kind public official didn’t bother to make eye contact with me, he just snatched Katie’s license out of her hand.
Katie asked, “Are you sure it’s suspended, officer?” To which he wittily retorted, “Ma’am…I went to college!” Touché. I had my doubts about that, as well as if Tonopah Community College actually qualifies as any kind of center of higher learning.
“You guys heading into Vegas for a hot weekend?!”
“Uhm…we live there. We have a 15-month old, so our weekends aren’t that hot for the time being. And it’s Sunday night…the ‘weekend’ is over.”
“Watch it, smart guy.”
My mind was racing. I could not for the life of me figure out how they had such incorrect information as my license being suspended. One thing was for sure; I wasn’t going to be driving anywhere myself. I got out of the car to switch seats with Katie. This was evidently the wrong thing to do. The officers freaked out that I had stepped out of the car. I couldn’t see them well, so it would be unfair to say they had pulled their guns on me, but they did order me back into the car. Which is fine, since that is where I was going. I walked over to the passenger side and got back in the car. And I sat there trying to figure out how this could have happened.
Finally, a light bulb came on. Oh, not immediately, but these guys were giving me all the time in the world while they huddled and tried to remember what you do when somebody has a suspended license and doesn’t bribe you to just let them go. I’m thinking that neither of them had The Book on them, so they called Pervis, back at the station, and were having him read it to them over the CB. But I digress.
A light bulb had come on. I began to recall a speeding ticket I had received in Wendover last March or so. I remembered it so well because shortly after I had sent in the money for the ticket, I received notice in the mail that if the Wendover court didn’t receive my payment soon, my license would be suspended. And I remember how I promptly called the Wendover court to encourage them to stay on top of their paper work, because I had already sent in the money. “That’s right,” the clerk had said, “we have received it, and we’ve entered it into our computer. You can just throw that notice away.” And that’s exactly what I did. Because I was still under the misconception that Nevada law enforcement certainly cared about my well being. I mean, that is, after all, why they pull you over for J-walking or not signaling to turn – because they just couldn’t sleep that night thinking about how you just might have injured yourself if they hadn’t given you that $265 citation.
I was missing a step, but somewhere between the Wendover court telling me they had received my money and processed the cancellation of the license suspension – and the actual cancellation of the suspension – their was a big, fat, hairy failure to communicate. Suddenly, I was Cool Hand Ken.
Happy to have tracked down the cause, and equally furious that bureaucracy had stepped on my face, I was full of a certain unmentionable liquid, plus vinegar. It didn’t bode well for the officer who came up to my window.
“Mr. Craig (they called me Mister, no doubt because of the great deal of respect they held for me)… Mr. Craig, we’re going to have to take you in and it’s going to be $400 for bail.”
Something in my brain snapped. “Well…hmm…see, I don’t have $400. And I’m supporting a single-income family on an entry-level job – so I don’t happen to have that on me, nor is it in my budget right now. I don’t know what kind of show you’re running here – but I’m not going to leave my wife and baby out here in the cold while you book me and put me in jail because some chain-smoking alcoholic at the DMV couldn’t push buttons fast enough on her computer to clear my name from something that should have been taken care of over six months ago and is completely out of my hands.”
Well, now that I had won him over with my charm, he disappeared back to his car again. I don’t know, maybe I made him cry. Then he came back with the second officer and asked me to step out of the car. They bullied me over to the patrol car, shoved my face down on the hood, searched me for weapons, actually handcuffed me, and pushed me into the back of the patrol car.
I looked through the windshield and saw my sweet wife hanging out the window, mouth wide open. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but I’m glad Abbie was too young to understand any of it. I don’t think she was singing, and I don’t think she was asking for a hug. She had her fist clenched and was bawling them out, demanding to talk to me so she could find out where to get $400 that we didn’t have. They told her that she seemed upset, and they’ve only seen situations like this escalate, so they weren’t going to let her talk to me. Maybe I could give her a call from jail. After Katie explained that we don’t own any car phones and don’t currently have a summer home in Tonopah where she could be reached, they told her to follow us to the station.
Meanwhile, Officer I-Have-No-Idea-If-You-Were-Speeding is driving me to the station, and decides to put on his Good Guy Cop Hat. “I’m only doing my job, you know.” If I could have reached his crotch, I would have kicked it. When I finally decided to speak up, all I said was, “When the court realizes they’ve made a mistake…will I get my money back?” He said I would.
We pulled into the station and I was marched into what I think is officially called The Booking Room. The handcuffs came off and some woman with a mustache took my mug shots and fingerprinted me. I think she may have tried to hold my hand. I didn’t want to take one of those unflattering mug shots, so I put on a goofy smile for mine. I wish I could get a copy of that.
The station didn’t take personal checks or credit cards, so Katie had to venture out into the night to find cash. I asked the officer to tell Katie there was a credit cards check in my planner she could use, if she could find a place to cash it.
I then emptied my pockets and was placed in a cell, where there were no bars, per se, but a big, blue steel door, with a tiny window in it. I couldn’t believe I was in jail. I tried to act like a real inmate. I carved my name in the bench with a piece of my watch wristband. I used the urinal. (Mental Note: I should never go to prison. I just don’t like going potty in front of other people.)
I’d like to say that I used this time to ponder deep truths and maybe even think about Joseph Smith and how he was wrongfully imprisoned for much longer than me, and with much more responsibility…but mostly, I was annoyed that this entire thing was happening. And I sat there annoyed for almost two hours.
Why so long? Well, because that’s what happens when your poor wife drives across town to the only casino in Tonopah, and by no coincidence, the only place that is a) open, and b) able to advance cash from credit cards. But then she gets there, and is told that they can’t cash a credit card check, only advance cash from an actual credit card. So Katie had to come back to the station and get my credit card, then go back to the casino to get the cash. Then, and this is a real treat, Katie came back to the station to pay the $400 and was told by the “cashier” that it was $435, not $400. Katie raised her voice one last time, and left to get another $35.
I sat in that cell, marking minutes on the wall, not having any idea what was going on. I was worried about Katie and Abbie, I was furious at the DMV and the Eastline Justice Court for this entire mix-up, and I was angry with these policemen for the way they had treated us. And I felt frustrated at being locked in this tiny cell where I couldn’t do anything but fidget.
I was released and walked out to find Katie near breakdown and Abbie as perky as a June bride. Katie drove us to the edge of the county, and I switched places with her to drive us the rest of the way home. We reached home around 5:30 a.m. and tried to nap. I got up for work, called the Eastline Justice Court in Wendover, Nevada around 8:00 a.m., and had my first conversation with Marla, the clerk.
“Do I have any outstanding citations?”
“No. We have record of only one citation, but it’s been paid for.”
“Then I’d like to know why I spent the night in jail for something that I personally took care of months ago. I don’t know what kind of show you’re running (this was my favorite line to drop through this ordeal, as, to me, it says that whatever you’re doing is nothing but a show to me, and not just a show, but it’s not even a good show), but I better get some answers, my dear Marla.”
Marla said that the best she could figure, the Nevada DMV is incredibly far behind in entering information sent to them by the courthouses. In other words, a notice was sent from the Eastline Justice Court last June, stating that I had paid my ticket and there should be no suspension on my license, but the DMV hadn’t cleared it. I was livid. I told Marla to fax me the document they had sent to the DMV – one to me at work, and one to the Las Vegas DMV on Flamingo.
I had to get to work, so I had Katie drop me off and run over to the DMV to fix this mess. The fax was there, but so were some DMV folks that told Katie she would need to pay $40 to get my license reinstated. Katie told them “No I won’t – because it doesn’t need to be reinstated – because it was never supposed to be suspended.” They talked to their superiors, who agreed to see it our way. But they could go no further without me there in person. Katie picked me up from work and we went back over to the DMV. I signed some paperwork and picked up some more paperwork.
In particular, I had the fax from the Eastline Justice Court that stated they had sent the proper paperwork to the DMV in a timely manner, so this was all a big mistake and everyone better prepare to kiss my toe. Only…it didn’t look like a letter. It was written in some kind of code, and some random asterisk was supposed to mean that the suspension was a “clerical error.” I ran with it.
I faxed the “letter” to the Tonopah courthouse, and followed up with a phone call. This was my first conversation with Jennifer. I explained that the fax was coming, that this whole thing needed to be reversed, my money sent back to me, the misdemeanor taken off my record, and my date with the lady who fingerprinted me canceled.
This was all on Monday.
Tuesday morning I get a call from Jennifer at the Tonopah courthouse. She said the semi-honorable Judge Maslach had declared that whether or not the suspension was an error, the license had been suspended and I would have to pay the bail money. I could not fathom on any level how this was anything but completely ridiculous.
