What Now?

And now I watched as my possessions were being reduced into four piles. I sat cross-legged, staring vacantly at my two friends as they forced me to choose, item by item, four possibilities: trash, charity, storage, motor home. These were my choices. I’d spent seventeen years in a self-absorbed, consumption-driven yuppie existence. I had accumulated real estate, endless mementos from endless trips to endless countries, and volumes of things. My real estate agent and my next-door neighbor had come over early on the day escrow was to close on my last piece of property, my prized beach house. I had parked the motor home in front of the house. I had spent the last thirty days hiding inside its protective walls as I watched television, day after day, ignoring the need to empty the house by 5:00 PM this very day. Each time my real estate agent called to check on my progress, I’d report that all was under control and there was no problem in meeting this dreaded deadline. Now, I was the one who was glazed over, overwhelmed, and unable to function. But my friends treated me as though my lapse was something that warranted love, kindness, and support. Most of all, they treated me without judgment. I felt such sadness for each person I had dismissed as lazy. This wasn’t about being lazy. It was about being unable to face real and profound pain. How I arrived at this dismal state of affairs wasn’t really very original, was it? Don and I had planned to sail off into the sunset. I sold my business, bought all the appropriate toys to make a stylish getaway, and then after three years of daily emotional struggle, I ended the relationship. The prospect of continuing alone with a plan that was meant to be our happily ever after was unfathomable. What in God’s name was I doing? Did I really believe that I could handle this forty-foot behemoth on my own? In my heart, I only cared about one thing. I would show him that I could do anything and his absence meant nothing to me. This had been his dream that I supported because it made him smile, and oh how I still loved his smile. Now I pretended it was my dream. But, what I really had was a twenty-year mortgage and pride that didn’t allow me to consider any other alternative but to carry on. I’d never driven it. I’d never maintained it. I’d never emptied the holding tanks or filled the fuel tank. At 5:00 PM, we locked the door of my beach house as escrow officially closed. I felt like Robert Redford when he turned to Paul Newman in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, as they sat perched on the edge of a cliff with the federales hot on their tail. Redford said, “But I can’t swim!” with Newman responding, “Hell, the fall will probably kill you.” And then they both proceeded to jump a trillion feet into a river. That’s what it felt like to me. Toni and Cathy stood at the curb and waved as I pulled away. I was holding the wheel so tightly that my fingers were cramped and locked into position. My destination was Malibu, fifty-five miles away, with my route taking me along the California Pacific Coast Highway. It was a valiant trip, covering a meager distance. As the road curved, climbed, narrowed, and fell, my body was drenched with sweat, and my hands shook. It was difficult enough on the coastal curves built into the cliffs of the Santa Monica mountains, but once I pulled into Malibu, the road got really crowded. This part of PCH is notorious for mudslides, preventative construction, and repairs. The cement barriers are of little concern when zipping along in a car. But if you happen to be in a wide-bodied bus with surfers darting out from between parked cars, not to mention the parked cars themselves, the word crowded takes on a whole new meaning. Although I had driven the entire route in my car the previous day, I wasn’t confident that I would be able to get into the left lane when I needed to, assuming, of course, that I didn’t hit a parked car or cement barrier before I got there. But luck was on my side. I used my turn signal, checked my mirrors, held my breath, and changed lanes. There was no sound of brakes screeching and no horns. I made it. I had safely arrived at the entrance of the Malibu RV Park. The coach handled the steep incline into the park easily. I was relieved because I’d been having nightmares about it. I had dreamed that the motor home never reached the top. It felt good to stop, and along with relief came total exhaustion. I’d been so intense and so freaked out for the entire drive that now I barely had the strength to walk into the office to register. My face was red hot, and I was perspiring profusely. My hair was matted with sweat, and my hands were trembling. I staggered out into the day and stumbled to the registration desk. A truly concerned clerk ran around the desk, put his arm around my waist to steady me, and asked, “Should I call 911? Are you having a stroke?” I laughed and assured him that I was okay. “I just need a minute to regroup. This is my virgin voyage in that thing.” I pointed out the window to the motor home, and everyone within the sound of my voice became silent and dumbfounded. They were all thinking what the clerk asked. “But you’re so tiny! Where’s your husband?” This was the first time I’d been asked to define my status by strangers. I felt like bait in a trap. I’d been warned by everyone I talked to before I’d left Oxnard to always say I’m with someone so that people wouldn’t take advantage of me. I was pretty paranoid at this point, but the truth just came pouring out anyway. “It’s just me and my two cats.” The clerk was eyeing me suspiciously when he said, “Do you work out of your coach? You look awfully young to be retired.” I shot back, “I look awfully young because I am retired!” And then I laughed and everyone at the desk gave me lots of strokes for having the courage to travel alone in that large but beautiful coach. We proceeded with registration, and when it came time for me to sign, my hands were still shaking so badly that I had trouble holding the pen and even more trouble actually writing my name. Once registration was completed, I had to face getting behind the wheel to park the rig. Driving on a road, even a narrow, winding road, is a snap when compared to parking. My assigned space had an ocean view that required that I simply pull straight in. But the angle also required jockeying backwards and forward a couple of times before I would be properly positioned in the site. I had not yet used reverse. The idea was out of the question. I’d had enough new experiences for one day, and I simply refused to back up. I pulled into the space at such an extreme angle that I couldn’t open any of the storage bay doors on the passenger side without hitting a post. The electrical, water, and sewer connections were accessible, and that was a good thing, because, come hell or high water, I wasn’t moving the coach one inch. No how, no way. This is one thing my cat Butch and I had in common. We could both be very stubborn.