SHAKE, RATTLE AND ROLL

I looked forward to driving across the country to reach the west coast, but got an unexpected greeting when I reached the Pacific Ocean. This vignette describes the journey. 02/29/2016

                                      

                                       SHAKE, RATTLE AND ROLL

Once I had accepted the job transfer, events moved swiftly. I packed my belongings in a steamer trunk and shipped it to Arcata via Railway Express. The next day, my cross-country automobile ride began. At Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, a heavy snowfall convinced me to change my travel plan. Instead of proceeding due west, I make a left turn and drive south to Meridian, Mississippi, then west to Dallas, Texas.         

After checking into a downtown hotel, a combination of thirst and boredom made me seek out a nearby tavern. Loud country music filled the air along with cigarette smoke. After one beer, I succumbed to temptation and bought a pack of Lucky Strikes, intending to smoke just one. That good intention failed. One cigarette led to another and another. It felt good to take a drag and sip some suds. Nicotine had hooked me again.         

My next day’s drive took me to Amarillo. At a gas station, after checking the oil and water, the attendant closed the hood. In the process, the steel rod used to hold the hood open slipped from his hand. It now protruded straight out from the grille, perfect for spearing pedestrians, perhaps. It took me fifteen minutes to undo the latch, by which time the undertaker had me in his sights. My skin started to freeze-dry while being sand-blasted by the howling wind. Alaska’s arctic weather seemed tropical in comparison to this frigid day in the Texas Panhandle.

The next leg of my journey took me to Tucson. This quaint city captivated me. After checking in at a hotel near the campus of the University of Arizona, I went sight-seeing. All the stores featured Christmas decorations with a southwestern flavor. Shoppers wore earrings and other jewelry with southwest accents.

The visibility seemed unlimited. The sun shone intensely. After dinner, the thought of lingering here for another day began to appeal to me. Why rush? Why not enjoy this place for another twenty-four hours.

I delayed my departure, choosing to spend the next morning walking around town. I checked out of the hotel at noon, dropped my suitcase on the sidewalk, walked across the street to a parking lot where I had left my car overnight, got in and drove off.  Fifty miles down the road, my mind flashed a thought. You dummy! You left your suitcase on the curb in front of the hotel.

 I returned to Tucson, convinced someone would have taken it by now. Much to my surprise, no one had. Could this be an omen to stay another day? Even more reluctantly, I rounded up the wagons a second time and headed toward Yuma and from there to the Californian desert town of Indio, a place with a million motels. The one I chose to stay at had a lounge and a few patrons, one of whom struck up a conversation with me. “The only people who live out here in the desert permanently are those who have lung problems. I hate it here. Where are you heading?”

“Arcata, California.”

“Could you give me a ride tomorrow?  I’m certain I could get a job there.”

“Maybe. I’m leaving about nine.”

He touched my hand and said, “You won’t regret it.” I already had. The guy’s fawning mannerism freaked me out.

By six the next morning, I had Indio in my rear view mirror. By five o’clock that evening, San Francisco welcomed me.

“Where’s the best hotel in town?” It must have struck the gasoline station attendant as a strange request coming from a person driving a quirky car and dressed in rumpled clothes.

“The Fairmont.” He pointed it out to me, high atop Nob Hill.

This incredibly steep landmark thoroughfare is a challenge to navigate. With little room to maneuver, a motorist has to contend with clanging cable cars, numerous stop signs, traffic signals and jaywalkers. That first ride up to the hotel’s entrance caused my heart to race with anxiety.

It raced even faster after entering this four-star hotel to register. The place reeked of opulence. Ornate Christmas trees and other seasonal displays filled the lobby. Women in furs and diamonds lounged about in stark contrast to my attire, rumpled slacks and a stained underwear t-shirt. Despite my appearance, or perhaps because of it, the registration clerk checked me in at the outrageously low price of ten bucks a night. He rented me a tiny room located next to the elevator shaft from which whooshing sounds emanated all night long. It mattered not. The city enchanted me.  I walked down Nob Hill that evening, and rode a cable car back up. I loved the experience. The sounds of the elevator kept me awake all night, giving me plenty of time to worry about the next day.

   Someone had suggested to Dennis that he locate the Cooling Tower Department’s offices in a new industrial park near the campus of Stanford University. “Check it out, while you are in San Francisco,” Dennis had said. The following day found me in Palo Alto, wandering around Stanford’s campus, impressed by its beauty. The leasing agent provided me with information, but I could see our office would be out of place in this upscale high-tech setting, no more I fit in with the Fairmont’s clientele.

   In late afternoon, while driving back to spend my last evening in San Francisco, listening to a music station, my thoughts turned to my final destination , Arcata (population 7,000) and Eureka (population 35,000). These two communities are located seven miles apart on either side of Eureka Bay, some 300 miles north of San Francisco. It would take me all day to drive there, on a winding narrow coastal highway. The weather had been perfect during the last two days, sunny and mild. It never occurred to me that the weather near Eureka Bay would be so dissimilar to that of the San Francisco Bay area. No one had informed me that the Eureka/Arcata area enjoyed coastal fog three hundred days a year.

Then, a shock wave hit me. The announcer said, “A major earthquake has struck the Eureka/Arcata area causing significant damage to buildings, causing some of them to collapse. However, there is no report of injuries or deaths. Phone communication to the region has been cut off.”

How could this be?  I’ve been driving for over a week to reach a place that may no longer exist. The irony overwhelmed me. Pulling off to the side of the highway, laughter rocked my sides for a few minutes before I could continue driving. Not until midnight did my frantic phone call get through to Ed Carlson, the mill manager. He chuckled at my concern. “It was a big quake, but everyone here is fine. No buildings collapsed, but a few are damaged.  We look forward to seeing you tomorrow.” 

 While driving to Eureka the next day, the radio continued to give reports about the quake. It confirmed that no one had died, nor had there been any severe injuries. This news comforted me, but my nerves were jangled.            

Once there, the magnitude of the quake became apparent. It had broken every large store window in both cities and had shaken merchandise off the shelves of many retail stores. Chandeliers in a department store had swung in a 180-degree arc, denting the ceiling on either side. It severely damaged a few older buildings. It certainly seemed like it had been a significant earthquake, although I had never experienced one.

The Eureka Inn, the best motel in town, became my lodging the first night in town. About midnight, a “whooshing” noise awakened me. It sounded like a New York City subway. No, that can’t be. Perhaps a logging truck ran into this motel. Then a light dawned as the bed danced. It is an aftershock. Welcome to California.

   Over the next two weeks, a number of significant aftershocks rattled the area. They broke replacement windows and caused shelved goods to topple on the floor again.   

Some people like to brag about having lived through some natural disaster, but not me. It brings to mind a story Abe Lincoln told about a man whose fellow citizens had tarred and feathered for committing a misdemeanor. When asked to describe his feelings about what the town folk had subjected him to, the unfortunate fellow said, "If it hadn't been for all the notoriety I received, I would just as soon have skipped the experience." 

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