I called Eastline Justice Court and said “I don’t want a coded letter, I want a handwritten letter to the Tonopah courthouse relaying the date they received my payment and the date it was sent to the DMV.” I then asked where it was they sent the notice, originally – to which DMV. She didn’t have the phone number, because that would have been too convenient for me – but said it was the state building in Carson City.
I called Carson City and asked for the DMV department, where I had my first conversation with Debra. Debra took my social security number and suddenly had access to my entire life. She began looking over it and then began to express her own wonderment at how any of this could have happened. Debra said she would write a letter to Tonopah wherein she would point out that full blame fell on the Nevada DMV and that none of this should have ever happened. She pointed out that the date in which my license should have gone into suspension was July 23, and my check had been received and processed on June 1. So there was never, at any time, a reason that my license should have been suspended. And that everyone there could just kiss my toe.
That was Tuesday.
I let Wednesday and Thursday pass by so the Tonopah courthouse would have a chance to look over the material sent to them. Friday morning Jennifer calls from the Tonopah courthouse and tells me that I have a “very unique case.” Not that they were wrong. Not that somebody owed me an apology. Just that I have a “unique case.”
So she announces to me, as if she is doing me some huge favor, “We’re going to send you the $300 back, but we are keeping the $135 for the speeding ticket.”
“No,” I said. “I never got a ticket for speeding. I was shown nothing, I signed nothing, there is no citation.”
“Well, let me talk to the judge.” And she covers up the phone, and starts talking to the guy, who can’t be sitting more than five feet away. She gets back on, “Okay, we’ll send you the full $435.”
Triumph. But not really. The thing that frightens me is this entire abuse of power. I was a pawn in an incident where I was completely right. What if I didn’t push things? What if I didn’t speak English well? How often has something like that happened, and the person in my position didn’t do anything but pay the money? I still drive through Tonopah once or twice a year, on my way to Tahoe. I don’t buy gas there; I don’t drive over 15 mph there; however, I do think about my night in jail, and I smile as I look around this little town that the world has forgotten, and think about how that officer has to live there.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Last Year, When I Acted With My Wife
You'll have to excuse my nostalgia, but Katie and I were just discussing how much fun we had a year ago when we were in a play together.
So, you remember the part where I am not an actor, right? Yes, I was part of an improv troupe in college. Yes, I have been in plays. Yes, I enjoy being, how they say in the biz, "silly" in front of people. But to actually act? No. I can't do it. But about a year ago, Katie forgot that. So, when our friend Dawnie stopped by and asked Katie if I would audition for the new Signature Productions’ play Ten Little Indians, Katie assured her I would love to do it.
I’m not trying to be humble when I say I’m not a great actor. I’m not even being truthful, really, because the truth would be I am a horrific actor. I like to think my acting makes everyone watching uncomfortable. Like when you watch Keanu Reeves in anything besides Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure. (The Academy still owes you an apology for snubbing you on that one, Keanu.) So you can imagine my reluctance to even drive by a theater where auditions are being held; what with the warrant out for my arrest and the Wanted posters still hanging up from my performance in Ordinary People, back in college.
And I know I should have immediately taken comfort in knowing that this was community theater, but that actually made it worse. To be a self-proclaimed bad actor is one thing, to have the director of a community theater play tell you that you “just aren’t what we’re looking for” is more than pouring salt on the wound, it’s hooking up an IV directly to a gaping wound and pumping pure salt directly in.
But I went. I went because Katie, my darling wife, is so dang cute, I can’t tell her “no.” Unless it involves owning a pet or substituting tofu for beef. I went because somewhere inside me…I missed the creative energy of being in front of a live audience. And this seemed like a harmless opportunity to do just that. The auditions were being held at the Summerlin Library. There is actually a decent-sized theater attached to the library, and productions are put on here fairly regularly.
I walked into the theater and saw some of the mucky-mucks hobnobbing and brou-ha-ha-ing down by the stage. There were a number of chairs up on the stage, making a half-circle and facing the audience. Several people were already seated on stage. Dawnie, our friend and neighbor who started this whole situation, saw me and came over to chat. She has been in a few Signature Productions plays and had been asked to help out as a production assistant on Ten Little Indians. She gave me the low-down. They had most of the cast selected, but were still auditioning for the two leads. The female lead had come down to two women, both there and ready for their second audition, and the leading male was … still unfound. Apparently they had auditions the day before, and one of the men came close, but in the end he “wasn’t what they had in mind.” So they offered him one of the other roles and were still looking for a leading man. Which is why Dawnie had asked Katie to force me, at gunpoint, if necessary, to audition. And here I was.
I took a seat on stage, next to the young, blonde woman who turned out to be one of the two women auditioning for the female lead. I started looking over the script for my first time and tried to get a handle on what was supposed to be going on.
By the strangest coincidence, I had seen the original 1930-something version of Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians. It was a dark and stormy night, August of 1988…almost 16 years ago to the day. Our family had just moved to the tiny island of Molokai, Hawaii. We were staying in the house of a friend of my dad’s. He rented it out to tourists and used it occasionally when he visited the island, and since it was unoccupied at the time, he invited us to stay in it. He didn’t have cable, and his video library consisted of one … single … video. Ten Little Indians. One night, out of complete and sheer boredom, my brother and I popped it in. I recognized it immediately as a useless and inept rip off of the superior Clue and Murder by Death. Since that time, I have learned to respect it as the original “murder mystery” where strangers are brought together and one by one die and/or disappear.
So I understood the premise, but not what was happening in the scene we were about to utilize as my auditioning piece. I read over it as they had the first woman audition for the female lead. She sounded fine to me, but when she finished the director said, “Now…can you do it again…with the English accent?” Oh, good crap. An English accent!? If there is a way to make me look even worse as an actor, it’s to have me attempt an accent. I was about to wet my pants, so nervous was I. I was about to wonder – out loud – what I was doing there, when the blonde next to me spoke up.
“Has anyone told you that you look exactly like Jude Law?”
(Looking behind me, then in the general area, and finally back at her) “Are you talking to me?”
“Of course! Has anyone told you you look completely like Jude Law?” (Sidebar, Jude Law was at that time on the cover of People Magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful Men Alive…starring Jude Law as the most beautiful man alive.)
“Uh…no.”
“Well, you do.”
“You mean a middle-aged, chubby Jude Law?”
“Oh…you.” And then she started singing. Loudly. Then she turned to me and asked if I’ve listened to the cd from the new musical Avenue Q, from which she was loudly singing this song that she apparently loved.
Is she flirting with me? I asked myself. She couldn’t be. I must be 10 years older than her, not to mention the wedding band I was proudly sporting. Who is this girl and why would she show up drunk at an audition?
Sensing that he had lost control of the room, the director, Victor, asked me to stand up and run the scene with the first girl who is auditioning for the lead. This girl seemed nice, but even more nervous than I. The scene felt really stiff. Then Victor asked Blondie to trade places with the first girl and we did the scene again. I have to admit, I felt better. Blondie had a great English accent, which seemed to help mine. She was really comfortable and projected well and it just seemed like a better scene, especially since she didn’t start singing the soundtrack to Avenue Q in the middle of our scene.
Now, here is the hilarious part. I’ve done the scene twice, right? Victor then asks the first girl to walk with him, and as they head towards the door, he is obviously letting her know “she wasn’t what they were looking for.” He then comes back and tells Blondie that she gets the part. Then…he turns to me…and with a big smile says, “Congratulations…you are our Captain Lombard!”
At that moment, I simultaneously realized how desperate they were and how doomed the play was. Sure, it was their ship I was going to sink, but I was the Captain.
Victor seemed so pleased to have me. So proud. One of the ladies on the Board chimed in, “The moment you walked in the room…I knew we had our Captain Lombard.” Dawnie, a true friend, assured me the other guy was worse than me. And that is pretty much the truest definition of this success story.
So, then the first play practice. Initially the practices were held in the ballet theater behind the library. So we could pirouette as we run lines. I found the room where we would be practicing – because most of the cast was standing outside the room, chatting. Apparently a number of them know each other from previous plays and whatnot. I recognized only Blondie, from the audition, so I took a place in the social circle, standing next to Blondie. When somebody asked who I was, she answered, “He’s my Love Monkey.” This made me nervous. So I stood by a guy I didn’t know, but whom I was fairly confident would not refer to me as his Love Monkey.
During the first practice we just read through the play, and much to my surprise and horror…I did not have the worst English accent in the group. There were a few cast members who even asked if their characters could be visiting from America, so as to avoid the use of an accent all together. They didn't get much of an argument from anybody.
