Quick programming note
By the time you read this, I’ll be in Cleveland! I’ll have a very short & sweet post on Wednesday, but there won’t be a Sunday story. When I get back, I hope to have at least one story from our adventures in Cleveland, where I plan to see a Guardians game and visit the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame!
The other day, Christina asked if I could pick up her prescription at the pharmacy. I said sure, then she hit me with the catch.
“It’s the pharmacy at the Kaiser hospital in Panorama City,” she said. “Do you have time for that?”
I glanced at my schedule. I had set aside the morning for writing, and I had a Zoom meeting in the afternoon. It was also laundry day, but that’s a dawn to dusk kind of operation in our household. Still, if I timed it right and if traffic cooperated, I could run the errand around lunch time and be back for my Zoom meeting.
“No problem,” I said.
But that wasn’t true. The errand was a big problem, and as an Angeleno with deep roots in America’s traffic capital, I should’ve spotted the folly in my plan from the jump.
Act One: Paperback Writer
The trouble began during my morning writing session. Sometimes the pages flow like wine at one of those wineries from the movie Sideways.
Other times, the pages flow like the last drops of honey in one of those plastic bear-shaped squeeze bottles.
Rarely, the pages don’t flow at all. And on those days, even simple similes fail to materialize on the blank page.
This particular writing session included all three flow states. For the first hour, I wrote my ass off, putting 1,008 words on the page. For the next hour, I wrote 400 words, but deleted 593. In the final hour, I struggled to write anything at all.
Normally, I’d channel the warrior-poet Ice Cube and declare this a good day, but I was coming up on the end of a chapter in my manuscript. That presented two challenges.
I’m never satisfied with my work, unless I stick the landing, just like an Olympic gymnast. The ending to a Situation Normal post, or a chapter in a manuscript, or the final line in a novel is everything. I’ll work at my endings as long as it takes, or as long as my deadline permits.
When I’m working on a longer story, I like to write the first few lines of the next section or chapter. Doing so makes it a lot easier to begin the next day’s session because it’s easier to fix bad writing than it is to face the blank page.
All I needed was one great line to end the chapter I was working on, and three or four mediocre lines to begin the next chapter. But that felt like a tall order, so I did what I always do when I’m in jam.
Pace.
Drink a cup of coffee.
Talk to my cowriter, Mortimer.
“This ending is dog shit,” I told Mortimer. “What do I do?”
“I don’t know,” Mortimer said. “But leave my shit out of your shit.”
Mortimer and I began to bicker. I accused him of phoning it in, something he’s been doing for TWELVE YEARS. He accused me of being stingy with the treats. But somewhere in the middle of our quarrel, inspiration struck.
I wrote an ending that was good, or at least good enough for now. Then I banged out the first few lines of the next chapter. I felt pretty good about the way things were going, but then I looked at the clock.
“You need to haul ass,” Mortimer said.
The dog was right. But before I leaving the house, I also needed to move one load of laundry to the dryer and put another load in the wash. As Hotel California resident Don Henley once sang, we love dirty laundry.
Act Two: I’m Your Vehicle, Baby
As I drove east on the Ronald Reagan freeway, things looked promising. Sure, I had left the house thirty minutes later than I had planned to, but traffic was light, my Prius had a working catalytic convertor once again, and Vehicle by the The Ides of March was cranking on the radio. I was making good time.
I made the transition to the 5 south without a hitch. I stayed in the right lane for about a mile, then I made another seamless transition to the 170 south. I was feeling good about this midday errand. So good, in fact, that I was in the mood to reference the “The Californians” skit on SNL.
Of course, there’s a reason why Californians, particularly those of the Los Angeles variety, spend so much time talking about traffic. Basically, traffic is the price we pay to live in this desert paradise.
The 170 south was smooth sailing, but as I looked to my left, I saw that the northbound lanes on the 170 were at a standstill because three fire trucks and two ambulances were dealing with a multi-car pile-up. That meant, among other things, that my route home was currently a highway to hell.
Act Three: I Want a New Drug
The pharmacy at Kaiser’s Panorama City location wasn’t crowded, but for some reason the pharmacist said it would take twenty minutes to fill Christina’s prescription. I thought about killing time by getting lunch, but the nearest cafeteria was in another building ten minutes across campus. So, I posted up in the corner to read the news.
