Skynard says it a real sweet home but it ain't nothin' to me

by anna at 06:54 PM on February 08, 2005

Actually that band hailed from north Florida but I guess Sweet Home Jacksonville with its Smelly Coffee Factory didn't have as catchy a ring. And that is where I'm headed. Not Jacksonville per se, but Tampa FLA and really, what's the difference? If it's not Ft. Lauderdale or Daytona during Bike Week, I don't want to go.

Actually I don't want to go anywhere. I'm an old hermit and very comfortable in my humdrum routine. Going someplace disrupts things. As the Marlon Brando character in Wild Ones said, going places is for squares.

But there's more to it than than that. My job sending me there to spend a hellish week reviewing claims that exist here in DC and then bickering with bean-counters in Tampa is something I am opposed to on several grounds. My own work will pile up like garbage in a strike. I'll be away from my wife and kid and I'll miss them. And there are certain.... lifestyle issues that could present a problem as I trek 1,000 miles to spend a week holed up in a hotel with my straightlaced boss, his straightlaced boss and some other devoted management types. Oh, and the terminally depressed coworker/friend I told you about before.

Maybe she'll share some of her psycho-meds with me prior to the flight. Gimme a handful o' Ativan and Zoloft chased by those miniature bottles of liquor at 8 AM. That would go over real well (see above characters.) You see, I used to fly a lot. Out to California where my asshole brother lives, up to New York to see my in-laws blocks from where MG resides, skiiing in Steamboat, Lake Tahoe, whatever. I liked flying.

But I haven't set foot on a plane since 9/11 and had no intention of ever doing so again until this disaster befell me. My brother is dead for all I know or care. With all the security hassles you can drive to NYC in about the time it takes to hop the shuttle, rent a car and get to your destination. I don't ski anymore because of my wife's bad knees. We vacation in New Jersey and the Outer Banks, well within driving distance. Tahoe is about the only place I could imagine wanting to fly to. I raised this issue i.e. my fear of flying with my bosses but they pooh-poohed my concerns as irrational. Irrational perhaps but all too real in my mind. Unfortunately to refuse would be career suicide and I make a pretty nice living.

We flew from San Francisco to Tahoe on a puddle jumper that seated 17 people. Midway through the flight the pilots drew a curtain that separated the cockpit from the rest of the plane. I go up there to check it out. I ask them why they draw that curtain and with no hesitation they both reply, "We draw the curtain when we're dancing." Deadpan, like Stephen Wright. On the way back they were overbooked and trying to get people to take a different flight. As they went through the vetting process and got to me I told them I was a schizophrenic who'd run out of meds and needed to get back to DC to get my script renewed. Wild-eyed, like in my thumbnail. Works everytime.