The next day, before practice, we are all chit-chatting when out of the blue, the Blondie to whom I am a Love Monkey announced that she just got married. That afternoon. About three hours before practice. Some guy that she had dated for years, they broke up, recently got back together. They’re young, crazy, and in love. She is ecstatic and we are all happy for her. My impression is that even before this episode she was fairly confident that the world revolved around her…but now she even had something to point to to prove it. As the night progressed she became more and more uncertain about being able to commit to the play. What, with her being the only one married and all. Oh, that’s right, almost all of us in the play are married. At any rate, she all but backed out of it by the end of the night. And that was fine by me. I don’t know if it was her flirtatious nature, my being married for nine years, or me not being used to acting since…ever…but I was struggling in our scenes together. I’m supposed to be coming on to her, stroking her skin, playing with her hair, touching her face, making eye contact. At the end of the play we would even kiss. I was hoping I was supposed to poop my pants after that, because I was pretty sure that’s what wass going to happen. But suddenly there’s was no need to get comfortable being romantic with Blondie. She dropped out. We needed a new female lead, and in my heart of hearts, I knew Katie would be fabulous. And she was.
Truth be known, I couldn't have imagined doing the play without her. We both knew it would be crazy-insane on our lives…but we knew how much fun we would have performing together. While we were talking about it tonight we both agreed it was a good thing we took the opportunity when we did...because we don't know how we would do it now. Especially with Katie being nine months pregnant. But what a great sequel! Nine Little Indians & One Pregnant Sqaw.
So, you remember the part where I am not an actor, right? Yes, I was part of an improv troupe in college. Yes, I have been in plays. Yes, I enjoy being, how they say in the biz, "silly" in front of people. But to actually act? No. I can't do it. But about a year ago, Katie forgot that. So, when our friend Dawnie stopped by and asked Katie if I would audition for the new Signature Productions’ play Ten Little Indians, Katie assured her I would love to do it.
I’m not trying to be humble when I say I’m not a great actor. I’m not even being truthful, really, because the truth would be I am a horrific actor. I like to think my acting makes everyone watching uncomfortable. Like when you watch Keanu Reeves in anything besides Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure. (The Academy still owes you an apology for snubbing you on that one, Keanu.) So you can imagine my reluctance to even drive by a theater where auditions are being held; what with the warrant out for my arrest and the Wanted posters still hanging up from my performance in Ordinary People, back in college.
And I know I should have immediately taken comfort in knowing that this was community theater, but that actually made it worse. To be a self-proclaimed bad actor is one thing, to have the director of a community theater play tell you that you “just aren’t what we’re looking for” is more than pouring salt on the wound, it’s hooking up an IV directly to a gaping wound and pumping pure salt directly in.
But I went. I went because Katie, my darling wife, is so dang cute, I can’t tell her “no.” Unless it involves owning a pet or substituting tofu for beef. I went because somewhere inside me…I missed the creative energy of being in front of a live audience. And this seemed like a harmless opportunity to do just that. The auditions were being held at the Summerlin Library. There is actually a decent-sized theater attached to the library, and productions are put on here fairly regularly.
I walked into the theater and saw some of the mucky-mucks hobnobbing and brou-ha-ha-ing down by the stage. There were a number of chairs up on the stage, making a half-circle and facing the audience. Several people were already seated on stage. Dawnie, our friend and neighbor who started this whole situation, saw me and came over to chat. She has been in a few Signature Productions plays and had been asked to help out as a production assistant on Ten Little Indians. She gave me the low-down. They had most of the cast selected, but were still auditioning for the two leads. The female lead had come down to two women, both there and ready for their second audition, and the leading male was … still unfound. Apparently they had auditions the day before, and one of the men came close, but in the end he “wasn’t what they had in mind.” So they offered him one of the other roles and were still looking for a leading man. Which is why Dawnie had asked Katie to force me, at gunpoint, if necessary, to audition. And here I was.
I took a seat on stage, next to the young, blonde woman who turned out to be one of the two women auditioning for the female lead. I started looking over the script for my first time and tried to get a handle on what was supposed to be going on.
By the strangest coincidence, I had seen the original 1930-something version of Agatha Christie’s Ten Little Indians. It was a dark and stormy night, August of 1988…almost 16 years ago to the day. Our family had just moved to the tiny island of Molokai, Hawaii. We were staying in the house of a friend of my dad’s. He rented it out to tourists and used it occasionally when he visited the island, and since it was unoccupied at the time, he invited us to stay in it. He didn’t have cable, and his video library consisted of one … single … video. Ten Little Indians. One night, out of complete and sheer boredom, my brother and I popped it in. I recognized it immediately as a useless and inept rip off of the superior Clue and Murder by Death. Since that time, I have learned to respect it as the original “murder mystery” where strangers are brought together and one by one die and/or disappear.
So I understood the premise, but not what was happening in the scene we were about to utilize as my auditioning piece. I read over it as they had the first woman audition for the female lead. She sounded fine to me, but when she finished the director said, “Now…can you do it again…with the English accent?” Oh, good crap. An English accent!? If there is a way to make me look even worse as an actor, it’s to have me attempt an accent. I was about to wet my pants, so nervous was I. I was about to wonder – out loud – what I was doing there, when the blonde next to me spoke up.
“Has anyone told you that you look exactly like Jude Law?”
(Looking behind me, then in the general area, and finally back at her) “Are you talking to me?”
“Of course! Has anyone told you you look completely like Jude Law?” (Sidebar, Jude Law was at that time on the cover of People Magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful Men Alive…starring Jude Law as the most beautiful man alive.)
“Uh…no.”
“Well, you do.”
“You mean a middle-aged, chubby Jude Law?”
“Oh…you.” And then she started singing. Loudly. Then she turned to me and asked if I’ve listened to the cd from the new musical Avenue Q, from which she was loudly singing this song that she apparently loved.
Is she flirting with me? I asked myself. She couldn’t be. I must be 10 years older than her, not to mention the wedding band I was proudly sporting. Who is this girl and why would she show up drunk at an audition?
Sensing that he had lost control of the room, the director, Victor, asked me to stand up and run the scene with the first girl who is auditioning for the lead. This girl seemed nice, but even more nervous than I. The scene felt really stiff. Then Victor asked Blondie to trade places with the first girl and we did the scene again. I have to admit, I felt better. Blondie had a great English accent, which seemed to help mine. She was really comfortable and projected well and it just seemed like a better scene, especially since she didn’t start singing the soundtrack to Avenue Q in the middle of our scene.
Now, here is the hilarious part. I’ve done the scene twice, right? Victor then asks the first girl to walk with him, and as they head towards the door, he is obviously letting her know “she wasn’t what they were looking for.” He then comes back and tells Blondie that she gets the part. Then…he turns to me…and with a big smile says, “Congratulations…you are our Captain Lombard!”
At that moment, I simultaneously realized how desperate they were and how doomed the play was. Sure, it was their ship I was going to sink, but I was the Captain.
Victor seemed so pleased to have me. So proud. One of the ladies on the Board chimed in, “The moment you walked in the room…I knew we had our Captain Lombard.” Dawnie, a true friend, assured me the other guy was worse than me. And that is pretty much the truest definition of this success story.
So, then the first play practice. Initially the practices were held in the ballet theater behind the library. So we could pirouette as we run lines. I found the room where we would be practicing – because most of the cast was standing outside the room, chatting. Apparently a number of them know each other from previous plays and whatnot. I recognized only Blondie, from the audition, so I took a place in the social circle, standing next to Blondie. When somebody asked who I was, she answered, “He’s my Love Monkey.” This made me nervous. So I stood by a guy I didn’t know, but whom I was fairly confident would not refer to me as his Love Monkey.
During the first practice we just read through the play, and much to my surprise and horror…I did not have the worst English accent in the group. There were a few cast members who even asked if their characters could be visiting from America, so as to avoid the use of an accent all together. They didn't get much of an argument from anybody.
The next day, before practice, we are all chit-chatting when out of the blue, the Blondie to whom I am a Love Monkey announced that she just got married. That afternoon. About three hours before practice. Some guy that she had dated for years, they broke up, recently got back together. They’re young, crazy, and in love. She is ecstatic and we are all happy for her. My impression is that even before this episode she was fairly confident that the world revolved around her…but now she even had something to point to to prove it. As the night progressed she became more and more uncertain about being able to commit to the play. What, with her being the only one married and all. Oh, that’s right, almost all of us in the play are married. At any rate, she all but backed out of it by the end of the night. And that was fine by me. I don’t know if it was her flirtatious nature, my being married for nine years, or me not being used to acting since…ever…but I was struggling in our scenes together. I’m supposed to be coming on to her, stroking her skin, playing with her hair, touching her face, making eye contact. At the end of the play we would even kiss. I was hoping I was supposed to poop my pants after that, because I was pretty sure that’s what wass going to happen. But suddenly there’s was no need to get comfortable being romantic with Blondie. She dropped out. We needed a new female lead, and in my heart of hearts, I knew Katie would be fabulous. And she was.
