Weekend in Seattle (Train pt. 12)

Somehow you would think that adding eight hours to an already scheduled 46 hour train ride wouldn’t be that big of a deal; I mean, after awhile shouldn't the hours just kind of run together?  Speaking from experience though, I find that it is akin to adding $20k to an already existing $80k loan; though it doesn’t seem like that much at the time, that extra amount makes it feel like an already boring baseball game stretched into endless extra innings.

Hailing a cab just outside of the Kings’s street station I set about doing what I do with cabbies and asked the Ethiopian driver about his adventures in Seattle and how he was adapting to weather that I could only imagine differed greatly from what he was used to.  Sensing his joy about his new home, I didn't want to ruin his peachy view of a Seattle winter by reminding him that his first winter in the Pacific Northwest had been one of the driest on record.  I did joke with him that I would check back in a few years to see if his answer was still the same.  

As we made our way towards Hwy 99, him sharing stories about the niceness of the people he's met, I sat back in the pleather seat and felt some of the tension start to ebb from my body.  Finally I was on my way to Danny’s.  Finally I could take a shower and change out of my train clothes.  Finally I could …. get in an accident only minutes away from my destination.  F my life; I knew we should have taken the 39^th street exit. 

I guess the guy driving the beat up maroon Geo Prism in the lane to the left of us must have wanted into the parking lot on our right pretty badly.  I don't know if he wanted to turn around or if he realized at the last second that this was his destination, but it is odd to me that anyone would think that turning abruptly across a lane of traffic with no turn signal would be a good idea. 

As the cabbie slammed on his brakes, the squealing of locked tires resonating inside the cab as he tried to maneuver around the ignoramus cutting him off, the guy behind us driving the black Lexus must have picked a bad time to look down at his phone.  From the moment I heard a word so full of malice it needed no translation to the moment I felt my body jolt violently must have lasted no more than five seconds, but the shift in the time/space continuum that happens in times of good and bad made it feel more like five minutes.

As we pulled into the parking lot, the black Lexus in tow, I was amused to watch the barrel chested Serbian get out of the Prism and deliver his pizza like nothing happened.  As he pocketed his payment for the pie I mentioned to him that he might want to stick around for awhile.  Looking at me like I was an idiot he begrudgingly told me that he had done nothing wrong and was leaving.  When I reminded him that it was his nifty driving that put us all in this predicament his eyes narrowed and he decided he need to stand two inches from me to emphasize his point.  I guess he thought this might change my mind.  

Calmly I looked him in the eye and told him that cutting across two lanes of traffic and slowly rolling into a parking lot, all with no turn signal, was considered poor driving in any country.  As it dawned on him that I was standing by my story, he proceeded to tell me that the cabbie had been driving in a bus-only lane, and therefore was illegally on the road.  Smiling a little I told him that this was true, if it happened to be between the hours of 4-7pm.  Unfortunately for him, I pointed out that the accident happened at 7:15.

It is amazing to me how quickly a story can change.

Aware now that he had zero leg to stand on the Serb started to shift his story and tell us that he was not in the lane to the left of us, rather he was in our lane at least a block ahead of his turn.  Asking him why he started off by telling us we were in an illegal lane that he himself was now claiming to be driving in I watched as the wheels turned and his frustration grew.  

Sadly it took five calls to 911 and a small fib on my part about a imminent fight before we got anywhere; sadder still, a cop never showed and we were left to work all of the information out ourselves.  Thankfully the blond guy dressed in designer clothes driving the Lexus knew he was at fault and just wanted to get on with his evening.  The Serb, however, refused to show anything information oriented until I talked to the operator loudly about fault and a lack of sharing.   

It would have been so much simpler if a cop had just taken 15 minutes out of their busy Friday night.  Though I know there is always something for a cop to do on any night, and Fridays are usually the worst, something tells me that it was the prospect of added paperwork that caused the no show rather than any crime, especially since I saw two patrol cars drive past us in the flow of traffic as we waited. 

With pictures taken, numbers exchanged and finally an ID to verify the Serb’s name and address, we were off.  Heck, after 55 hours on a train, what's another 45 minutes...  Right?  

At least Danny likes to drink.

Thankfully fate had shined on me a bit this weekend and I had inadvertently chosen the perfect weekend to visit my long time drinking buddy.  As it turned out, Danny’s wife was going to be gone most of the weekend, her focus on a documentary film project she was entering in a contest Monday morning.   

Now don't get me wrong, I have nothing but love for ACH (without her, Danny would probably not still be here), my hesitancy to have her around has more to do with the belief that my feelings are reciprocated.  It seems that any time I come into town, Danny decides to go on a bit of a bender.  Now, it is unclear as to who exactly is the largest enabler, but something about a stumbling drunk husband tumbling into bed around 3am doesn't seem to sit right with her.  I suppose I can see her point.

Thankfully Danny and I are both reaching that peak in mid life where we have retained enough of the painful morning after lessons to not try to break any records when we go out anymore.  Hitting up El Norte, a hipster Mexican restaurant with food as good as the waitstaff’s body odor is bad, we grabbed a couple of drinks while waiting for the crowd to die down in the new BBQ joint across the street. 

Feeling the odor of unwashed bodies quelling my appetite, we finished up and made our way over to a joint hopping with 20 something hipsters so unique in their clothing they have became uniform.  As we contemplated the choices of delicious meats and sides staring up at us from behind their glass case, we tried to make sense of a system that forced one to order food at one counter, belly up to another for drinks, and then go find a table.  

