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This past March I met my daughter and son in Indio, California, at a rented house that was headquarters for the time we spent in the area. We were there to attend the PNB Paribas tennis tournament at Indian Wells. The trip and event have become a family tradition. Sadly, the last two years have been without Kay, wife and mother. Instead of returning home to Goodyear, Arizona, I continued to Orange County to spend extra time with them and attend a birthday party of a friend who lives on Balboa Island in Newport Beach. Typically, as soon as I reached Riverside the traffic was slow-and-go “brutal” even though it was Saturday. BTW, I tried once before on a Sunday—same result—bumper to bumper from Riverside to the 241 toll-road. Annoying for sure. Talk about being a slow leaner—I hate that leg of the drive and always vow never to do it again. Here’s my problem: I live an hour west of Sky Harbor airport in Phoenix and have to get there an hour and a half before takeoff. It only takes two hours for me to reach the Arizona-California state line which is about 40-percent of the way to my Orange County destination. Another factor is that I would have to rent a car which is now thrice as expensive since the 2020 elections and the tax-tax-tax mentality of Gov. Gavin Newsome. So, I suck it up and drive. Anyway, that particular Saturday I only faced a two-hour drive from Indio so I put on some music and relaxed behind the wheel. It was the usual stress-filled mess with the traffic cycling between 80 and zero mph. I remained mellow, only occasionally swearing at other drivers. As always, time spent there was worth the aggravation. When it was time to return to Arizona, I decided to break up the drive by spending several days with my bother, Jim, and sister-in-law, Francine, in Palm Springs. (BTW, the journey between our desert communities is an easy drive of three-and-a-half hours door-to-door.) So, I’m zipping east on the 91 freeway at 70 mph and traffic comes to an unexpected and sudden halt. WTF! I left at 10 am and figured to be in Palm Springs by noon. The tie-up continued for an hour and gave me plenty of time to bitch and moan and generally sink into a greasy black funk. Finally, the source of the problem was revealed which was a jacked-up minivan abandoned two lanes from the HOV lane. Meanwhile, I had to take a leak which was reaching emergency status. I hung on until the Palm Spring 111 cutoff and using my car as a shield wrung out my kidneys for a good two minutes. Eyes to the sky…aaahh… Cars passing in both directions tooted their horns and waved, but I didn’t care. I reached my destination at one o’clock pleased to get out from behind the wheel and have left a massive “fire hose” deposit of urine meandering gracefully across the desert sands. BTW, folks, urine is sterile—I heard a physician say so on the radio. Francine greeted me with a pitcher of Margaritas. That concoction of refreshing relaxation was just what I needed. Twenty minutes later, Jim joined us so we topped off our drinks and went from the bar to the back patio. The day was gorgeous, the Margaritas refreshing, and the conversation stimulating. Francine made reservations for their favorite Italian restaurant at 5 pm, which may seem a bit early, but in the desert one tends to retire at a (so-called) premature hour. In an instant I could not keep my eyes open. I had zero alcoholic buzz. It was like I had been slipped a mickey. The result was I collapsed in the guest bedroom leaving Jim and Francine to dine without me. When I awoke eight or nine hours later, I felt fantastic—couldn’t remember when I’d slept so well. There was one significant problem: I was raring to go, but the clock read 11:45 pm. Now, I normally dream, but that evening didn’t have any brain activity—like when one is put under with anesthetic. To my mind it was like only a second had expired. Eleven-forty-five!?! Now what? Well, I read for a few hours then slept—again, really well—and popped up at 7 am feeling fantastic. I made the bed, showered, dressed and sat at the bar with a bottle of water doing what humanoids do these days: got into my phone and fell into that hypnotic trance induced by the device. Jim joined me twenty minutes later with an incredible tale. It turned out that he didn’t get to bed until 5 am. Here’s what happened: Twenty minutes after receiving their entrees, Jim got severe abdominal cramps—said he’d never experienced anything like them before. He didn’t think it was the food, since he and Francine eat there regularly. They boxed up their food and returned home. Jim took some Tums (for the tummy), which didn’t help. Finally, Francine called 911. An ambulance full of EMT’s arrived along with two fire trucks—sirens blaring, lights flashing. The house was full of noisy commotion, gawking neighbors were out, and emergency vehicle lights continued to flash insistently. It’s a cacophony of noise and activity. (Lights! Camera! Action!) Even though I hadn’t pulled the curtains facing the outdoor spectacle, I was completely zonked out. Francine thought maybe I had departed from the living and wanted Jim to check. He (having his own issues) refused, and they hustled him off in the ambulance. When he arrived at Emergency, he was plopped into a bed that was too short (Jim is 6’8”) and told they’d run out of pillows. (Wha…??? How does a hospital run out of pillows?) He was still miserable and quite uncomfortable, but told they’ll get right to him. Before they did, another, more urgent case came in. A prisoner took a swan dive off the top bunk in his cell and sustained a life-threatening head injury. Jim’s pain was getting worse, but he’s told to be patient. Hours go by. Just as he began to receive attention, another case came in; one where some duffass cut off his own foot. Again, this took precedence. Jim waited another two hours before they took some blood. While he awaited results, the abdominal pain ceased—later they figured it was trapped gas. This suggested to me, that sometime in the night there must have been a ginormous fart—a real window rattler; a thunderschmear. (Jim is not saying…) Anyway, Jim asked to be discharged and they agreed, Unfortunately, the process took another hour. So, after he related his tale (and only two-and-a-half hours of sleep), he went back to bed for a few more hours. Later, we had lunch with his neighbor, 1940-50s movie star, Steve Rowland, and relaxed at Steve’s house during the afternoon. The next morning, I left for home, but can’t remember what happened after I left Steve’s. It must have been good. Maybe another mickey? Unconscious and clueless, Gene Myers
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BNP Paribas tennis tournament, Balboa Island, Palm Springs, traffic, take a leak, Margaritas, mickey, 911, Emergency, trapped gas,
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