Truth be known, I couldn't have imagined doing the play without her. We both knew it would be crazy-insane on our lives…but we knew how much fun we would have performing together. While we were talking about it tonight we both agreed it was a good thing we took the opportunity when we did...because we don't know how we would do it now. Especially with Katie being nine months pregnant. But what a great sequel! Nine Little Indians & One Pregnant Sqaw.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Rattlin' & Hummin'
I’m not exactly sure why, but in the pre-existence I chose November as the month that I would attend U2 concerts. I’ve now seen U2 five times, and each time has been in this blessed autumn month.
1987
The first time I attended a U2 concert was November 1987 at the L.A. Coliseum. The Joshua Tree tour. A friend of mine, we’ll call him Kyle Binns (names have not been changed), had two tickets for this show of shows. Kyle was two years older than me, and to be perfectly honest, I think he knew me mostly as the guy who hung around his younger sister. Kyle and a friend were going to the concert the next Tuesday, and I remember on that Sunday prior, in the halls at church, I joked with him that if either he or his friend didn’t feel like going, I would be happy to take one of the tickets. I pretty much thought that was the end of it. Why would anybody not go to the concert? If my leg were accidentally amputated on the way to the concert, I would still go. I would buy one of the overpriced t-shirts and bandage my leg with it. And I’m sure I wouldn’t notice the pain until the final encore.
Well, Tuesday evening, no earlier than 5:30 p.m., the phone rings. I’m going potty. My sister, Marlise, answers the phone and yells, “Keeeeeeennnnnn, the phone’s for yoooouuuu.” “I’m not heeeeere,” I yell back, wondering if there will ever be a time in my adult life that I will be able to go potty in peace. There’s a pause, and then she yells, “It’s Kyle Biiiiiinns.” I drop the newspaper and look straight ahead. If I had been in a movie, I would have looked directly at the wall where a calendar would be hanging, looked directly at the date, and on the date would have been the words “U2 Concert” written in red and circled. To this day, I love Kyle Binns for sensing that I was probably home, probably occupied, and just needed to know he was the one on the phone, and that he was holding two tickets in his hand.
"Say it, Kyle. Say the words.”
“Do you want to go to a U2 concert?”
“Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” I answered.
“I’m leaving right now. Can you be ready to go in 5 minutes.”
“I was born ready, Kyle. See, when I was in the pre-existence, I…Hello? Kyle?”
All that was left was approval from my dad. Normally, I would be a little nervous to ask my dad if it would be okay to drive into downtown Los Angles on a school night, never to return until sometime after midnight. But on this particular evening, I wasn’t nervous. I was wet-my-pants terrified. Did I have seminary the next morning at 5:45 a.m.? Yes, yes I did. Had I done all my homework for school the next day? No, no I hadn’t. Had I been treating my mom with utmost kindness as of late? No, no I hadn’t. And that would be the final nail in my coffin. Or my forehead, depending on my dad’s mood.
In one of his most loving gestures to date, he allowed me to go. My dad was just getting home, stepping out of the car, and I met him there in the driveway. I pleaded. And maybe it was the season, maybe it was the excitement exuding off of me…but when I begged him to be able to go, he just sort of looked at me with a half-crooked smile and said, “Fine.” No sooner did he answer then Kyle came around the corner to pick me up. I mean, literally, the next second. I jumped in the car and we took off. I wanted to get out of there before my dad realized that he had just given me permission to do something for which I had already given myself permission.
Man, what a concert. We had seats on the floor and it was an incredible show. For me, The Joshua Tree is hands-down one of the greatest albums of all time. And this was one of the greatest shows of all time. At that time in their career, the energy behind everything they did was spectacular.
1992
Fast forward to November 1992. I had returned home from my LDS mission that August and was up at BYU in Provo, Utah. Achtung Baby had been released a year earlier, in November 1991, and the Zoo TV tour was still around, but quickly winding down. The tour wasn't stoping in Utah, and the closest venue was Las Vegas. Myself and three of my good friends – Jim, Greg, and Justin – all bought tickets. We drove down that Friday, the night of the concert – had some dinner, toured around Las Vegas a bit, and went to the concert. Then we drove home that very same night, arriving in time for some of us to head straight to class. I don’t know how we didn’t die that night. My hat is still off to Greg, who has miraculous powers. (Powers that are based on a caffeine buzz, I’m sure.)
If you didn’t see the Zoo TV tour, you missed out on a musical spectacle that will most likely never be repeated by any rock group ever.
2001
Fast forward to November 2001. The Elevation Tour. I was living in Las Vegas now, but my friend Eric Snider (names haven’t been changed) wrote for a newspaper in Utah and had press tickets to the concert. He invited me to me the recipient of one of those press tickets. So even though I would have to drive up, I knew the amazing seats would be worth it. But I had no idea beforehand how much I would be willing to sacrifice to make it to the show.
Eric called Wednesday and said he had the extra ticket for Friday’s concert. Katie had two different meetings she needed to be in Las Vegas for over Friday and Saturday, so she decided to stay home and gave me the go-ahead to run up for the concert without her. We only had our minivan, so I borrowed a car from a friend of mine, Matt. (And by "friend" I mean "people with whom I never discuss this incident.")
I left around 10 a.m. (11 a.m. Utah time). I was on the road exactly an hour, when the car up and died. I could not get it started. The concert didn't start until 7:30 p.m., so I knew I still had some time. I was looking at a 4.5-hour drive to Provo, where Eric lived, and then another hour to Salt Lake. I was feeling optimistic.
By 12 p.m. I was not feeling optimistic. And I think we all know what the landscape between Las Vegas and St. George looks like. No services for miles. I had tried calling Katie several times – about ever half-hour – but she was out. I called my friend Matt to let him know the situation. He reported, "That’s strange – that car has never given me trouble before. Of course it's been sitting in our driveway for a year and a half."
Hmm. Now, I know relatively nothing about cars. But I am pretty sure that taking a car on a 11-hour car trip after it has been sitting in a driveway for 18 months is...how you say?…BAD.
At that point, I surrendered to the fact I was not going to make it in time. And on top of that, I felt guilty for taking my friend's car, and driving out into the middle of the desert to die. I hadn't done anything to the car, but still, I was driving it when something happened, and that made me feel bad.
A police officer stopped by to tell me I couldn’t park my car on the side of the road. Thanks for that, Mr. Law Enforcement Genius. Some Good Samaritan also stopped by and tried to help. Used to work for Ford, he did. Knew a lot about cars, he said. Couldn't see what was wrong, he admitted.
I kept trying to call Katie. I kept trying to start the car. I kept trying to fight the urge to jump in front of a moving vehicle, so frustrated was I. The hours passed by, and nothing was changing. It was 2:30 p.m. I had finally accepted, for the second time, that I wasn't going to make it. I was a little sad, but that's all. It's not like the concert was going to change my life or I couldn't live without it. It wasn't like I was a 16 year-old high school girl who HAD to see Bono.
Or was I?
I called Matt at 3:00 p.m. and admitted defeat. "I would have to be in a moving car THIS INSTANT if I was going to make it to the concert." "Well," he said, "My in-laws live in Mesquite. Get a ride into Mesquite and have the car towed to my in-laws house; then rent a car. My insurance will cover the towing, and I will pay for half the rental car." That was very kind of him. A good friend, to be sure. But still…"No. I'm not going to have you pay for half the car, and I'm out of time, anyway, and..."
Just then, a pickup with this chubby Mexican pulled up beside me and asked if I wanted to ride in the back of his truck to Mesquite. He stopped at a Texaco, and I ran in, demanding control of the establishment, as if I were holding the place up.
"I need a towing company, and I need a car rental agency – STAT!" I ordered. (I actually didn't say STAT. That's just too nerdy. Even for Mesquite.) The ladies behind the counter grabbed the phone book as if their lives depended on it. Because in a very real way, it did. I first called a car rental place, but all they had was a full-size car, and it was $48 a day, plus it only gave me 200 miles. I needed about 775 miles. I told them "never mind" and for the third time, gave up on the idea of making it.