But the news out of Washington was bad and the news out of Sacramento wasn’t much better. I put in my earbuds, opened the Spotify app, and spent some quality time with Huey Lewis and the News.
After twenty minutes of waiting, I was beginning to wonder what on Earth was taking so long. After thirty minutes, I thought about giving up. But listening to Huey Lewis sing about the power of love, I knew I couldn’t let Christina down. Finally, Christina’s name appeared on the monitor, letting me know her prescription was ready.
I paid for the prescription at the counter, but before they would give me the pills, the pharmacist wanted to have a word with me. Unfortunately, the pharmacist was a mumbler. Her mask and the plastic partitions made it even more difficult to hear the pharmacist’s instructions. And just as she got to the part about dangerous side effects, the old man at the next window started yelling at the top of his lungs about Joe Biden destroying America.
Act Four: Westbound and up
Things were looking bleak by the time I got back to my car. Sure, I had the drugs, and the pharmacist had given me two pages of written instructions so that Christina could read about the dangerous side effects without the accompaniment of an angry old man. But as Jerry Reed famously sang, I had a long way to go and a short time to get there.
Time wasn’t on my side. But as I pulled out of the parking lot, I realized that I was also hungry, bordering on hangry.
I made a left on Roscoe because that street seemed like the best bet to get across the Valley without using a freeway. Also, I knew there would likely be several fast food options on the way.
The first fast food restaurant I saw on the way home was a Carl’s Jr. Young Michael would’ve gotten a double western bacon cheeseburger and called it a win. But Middle-aged Michael reminded me that I had made a commitment to making better food choices so that I could eventually meet Old Man Michael. I drove past Carl’s.
Next, I thought about stopping at Burger King to get one of those Impossible Whoppers. But that didn’t seem much healthier. Also, I’m anti-monarchy. I drove past Burger King.
Finally, I spotted a Subway. I knew I could make that work, so pulled over and decided to eat fresh.
I ordered my Subway to-go and congratulated myself for making a good decision about lunch. But when I got back to my car, I made the really bad decision to eat a sub while driving. As I drove across the Valley, half the sub went into my belly, and the other half ended up on my shirt.
Act Five: Talking Heads
The new wave poet David Byrne once sang, “You may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile. And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife. And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?”
Well, this Californian’s answer is simple, David. I took Roscoe to Corbin, Corbin to Plummer, Plummer to Mason, Mason to Payeras, Payeras to Casaba.
I pulled my mid-sized automobile into the driveway of a beautiful house I share with my beautiful wife. I was thirteen minutes behind the schedule. I wasn’t hungry anymore, but I wasn’t exactly ready for Zoom primetime just yet.
“Where have you been?” Mortimer barked. “Your meeting already started, and I have to pee!”
I took Mortimer out to the backyard so he could handle his business. Then we went back inside, and I gave him a treat.
“You can’t go on Zoom with a messy shirt,” Mortimer said. “People will think you’re some kind of slob.”
I ripped off my dirty shirt, ran to the garage, and threw it in the washing machine, along with another load of laundry. Then I grabbed a fresh shirt from my dresser.
I fired up my computer, grabbed some water, and clicked the Zoom link. I joined the August Fictionistas meeting nineteen minutes late.
But as it turned out, they were just finishing up introductions, so I was right on time to introduce myself👇
Stick around and chat about the story!
I love hearing from readers like you because it makes writing Situation Normal so much fun! If you enjoyed this story, please let me know by leaving a comment below. Or, if you’re the type of person who likes a prompt, consider the following questions:
This story has a lot of music references. How many did you spot?
I shared a little bit about my writing process. If you’re a writer, can you share something about your writing process?
Fictionistas is a great community for fiction writers here on Substack. Are you a member? Are there other creative communities you’ve found here on Substack, or elsewhere? Please share!
If you have a pet, do you talk to them? And if so, do they give you good advice, or just talk trash?
What’s the worst type of food to eat while driving?
Cleveland bonus question. If there’s something you think I should see, do, or eat while I’m in Cleveland, let me know!
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