Did you ever wonder about that top row of keys on your keyboard? Q-W-E-R-T-Y. That’s how they’re laid out. Not A-B-C-D as you might expect. Well, I did a little research and it turns out a long time ago when old fashioned typewriters were first invented, they did have the keys laid out alphabetically. And the system worked great.
Too great in fact. People were able to type so fast, the keys jammed up. So they kept returning the dang typewriters to the stores because they didn’t work right. But rather than fix problem for God’s sake, the manufacturers just rearranged the keys in the most inefficient manner they possibly could to slow people down and keep their precious typewriters from jamming. Q-W-E-R-T-Y. That’s how they laid out the keyboard. Not the more logical A-B-C. And, bingo-bango, that fixed the problem.
The only thing is … here we are about a million years later with super fast computers and no mechanical keys to slow anything down, and the keyboard is still laid out Q-W-E-R-T-Y. And to tell the truth, that kind of burns my bacon. Why? Because in a lot of ways I feel just like that. Like I’m the top row of keys on an alphabetical keyboard, but I’m living in a crazy, topsy-turvy Qwerty world.
That’s one reason why I decided to sell my home in the mountains between Albuquerque and Santa Fe and get off the grid in an Airstream travel trailer. You know, those big round silver jobs? In the back of my mind, it’s something I always wanted to do. I love the aerodynamics of Airstreams, even more than those snazzy high tech RVs with multiple slide-outs, artsy-fartsy condo interiors and all that, which are all the rage these days. In some circles anyway. And I don’t mean the trailer trash crowd, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m talking about regular hard working Americans who want to escape the gravitational pull of routine life, freedom of the open road, discovery and adventure.
“Unfortunately, that may not be a realistic dream for much longer,” I told my real estate broker when I put the house on the market.
“Why is that?”
“With the price of gas going through the roof every time the wind blows from a different direction in the Caribbean, the internal combustion engine is going to end up being an artifact of the past, like the chariot and the hula hoop.”
“That’s quite a leap of logic. Are you sure this isn’t just a mid-life crisis?”
“Could be. But as Detroit goes, so goes the RV industry. That’s another reason I want to take one of the last great American road trips before I get too long in the tooth.”
“Long in the tooth?” he laughed. “You don’t look that old to me.”
“I know. Like they say in the tabloids, I play young.”
“How old are you anyway?” he said. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Let me just say this. The AARP starts salivating at the sound of my name.”
“Well, you’re a long way from the rest home, sir,” he said, scanning my face. “But I’d be glad to sell your house for you.”
“Please do. In the meantime, I’ll be getting my head wrapped around the notion of seeing the world – or at least the good old US of A – before the pain at the pump gets to be more than I can handle.”
Not the least of which is to take that Airstream and winter up in California where it’s about a zillion degrees warmer than the rest of the country. Then, when things thaw out, I’d like to aim the thing in the direction of Austin, Texas and catch some live music. I love music. Especially Bob Dylan. As far as I’m concerned, he’s Mozart in our midst, the poet laureate of our times. Never mind that tired old Madison Avenue ‘minstrel of a generation’ crap. That’s way too limiting. His work is pure, brilliant, unedited thought, distilling the entire human experience down to a few concise musical phrases.
Another thing I’d like to do is catch the northern lights before they go away with the depletion of the ozone layer, which scientists say is happening with global warming. But you have do a trip like that pretty far north. And you have to do it by fall or it's colder than shit with 24/7 Aurora Borealis, which is more light fantastic than I’m looking for.
But anyway, I digress. I should probably give you a heads up about that. I have a mild case of AADD. That’s the nym for Adult Attention Deficit Disorder. In other words, I have a tendency to take what my friends call ‘mental detours’ from time to time. It drives them nuts. But you know what? The direct route is not always the best path to your destination. We should all just slow down every once in a while and take a little spin off onto those mental side roads. You never know what you’ll find. Maybe an even better place than where you intended in the first place.
“Sounds like an amusing little escapade,” the real estate agent said. “What’s your asking price?”
“On the house you mean?”
“Isn’t that what we were talking about?”
“I just want to get out of it what I put in.”
“Are you sure?” he said, no doubt calculating his commission in the back of his mind. “It’s worth quite a bit more now than when you bought it.”
“I’m not out to make a killing, just a clean exit.”
“Okay. We can do that. But if you’re going to be a man without a zip code, just make sure we know where to send the check.”
“Oh, I will. Thanks.”
“You are certainly welcome, sir.”
As I made my exit, I looked over my shoulder and caught him sniggering to himself behind his desk.
“Have a nice day,” his pretty receptionist said as I left the office. She was a cutie. I wondered how she felt about older men.
If you get the impression I’m a single man with red blood coursing through his veins, you’d be right. I’m divorced actually and on the rebound. No kids. And I’m constantly on the lookout for a first mate to join me on this impending voyage in my shiny silver dream.
My marriage boiled to a head with a horrendous argument about something, I don’t remember what. Probably something like money or the frequency of our sex lives or some damn thing, even though what we were arguing about on the surface was whose turn it was to do the dishes. Anyway, after a North and South Korea cold war that lasted for days, she finally pushed me over the edge.
“So what are we going to do about us?” she said in this haranguing tone. It was not the best approach to take. The last thing on my mind at that particular moment was ‘us’.
“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get a tattoo.”
“A tattoo?”
“That’s right,” I said. “A tattoo. Of a snake. It’s going to start here on my forehead and it’s going to curl around my cheek with its mouth wide open and two big yellow fangs, one on each side of my moustache. And it’s going to have bright blue tattoo blood dripping down from my goatee.”
I was on a roll. I can be pretty descriptive sometimes when I feel like it. Other times I can’t even make a sentence.
“Oh, for God’s sake. What is that going to do for our situation?”
“I dunno, nothing I guess.”
“Then why would you want to do something like that?” she said, taunting me.
“So that no one can ever tell me that marrying you was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, that’s why.”
I roostertailed my car out the gravel driveway and never came home again. The divorce was final about a year later. I guess there’s something to be said for the tat and piercing scene. Or the threat of it anyway. I pierced my ear and got an earring not too long after that to commemorate the occasion. No tats. Not yet anyway. But if I do get one, it’s going to be an Airstream stopped in front of a chicken crossing the road. And I think I’ll put it on my right butt cheek. Growing old is mandatory, growing up is optional.
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