I called Eric to let him know. I wanted to give him the option of finding someone else to take. I knew he would appreciate early notice so he would have time to invite somebody else. Imagine my surprise when he said, "Wow. Oh my gosh. Well...you'll just have to figure out another way to get up here."
I couldn't believe it. Eric hadn't given up yet. Well, if he hadn't, who was I to give up?
Out of the blue, my chubby Mexican friend that gave me a ride into Mesquite walked into the Texaco. He hadn't left yet. I asked him how far he was going. Wyoming. I asked for a ride in his truck to Salt Lake. He said sure, but he was going to spend some time gambling first. By all means. This is a free country, with a soft, chewy center. Knock yourself out. Actually, I thought this was perfect, as it gave me the chance to find a towing company and get the car towed to Matt’s in-laws in Mesquite.
I called the towing place, but they had a policy. And that poopy policy was that I would have to ride with them to pick up the car. I explained why I couldn't, but they wouldn't budge. I can't believe anybody living in Mesquite would have a policy about ANYTHING. If you don't have a policy about where you live (which you obviously don't if you are living in Mesquite), HOW can you be taken seriously about anything else?
Suddenly, the lady’s voice dropped low, and she whispered into the phone that there was a local towing place that would pick up the car, and I wouldn't have to go with them. She gave me the phone number. I called the number and talked to the guy, and he apparently does this business out of his house. I deduced this by the way he answered the phone: “Yep.” “Uh, hi. Do you tow cars?” “Yep.” “Legally?”
I told him where the car was, where I needed it to go, and that I had the key with me at the Texaco. He told me he didn’t need a credit card number. Didn’t need a phone number to reach me at. Didn’t need to know my name. But then he said the magic words – I didn't have to ride with him to pick it up. Whether or not I would ever see this car again, I was on my way to Salt Lake. I told my new tow-trucking friend that I would leave the key with one of the cashiers at the Texaco.
I ran outside to find my Chubby Mexican. He was gone. So was his truck. He wasn't coming back. It was 3:30 p.m., and I had to literally be in a car bound for Provo if I wanted to make it to Provo by 7:30 p.m., and the concert by 8:30. (No Doubt was opening at 7:30, so U2 wouldn't be going on before 8:30...possibly 9:00 p.m.)
I began looking around for cars with Utah license plates. Each and every one was heading the other direction – to Vegas. I finally found this small, red pickup truck.
"Are you heading to Salt Lake?" "Yep." as he opens his car door. "Can I ride in your truck?" "Yep," as he gets in and spits out his chew. He leans out the window to explain how I can't sit up front because they have some equipment up there. I looked. It was true. They also had some in the back, up against the cab. I threw my bag in the back, and climbed aboard.
Propped myself up against my bag, and called all the necessary people. Katie, Matt, and Eric. Katie was finally home, and relieved I was going to make it to the concert, even though I admitted to her that I really had no concrete plan for how to get back to Las Vegas. Matt was happy for me, and reassured me that all would be fine with the car. Eric asked me if I was riding with a truck full of pigs or some other form of livestock.
We hit the highway, and these guys were making no exception to the fact they had a human being in the back of their truck. 85 to 90 mph. This was fine with me, as I needed to get there as soon as I could.
The drive up to St. George was fantastic. Beautiful. Especially through the canyon. I was relaxed, I was going to make it to the concert, and I was a little impressed with the hippy in me who just bummed a 400-mile ride off a stranger. I decided that I would one day hitchhike all the way across the U.S., and for sure I would start commuting to work this way every morning. I looked up at the sky as I rode, and for the first time, I really got what John Denver and Willy Nelson were singing about.
We reached St. George and I thought to myself, "Man, I really love this crisp fall air. Even at 90 mph."
Somewhere between St. George and Cedar City, the sun had set, the wind had picked up, and the altitude was amazingly higher. I was freezing. I put my jacket on, but it was paper-thin, and made of paper, and had the wind resistance of paper. I wanted to put my sweater on as well, but was too cold to move. I finally bit the bullet and ripped my sweater out of my bag, threw it on, and put my jacket on over it. Surprisingly, I was not any warmer.
I tried to crawl up as close as I could to the cab, and tried to curl up in a fetal position. I tried to fall asleep, but was just too cold. And I sat there chattering and dieing until we reached Fillmore 2 hours later, where we stopped for gas.
I was a bit nervous to get out of the truck, still stung with the memory of the last time somebody with a truck offered to give me a ride, and then disappeared…Yes, a mere 3 hours before, in Mesquite.
But I needed to make sure I could still move. I bought a hot chocolate and drank it like Gatorade. Then I took some maternity clothes out of my bag. These were clothes Katie had wanted me to drop off to her sister, Jill, in Provo. I took the clothes and crammed them up my pants, under my sweater, and sleeves, and everywhere I could fit them. I was trying to bulk up and do "layers."
Layers are for CRAP! After we got on the freeway, I realized nothing was going to help at this point. I was ice cold, and was going to be so for the next hour and a half.
About a half an hour south of Provo, I tried to call Eric to tell him I was getting close. I had lost feeling and coordination of my fingers and was shaking so violently, I couldn't push the numbers on my cell phone. Ten minutes and several misdialed numbers later, I got a hold of Eric and told him I was almost there.
We got to the exit, and I tapped on the window to let the drivers know that I was ready to get out. They dropped me off at the Exxon just down from Eric’s condo, and just up from the on-ramp to the freeway.
I stood up in the back of the truck, but noticed I didn't have a real strong sense of my legs. They were numb-ish. So I sort of slithered out of the back of the truck. I called Eric and told him to come save my life, and that I was ready to see U2.
I ran over to the on-ramp and waited for him. The wind wasn't whipping me anymore, but my core temperature was so low, I couldn't stop shaking. Eric picked me up and cranked the heater. By the time we got to Salt Lake, I was feeling better. The concert was spectacular, and we had a great time.
I called my sister the next morning. She lives there in Provo. I invited her and her husband to come visit me in Vegas, and to pick me up on the way. I offered to pay for gas, and buy them dinner, etc. They agreed to it, and I had a warmer ride home.
Later that month we traveled up to Lake Tahoe for Thanksgiving. But we went up a day early. Why? Because U2 was performing in Sacramento, and my youngest brother, Dehn, who had become a U2 fan due to the efforts of his oldest brother, me, wanted us to go to the concert together. A sweeter gesture, I could not fathom. And we had a great time. Several of my siblings also attended, as well as my 58-year old father, who at first was offended that he hadn’t been invited to attend.
2005
And fast forward to November 2005, last Saturday night. The Vertigo tour, right here in Las Vegas, Nevada, at the MGM Grand Arena. For some reason, all the Johnyy-Come-Lately’s have made U2 tickets impossible to seize unless you are a millionaire or married to The Edge’s sister. But I had one ace up my sleeve. I knew a vice president at the MGM. I made the call. He said he couldn’t get me a break on the cost of the tickets, but he could ensure I got fantastic seats. All I would have to do is fork over one of my children. I gave him two of them, and wham-bam – I had two fantastic seats at the concert.
I really enjoyed myself. I was watching these guys perform and realized I have been a faithful fan for more than half my life. And I just appreciated the memories I have associated with their music. But what I took away most from this concert was how cute my eight-and-half-month pregnant wife looked all dressed up in her hot outfit, dancing to Mysterious Ways, and supporting her husband in his mania that is U2.
1987
The first time I attended a U2 concert was November 1987 at the L.A. Coliseum. The Joshua Tree tour. A friend of mine, we’ll call him Kyle Binns (names have not been changed), had two tickets for this show of shows. Kyle was two years older than me, and to be perfectly honest, I think he knew me mostly as the guy who hung around his younger sister. Kyle and a friend were going to the concert the next Tuesday, and I remember on that Sunday prior, in the halls at church, I joked with him that if either he or his friend didn’t feel like going, I would be happy to take one of the tickets. I pretty much thought that was the end of it. Why would anybody not go to the concert? If my leg were accidentally amputated on the way to the concert, I would still go. I would buy one of the overpriced t-shirts and bandage my leg with it. And I’m sure I wouldn’t notice the pain until the final encore.
Well, Tuesday evening, no earlier than 5:30 p.m., the phone rings. I’m going potty. My sister, Marlise, answers the phone and yells, “Keeeeeeennnnnn, the phone’s for yoooouuuu.” “I’m not heeeeere,” I yell back, wondering if there will ever be a time in my adult life that I will be able to go potty in peace. There’s a pause, and then she yells, “It’s Kyle Biiiiiinns.” I drop the newspaper and look straight ahead. If I had been in a movie, I would have looked directly at the wall where a calendar would be hanging, looked directly at the date, and on the date would have been the words “U2 Concert” written in red and circled. To this day, I love Kyle Binns for sensing that I was probably home, probably occupied, and just needed to know he was the one on the phone, and that he was holding two tickets in his hand.
