Wow! It sure feels like Monday.
The weekend passed by in a blur of activity and I am positive that between now and THE BIG MOVE, the frenetic pace will become uncomfortably familiar to Dallas and me.
See, the scary thing about settling in a new place (is it just me or does the word "settle" automatically conjure up images of covered wagons and bonnets?) is that there is no guarantee that you'll get it right the first time.
Gone are the days when the bulk of my belongings could fit into a backpack. Back then, I could relocate without a second thought. When I first decided to leave Canada for San Diego, I was positively delirious with anticipation. I sold everything I owned, which wasn't much and committed fully to the idea of never having to experience a Canadian winter again. I could not wait to get on the plane.
At the time, I was working as a manager in a popular chain restaurant. One of my regular customers was this cranky, old guy who would stroll in most evenings for a few pints of draught and some hot wings before making his way home. The staff hated him. He was a big man with giant hands, a shock of white hair and fleshy features. He was bigoted, opinionated, obnoxious, demanding and generally a pain in the arse. I loved him.
Sometimes, I'd sit with him and get his advice on everything from dating (frat boys are bad news) to finances (pay yourself first). He'd lost his wife and his only child in a house fire years earlier and never really recovered. We had an odd friendship I suppose, but it worked. He was a surrogate grandfather to me and my life was richer for knowing him. When I bought my ticket to sunny California, telling him was the only thing that I dreaded about the move.
"You'll be back," he said, as if I would fail, somehow.
"No, I won't." I replied and in that moment, our relationship changed.
For the next couple of weeks, he was distant and emotionally withdrawn. The waves of disapproval that rolled off of him were palpable.
I questioned my decision to go.
Was I being impulsive? Should I stay? How would I support myself in the US? But California spoke to me and the desire to go outweighed every rational objection that I could muster.
On my last day at work, there was a mini going away party in my honour. My friend ambled in near the end of it and parked himself at the bar. He motioned for me to sit next to him, which I accepted, grateful for the apparent thaw in his attitude. We chatted for a bit about hockey and the weather.
"I bet you'll really enjoy all that hot weather in Cal-e-forn-eye-ay," he said. I was surprised.
"Yeah, I think so." I said. I felt the beginnings of a small lump forming in my throat.
He just nodded, finished his beer and called for his tab. I sat quietly beside him unsure of what to say next. He paid his bill, stood up, and put on his jacket. As he tucked his stool under the bar, he handed me an envelope. Then he hugged me, which he had never done before.
"Good luck," he said and left. I went into the staff bathroom and cried myself stupid.
When I opened the envelope, there was a corny going away card upon which he had written, "You'll do good but if you get homesick, use this to buy yourself a ticket home."
Inside were four, crisp, new, one hundred dollar bills.
It took me about eighteen months to deposit the money into my bank account in La Mesa. It took that long for me to exhale and accept my new life.
I never saw or spoke to my friend again. Email and mobile phones were non existent back then and even if they were, I'm not sure he would have divulged that information. I didn't even know his last name. If I could talk to him now, I'd tell him that part of the reason that things worked for me in the US is because I operated with the knowledge that if they didn't, I had a four hundred dollar safety net.
Thank you Frank.