"Say it, Kyle. Say the words.”
“Do you want to go to a U2 concert?”
“Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” I answered.
“I’m leaving right now. Can you be ready to go in 5 minutes.”
“I was born ready, Kyle. See, when I was in the pre-existence, I…Hello? Kyle?”
All that was left was approval from my dad. Normally, I would be a little nervous to ask my dad if it would be okay to drive into downtown Los Angles on a school night, never to return until sometime after midnight. But on this particular evening, I wasn’t nervous. I was wet-my-pants terrified. Did I have seminary the next morning at 5:45 a.m.? Yes, yes I did. Had I done all my homework for school the next day? No, no I hadn’t. Had I been treating my mom with utmost kindness as of late? No, no I hadn’t. And that would be the final nail in my coffin. Or my forehead, depending on my dad’s mood.
In one of his most loving gestures to date, he allowed me to go. My dad was just getting home, stepping out of the car, and I met him there in the driveway. I pleaded. And maybe it was the season, maybe it was the excitement exuding off of me…but when I begged him to be able to go, he just sort of looked at me with a half-crooked smile and said, “Fine.” No sooner did he answer then Kyle came around the corner to pick me up. I mean, literally, the next second. I jumped in the car and we took off. I wanted to get out of there before my dad realized that he had just given me permission to do something for which I had already given myself permission.
Man, what a concert. We had seats on the floor and it was an incredible show. For me, The Joshua Tree is hands-down one of the greatest albums of all time. And this was one of the greatest shows of all time. At that time in their career, the energy behind everything they did was spectacular.
1992
Fast forward to November 1992. I had returned home from my LDS mission that August and was up at BYU in Provo, Utah. Achtung Baby had been released a year earlier, in November 1991, and the Zoo TV tour was still around, but quickly winding down. The tour wasn't stoping in Utah, and the closest venue was Las Vegas. Myself and three of my good friends – Jim, Greg, and Justin – all bought tickets. We drove down that Friday, the night of the concert – had some dinner, toured around Las Vegas a bit, and went to the concert. Then we drove home that very same night, arriving in time for some of us to head straight to class. I don’t know how we didn’t die that night. My hat is still off to Greg, who has miraculous powers. (Powers that are based on a caffeine buzz, I’m sure.)
If you didn’t see the Zoo TV tour, you missed out on a musical spectacle that will most likely never be repeated by any rock group ever.
2001
Fast forward to November 2001. The Elevation Tour. I was living in Las Vegas now, but my friend Eric Snider (names haven’t been changed) wrote for a newspaper in Utah and had press tickets to the concert. He invited me to me the recipient of one of those press tickets. So even though I would have to drive up, I knew the amazing seats would be worth it. But I had no idea beforehand how much I would be willing to sacrifice to make it to the show.
Eric called Wednesday and said he had the extra ticket for Friday’s concert. Katie had two different meetings she needed to be in Las Vegas for over Friday and Saturday, so she decided to stay home and gave me the go-ahead to run up for the concert without her. We only had our minivan, so I borrowed a car from a friend of mine, Matt. (And by "friend" I mean "people with whom I never discuss this incident.")
I left around 10 a.m. (11 a.m. Utah time). I was on the road exactly an hour, when the car up and died. I could not get it started. The concert didn't start until 7:30 p.m., so I knew I still had some time. I was looking at a 4.5-hour drive to Provo, where Eric lived, and then another hour to Salt Lake. I was feeling optimistic.
By 12 p.m. I was not feeling optimistic. And I think we all know what the landscape between Las Vegas and St. George looks like. No services for miles. I had tried calling Katie several times – about ever half-hour – but she was out. I called my friend Matt to let him know the situation. He reported, "That’s strange – that car has never given me trouble before. Of course it's been sitting in our driveway for a year and a half."
Hmm. Now, I know relatively nothing about cars. But I am pretty sure that taking a car on a 11-hour car trip after it has been sitting in a driveway for 18 months is...how you say?…BAD.
At that point, I surrendered to the fact I was not going to make it in time. And on top of that, I felt guilty for taking my friend's car, and driving out into the middle of the desert to die. I hadn't done anything to the car, but still, I was driving it when something happened, and that made me feel bad.
A police officer stopped by to tell me I couldn’t park my car on the side of the road. Thanks for that, Mr. Law Enforcement Genius. Some Good Samaritan also stopped by and tried to help. Used to work for Ford, he did. Knew a lot about cars, he said. Couldn't see what was wrong, he admitted.
I kept trying to call Katie. I kept trying to start the car. I kept trying to fight the urge to jump in front of a moving vehicle, so frustrated was I. The hours passed by, and nothing was changing. It was 2:30 p.m. I had finally accepted, for the second time, that I wasn't going to make it. I was a little sad, but that's all. It's not like the concert was going to change my life or I couldn't live without it. It wasn't like I was a 16 year-old high school girl who HAD to see Bono.
Or was I?
I called Matt at 3:00 p.m. and admitted defeat. "I would have to be in a moving car THIS INSTANT if I was going to make it to the concert." "Well," he said, "My in-laws live in Mesquite. Get a ride into Mesquite and have the car towed to my in-laws house; then rent a car. My insurance will cover the towing, and I will pay for half the rental car." That was very kind of him. A good friend, to be sure. But still…"No. I'm not going to have you pay for half the car, and I'm out of time, anyway, and..."
Just then, a pickup with this chubby Mexican pulled up beside me and asked if I wanted to ride in the back of his truck to Mesquite. He stopped at a Texaco, and I ran in, demanding control of the establishment, as if I were holding the place up.
"I need a towing company, and I need a car rental agency – STAT!" I ordered. (I actually didn't say STAT. That's just too nerdy. Even for Mesquite.) The ladies behind the counter grabbed the phone book as if their lives depended on it. Because in a very real way, it did. I first called a car rental place, but all they had was a full-size car, and it was $48 a day, plus it only gave me 200 miles. I needed about 775 miles. I told them "never mind" and for the third time, gave up on the idea of making it.
I called Eric to let him know. I wanted to give him the option of finding someone else to take. I knew he would appreciate early notice so he would have time to invite somebody else. Imagine my surprise when he said, "Wow. Oh my gosh. Well...you'll just have to figure out another way to get up here."
I couldn't believe it. Eric hadn't given up yet. Well, if he hadn't, who was I to give up?
Out of the blue, my chubby Mexican friend that gave me a ride into Mesquite walked into the Texaco. He hadn't left yet. I asked him how far he was going. Wyoming. I asked for a ride in his truck to Salt Lake. He said sure, but he was going to spend some time gambling first. By all means. This is a free country, with a soft, chewy center. Knock yourself out. Actually, I thought this was perfect, as it gave me the chance to find a towing company and get the car towed to Matt’s in-laws in Mesquite.
I called the towing place, but they had a policy. And that poopy policy was that I would have to ride with them to pick up the car. I explained why I couldn't, but they wouldn't budge. I can't believe anybody living in Mesquite would have a policy about ANYTHING. If you don't have a policy about where you live (which you obviously don't if you are living in Mesquite), HOW can you be taken seriously about anything else?
Suddenly, the lady’s voice dropped low, and she whispered into the phone that there was a local towing place that would pick up the car, and I wouldn't have to go with them. She gave me the phone number. I called the number and talked to the guy, and he apparently does this business out of his house. I deduced this by the way he answered the phone: “Yep.” “Uh, hi. Do you tow cars?” “Yep.” “Legally?”
I told him where the car was, where I needed it to go, and that I had the key with me at the Texaco. He told me he didn’t need a credit card number. Didn’t need a phone number to reach me at. Didn’t need to know my name. But then he said the magic words – I didn't have to ride with him to pick it up. Whether or not I would ever see this car again, I was on my way to Salt Lake. I told my new tow-trucking friend that I would leave the key with one of the cashiers at the Texaco.
I ran outside to find my Chubby Mexican. He was gone. So was his truck. He wasn't coming back. It was 3:30 p.m., and I had to literally be in a car bound for Provo if I wanted to make it to Provo by 7:30 p.m., and the concert by 8:30. (No Doubt was opening at 7:30, so U2 wouldn't be going on before 8:30...possibly 9:00 p.m.)
I began looking around for cars with Utah license plates. Each and every one was heading the other direction – to Vegas. I finally found this small, red pickup truck.
"Are you heading to Salt Lake?" "Yep." as he opens his car door. "Can I ride in your truck?" "Yep," as he gets in and spits out his chew. He leans out the window to explain how I can't sit up front because they have some equipment up there. I looked. It was true. They also had some in the back, up against the cab. I threw my bag in the back, and climbed aboard.
Propped myself up against my bag, and called all the necessary people. Katie, Matt, and Eric. Katie was finally home, and relieved I was going to make it to the concert, even though I admitted to her that I really had no concrete plan for how to get back to Las Vegas. Matt was happy for me, and reassured me that all would be fine with the car. Eric asked me if I was riding with a truck full of pigs or some other form of livestock.
We hit the highway, and these guys were making no exception to the fact they had a human being in the back of their truck. 85 to 90 mph. This was fine with me, as I needed to get there as soon as I could.
The drive up to St. George was fantastic. Beautiful. Especially through the canyon. I was relaxed, I was going to make it to the concert, and I was a little impressed with the hippy in me who just bummed a 400-mile ride off a stranger. I decided that I would one day hitchhike all the way across the U.S., and for sure I would start commuting to work this way every morning. I looked up at the sky as I rode, and for the first time, I really got what John Denver and Willy Nelson were singing about.
We reached St. George and I thought to myself, "Man, I really love this crisp fall air. Even at 90 mph."
Somewhere between St. George and Cedar City, the sun had set, the wind had picked up, and the altitude was amazingly higher. I was freezing. I put my jacket on, but it was paper-thin, and made of paper, and had the wind resistance of paper. I wanted to put my sweater on as well, but was too cold to move. I finally bit the bullet and ripped my sweater out of my bag, threw it on, and put my jacket on over it. Surprisingly, I was not any warmer.
I tried to crawl up as close as I could to the cab, and tried to curl up in a fetal position. I tried to fall asleep, but was just too cold. And I sat there chattering and dieing until we reached Fillmore 2 hours later, where we stopped for gas.
I was a bit nervous to get out of the truck, still stung with the memory of the last time somebody with a truck offered to give me a ride, and then disappeared…Yes, a mere 3 hours before, in Mesquite.
But I needed to make sure I could still move. I bought a hot chocolate and drank it like Gatorade. Then I took some maternity clothes out of my bag. These were clothes Katie had wanted me to drop off to her sister, Jill, in Provo. I took the clothes and crammed them up my pants, under my sweater, and sleeves, and everywhere I could fit them. I was trying to bulk up and do "layers."
Layers are for CRAP! After we got on the freeway, I realized nothing was going to help at this point. I was ice cold, and was going to be so for the next hour and a half.
About a half an hour south of Provo, I tried to call Eric to tell him I was getting close. I had lost feeling and coordination of my fingers and was shaking so violently, I couldn't push the numbers on my cell phone. Ten minutes and several misdialed numbers later, I got a hold of Eric and told him I was almost there.
We got to the exit, and I tapped on the window to let the drivers know that I was ready to get out. They dropped me off at the Exxon just down from Eric’s condo, and just up from the on-ramp to the freeway.
I stood up in the back of the truck, but noticed I didn't have a real strong sense of my legs. They were numb-ish. So I sort of slithered out of the back of the truck. I called Eric and told him to come save my life, and that I was ready to see U2.
I ran over to the on-ramp and waited for him. The wind wasn't whipping me anymore, but my core temperature was so low, I couldn't stop shaking. Eric picked me up and cranked the heater. By the time we got to Salt Lake, I was feeling better. The concert was spectacular, and we had a great time.
I called my sister the next morning. She lives there in Provo. I invited her and her husband to come visit me in Vegas, and to pick me up on the way. I offered to pay for gas, and buy them dinner, etc. They agreed to it, and I had a warmer ride home.
Later that month we traveled up to Lake Tahoe for Thanksgiving. But we went up a day early. Why? Because U2 was performing in Sacramento, and my youngest brother, Dehn, who had become a U2 fan due to the efforts of his oldest brother, me, wanted us to go to the concert together. A sweeter gesture, I could not fathom. And we had a great time. Several of my siblings also attended, as well as my 58-year old father, who at first was offended that he hadn’t been invited to attend.
2005
And fast forward to November 2005, last Saturday night. The Vertigo tour, right here in Las Vegas, Nevada, at the MGM Grand Arena. For some reason, all the Johnyy-Come-Lately’s have made U2 tickets impossible to seize unless you are a millionaire or married to The Edge’s sister. But I had one ace up my sleeve. I knew a vice president at the MGM. I made the call. He said he couldn’t get me a break on the cost of the tickets, but he could ensure I got fantastic seats. All I would have to do is fork over one of my children. I gave him two of them, and wham-bam – I had two fantastic seats at the concert.
I really enjoyed myself. I was watching these guys perform and realized I have been a faithful fan for more than half my life. And I just appreciated the memories I have associated with their music. But what I took away most from this concert was how cute my eight-and-half-month pregnant wife looked all dressed up in her hot outfit, dancing to Mysterious Ways, and supporting her husband in his mania that is U2.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
My Name Is Ken. But My Friends Call Me Robert.
So, it’s 9:00 p.m., and I’m in the Express Lane at our friendly neighborhood Albertsons. (Albertsons' Motto: If we can’t win you over with our high prices, we’ll make ourselves so stinking convenient, you’d have to be a real weenie to drive by us on your way to another grocer.) I wasn’t planning to be out, so I’m dressed quite casually. Quite casually. Very, extremely casually. To be honest, if I were dressed any less, I’d be in the shower. (Or in the YMCA locker room, but I digress.)
I have my 10 Items or Less on the conveyer belt, and I’m waiting my turn, when I hear voices and glance over my shoulder to see who’s behind me. Lo and behold, it’s Brother Dustin Hoffman* and his little daughter. (*Name has been changed.) Brother Hoffman is in the bishopric of a neighboring ward in our stake, and I’ve known him, more as an acquaintance than anything, really, for about three years. Katie and I spoke at a fireside in his ward a couple of years back, and afterwards he invited us to go to dinner with him and his wife sometime. (P.S. We never went.) And since I’ve been in our bishopric, I’ve seen him at various and sundry meetings where we’ve chatted casually from time to time; so, while I wouldn’t call us “friends,” I’d say we are definitely “friendly.”
But not tonight.
First, I’m very self conscious because I’m dressed like I’ve wandered from my bed to the bathroom, and second, well, Brother Hoffman has caught me – ME, a fellow bishopric member – engaged in the reading of an intriguing article out of the cheap and tawdry publication known as People. (Nick and Jessica. I just really thought those two kids were going to make it. And my heart aches when I think of the strain that Dukes of Hazzard has had on their relationship.)
“Oh, hey!” I nervously call over my shoulder to Brother Hoffman, as I fumble with the magazine and try to hide it behind a copy of Newsweek. (Why a single copy of Newsweek was on the “impulse buy” rack – the same rack as People – is beyond me, and my only explanation is that blessings come in all shapes and sizes.)
Brother Hoffman pipes up, and in full confidence says, “Hey Robert! I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Now, for those of you keeping score at home…there’s a good reason Brother Hoffman almost didn’t recognize me. My name is not Robert. Never has been. But I’m not really in a chit-chatty mood, don’t have any real reason to correct him, and now I don’t have to worry about being judged for my recreational reading as an added bonus. So I don’t say anything. I just wave and turn back to face the cashier, who is helping the person in front of me. But Brother Hoffman can’t leave good enough alone.
“I didn’t know you lived on this side of town?” he says.
Ah, nuts. I’m stuck in line and I’m being dragged into chitchat. And I’m at a slight disadvantage, because I’m suddenly a fictional character with a background that only Brother Hoffman knows.
“Yeah…yeah. Live over off Sasparilla. How about you? You still in the Elkhorn Springs Second Ward?”
Brother Hoffman cocks his head back, and while his smile stays intact, there’s suddenly a question behind it. “Yes…” he slowly answers. And it occurs to me that Robert is most likely not LDS and wouldn’t know that Brother Hoffman is in a “ward.”
“Oh,” I say. “Great.” And now I’ve got to quickly strike up conversation to distract him before he says, “You aren’t Robert are you? Why didn’t you say so? What’s wrong with ya, boy?”
So I say, “Yep, we just moved, actually, and now we live just one street over from your sister, Destiny Child*.” (*Name has been changed.)
Strike Two. Apparently Robert doesn’t know Destiny, and may not even know that Brother Hoffman has a sister. He is just staring at me now. Just a long, quiet, blank stare. I’m starting to panic. I feel like he’s about to point at me and say, “That’s him, officer, that’s him. I’m positive. That’s the impostor that was reading People in the Express Lane at Albertsons!”
The longer the moment lasts, the more I anticipate him calling my bluff. I start to do a character sketch in my mind. Who is this Robert? Would he buy gum? Should I put some on the conveyer belt? Would he be reading celebrity gossip? Should I ask Brother Hoffman his feelings about the Pitt/Anniston split? Is that something Robert would do? Does Robert swear? Probably not in front of little girls, so that option is out. I’ve got to think! The tension is so thick; you could cut it up and sell it in the Albertsons bakery at $8 a slice.
Finally, when my face is about to burst through my forehead, the cashier speaks up. “Sir,” she says to Brother Hoffman. “Sir, would you mind tying that cord up behind you, you’ll be my last customer and I’m closing the lane.”
“Oh, sure,” he says. “That’s easier than having to tell the person behind me that you’re closed and won’t help them.”
“Yeah,” I chime in, “the last thing you want is to be trapped in an uncomfortable situation.” Inside I think I am the funniest man alive, but my face is stone cold, as if there is no irony in my comment.
Finally it is my turn at the register. I am almost home free. The cashier asks for my special “Albertsons Card” that gives me fabulous discounts and incredible cash savings, which I gladly hand over. Once the card is in her hand, however, I recall that their canned response whenever they swipe my card is “Thank you, Kenneth.” NO! Their polite, new age customer service mumbo-jumbo is going to completely foul up my escape!
I start to weigh my options. One, I can correct the cashier, “Oh, it’s ‘Robert Kenneth,’ actually. But the ‘Robert’ is silent.” Or, “Oh, that’s funny, I have my twin brother’s Albertsons card. Hmm – this happens all the time. Do you know my twin? He’s in the Elk Ridge bishopric. I think he spoke at a fireside in your ward once with his wife.” One thing is for sure; I will quickly sell this cashier down the river before letting Brother Hoffman know that I am not Robert.
Then I start to panic double as I realize that at any second, somebody I know could enter the store and call me by name. What then? Do I deny who I am? If my neighbor walks in and says, “Hey Ken!” do I snub them? Do I look at Brother Hoffman and say, “I think he’s talking to you.”
I turn and focus on the cashier. I’ve got to deal with her first, and once I’m done, I can bolt for the door and run out into the night.
She starts, “Thank you, Ke—”
“No, thank YOU!” I interrupt, grabbing the receipt out of her hand, hoisting my groceries in my other hand, and heading for the door. For the sake of keeping up with appearances, I turned back once more to Brother Hoffman and said, “Have a good night.”
“We’ll see you later,” he said, still looking puzzled. He’s not going to let this go away. I can tell right now. I’m just curious if our next meeting will be at Albertsons or at a meeting at church. In the meantime, I am going to have to do some serious research on this Robert guy.
I have my 10 Items or Less on the conveyer belt, and I’m waiting my turn, when I hear voices and glance over my shoulder to see who’s behind me. Lo and behold, it’s Brother Dustin Hoffman* and his little daughter. (*Name has been changed.) Brother Hoffman is in the bishopric of a neighboring ward in our stake, and I’ve known him, more as an acquaintance than anything, really, for about three years. Katie and I spoke at a fireside in his ward a couple of years back, and afterwards he invited us to go to dinner with him and his wife sometime. (P.S. We never went.) And since I’ve been in our bishopric, I’ve seen him at various and sundry meetings where we’ve chatted casually from time to time; so, while I wouldn’t call us “friends,” I’d say we are definitely “friendly.”
But not tonight.
First, I’m very self conscious because I’m dressed like I’ve wandered from my bed to the bathroom, and second, well, Brother Hoffman has caught me – ME, a fellow bishopric member – engaged in the reading of an intriguing article out of the cheap and tawdry publication known as People. (Nick and Jessica. I just really thought those two kids were going to make it. And my heart aches when I think of the strain that Dukes of Hazzard has had on their relationship.)
“Oh, hey!” I nervously call over my shoulder to Brother Hoffman, as I fumble with the magazine and try to hide it behind a copy of Newsweek. (Why a single copy of Newsweek was on the “impulse buy” rack – the same rack as People – is beyond me, and my only explanation is that blessings come in all shapes and sizes.)
Brother Hoffman pipes up, and in full confidence says, “Hey Robert! I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Now, for those of you keeping score at home…there’s a good reason Brother Hoffman almost didn’t recognize me. My name is not Robert. Never has been. But I’m not really in a chit-chatty mood, don’t have any real reason to correct him, and now I don’t have to worry about being judged for my recreational reading as an added bonus. So I don’t say anything. I just wave and turn back to face the cashier, who is helping the person in front of me. But Brother Hoffman can’t leave good enough alone.
“I didn’t know you lived on this side of town?” he says.
Ah, nuts. I’m stuck in line and I’m being dragged into chitchat. And I’m at a slight disadvantage, because I’m suddenly a fictional character with a background that only Brother Hoffman knows.
“Yeah…yeah. Live over off Sasparilla. How about you? You still in the Elkhorn Springs Second Ward?”
Brother Hoffman cocks his head back, and while his smile stays intact, there’s suddenly a question behind it. “Yes…” he slowly answers. And it occurs to me that Robert is most likely not LDS and wouldn’t know that Brother Hoffman is in a “ward.”
“Oh,” I say. “Great.” And now I’ve got to quickly strike up conversation to distract him before he says, “You aren’t Robert are you? Why didn’t you say so? What’s wrong with ya, boy?”
So I say, “Yep, we just moved, actually, and now we live just one street over from your sister, Destiny Child*.” (*Name has been changed.)
Strike Two. Apparently Robert doesn’t know Destiny, and may not even know that Brother Hoffman has a sister. He is just staring at me now. Just a long, quiet, blank stare. I’m starting to panic. I feel like he’s about to point at me and say, “That’s him, officer, that’s him. I’m positive. That’s the impostor that was reading People in the Express Lane at Albertsons!”
The longer the moment lasts, the more I anticipate him calling my bluff. I start to do a character sketch in my mind. Who is this Robert? Would he buy gum? Should I put some on the conveyer belt? Would he be reading celebrity gossip? Should I ask Brother Hoffman his feelings about the Pitt/Anniston split? Is that something Robert would do? Does Robert swear? Probably not in front of little girls, so that option is out. I’ve got to think! The tension is so thick; you could cut it up and sell it in the Albertsons bakery at $8 a slice.
Finally, when my face is about to burst through my forehead, the cashier speaks up. “Sir,” she says to Brother Hoffman. “Sir, would you mind tying that cord up behind you, you’ll be my last customer and I’m closing the lane.”
“Oh, sure,” he says. “That’s easier than having to tell the person behind me that you’re closed and won’t help them.”
“Yeah,” I chime in, “the last thing you want is to be trapped in an uncomfortable situation.” Inside I think I am the funniest man alive, but my face is stone cold, as if there is no irony in my comment.
Finally it is my turn at the register. I am almost home free. The cashier asks for my special “Albertsons Card” that gives me fabulous discounts and incredible cash savings, which I gladly hand over. Once the card is in her hand, however, I recall that their canned response whenever they swipe my card is “Thank you, Kenneth.” NO! Their polite, new age customer service mumbo-jumbo is going to completely foul up my escape!
I start to weigh my options. One, I can correct the cashier, “Oh, it’s ‘Robert Kenneth,’ actually. But the ‘Robert’ is silent.” Or, “Oh, that’s funny, I have my twin brother’s Albertsons card. Hmm – this happens all the time. Do you know my twin? He’s in the Elk Ridge bishopric. I think he spoke at a fireside in your ward once with his wife.” One thing is for sure; I will quickly sell this cashier down the river before letting Brother Hoffman know that I am not Robert.
Then I start to panic double as I realize that at any second, somebody I know could enter the store and call me by name. What then? Do I deny who I am? If my neighbor walks in and says, “Hey Ken!” do I snub them? Do I look at Brother Hoffman and say, “I think he’s talking to you.”
I turn and focus on the cashier. I’ve got to deal with her first, and once I’m done, I can bolt for the door and run out into the night.
She starts, “Thank you, Ke—”
“No, thank YOU!” I interrupt, grabbing the receipt out of her hand, hoisting my groceries in my other hand, and heading for the door. For the sake of keeping up with appearances, I turned back once more to Brother Hoffman and said, “Have a good night.”
“We’ll see you later,” he said, still looking puzzled. He’s not going to let this go away. I can tell right now. I’m just curious if our next meeting will be at Albertsons or at a meeting at church. In the meantime, I am going to have to do some serious research on this Robert guy.
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