A pound of brisket, pork shoulder, fried chicken, and mac and cheese later meant that none of it mattered, I could finally truly feel the tension of the last few days ebb from me (though that may have been all the whiskey).  Capping the night off at The Traveler we marveled about how much Ballard and Fremont (or Frelard as is it oddly nicknamed) had become a mecca for the hipster movement.  It seems this little burb of Seattle wants desperately to compete with the whole of Portland.

The next morning, as we strolled around South Lake Union to gauge the tireless growth of Seattle, I realized that Danny may have developed a different kind of drinking problem.  Stopping off at not one but three coffee shops that knew his order and his name, we joked about vices as we contemplated where all of the newly housed Seattleites would park.  First world problems I guess. 

Making our way to Danny's old office, we decided to stop in and catch a matinee showing of the Lego movie and were amused to note that we were the only two adults in the entire theatre without kids.  Sadly the movie did not make up for the slight embarrassment of catching a kids movie sans children and we left immediately after its conclusion to grab lunch and drown our sorrows into a couple of pints of Rainer at the Red Door back in Fremont. 

Still weary from the long trip, and nicely sedated from a stomach full of Turkey club and beer, I took a much needed nap and woke up just in time to be taken by two of ACH's producers in a shockless Dodge Neon to a private view and critique session for ACH’s film.  As the solidly built Ruth weaved her beat up Neon through traffic, narrowly avoiding the largest potholes, her counterpart, a legally blind recent college graduate named Luke filled me in on what the film was about. 

Sadly, no amount of prep work could have prepared me for the green eyed narrator staring at me from the tv screen.  As I watched I was drawn into his childhood story as the son of a prostitute and his subsequent education in the world of human trafficking.  

Asked for feedback my only critique was that, for as powerful as the story was, it lost a lot of its energy without graphics depicting the events the narrator openly shared.  As I relayed my thoughts, I noticed the bulbous cap covered head of the editor nod slightly in agreement while watching the heavyset black lady twiddle with her cane.  Not sure why she was fiddling so much, I learned later that graphics were her speciality and therefore my suggestions meant more work for her.    

Deciding that the movie was in need of only a few minor tweaks, ACH, Danny and I headed out to dinner at Sartoro's, a restaurant that boasted enough gluten free sea and land food options that it was a favorite of them both.  Though Danny is not allergic to gluten, he takes one for the team to make things easier for his wife.  Thankfully for me, they had plenty of other options as well. 

As we entered the darkly lit wooden building we noticed the line of people waiting to be seated and decided to grab the three empty seats at the bar.  Admiring the restaurant, I quickly noted that this venture must be a family affair as all seven women running the floor and bar looked like sisters.  

It was as I finishing my delicious dinner of sea salt encrusted chicken and vodka tonics that ACH left us to finalize her work.  Shortly after Danny and I hopped a bus headed south and got off at 101st and Greenwood so we could stop in at the Piper, a local bar partly owned and operated by a friend of his.  It turns out Ben worked the weekday shift though, so we were instead served by an Ichabod Kane thin bartender rocking a mustache so dirty the 70's wouldn't claim it.

As Danny and this guy talked film, ACH being a director and this guy and his wife both being MFA candidates, I turned and scanned the bar to see who was out on a Friday night.  Obviously we were not downtown...

Sparsely filled, the patrons of this local watering hole seemed more focused on catching a buzz than chatting one another up.  As I was checking out the two women that stuck out like sorority girls at a knitting convention, I was asked by the guy trying to operate the computerized jukebox if I knew how it worked.  After fiddling with it for a few minutes, we decided that it was broken and we got to talking about school, life and golf.  It was during this conversation that I learned the incredibly fit blond rocking the skin tight Cris Carter Vikings jersey was his wife and her even more attractive brunette friend was married to his buddy.  

There goes my night.

Though I initially wondered how this seemingly normal looking guy had scored with a woman who stood two inches taller than him in flats, I was reminded that personality does indeed go a long ways.  Down to earth and quite funny (and I don't just say that because he eagerly agreed to read my golf book), I realized that women love to laugh.  Chatting them all up as the night went on, and fended off the advances of the brunette who's attitude befitted the Boston nickname I bestowed upon her, I realized again that people are pretty easy to talk to (well, at least the one's who don't think your goal is underneath their wife's pants).  

Danny and I finished our night off back at the Traveler where my jokes about using the hoop earrings of the feisty Italian girl next to me to play basketball with did nothing but help solidify the chances of the rotund black kid she was here on a first date with.    

Waking up a bit hungover, I wrote for awhile then walked with Danny in the pouring Seattle rain to his office to grab a hard drive he had inadvertently left.  While in the office he told me the story behind the black guitar case housing the light tan Ovation guitar sitting in his his office.  Realizing that I knew someone who could possibly help, I texted my guitar obsessed buddy John to see he could help Danny could recoup some of the $1200 he spent on an unused wedding present.  

Sadly all of Danny's research was confirmed and he decided that sitting on it instead of taking the $800 loss would probably be the better option.  As we made our way back towards Fred Meyer's we looked in bewilderment as superheroes, school girls and other oddly costumed people ran into and out of our views.  Deciding to find out what was going on, I chatted up a couple in matching red robes and little else and found out they were partaking in a pub crawl around Frelard.  Though a rainy, cold Sunday seems to me a bad time for a costume party, judging from the laughter, I was obviously mistaken.  

As it turns out, going to Freddy's on a Sunday afternoon was actually the baaaad idea.  There were people everywhere, and this was one of the biggest Fred Meyers I had ever seen.  Wall to wall with everything that makes up "one stop shopping", it seemed like everyone decided to do their weekly shopping at the same time.  Thankfully I didn't NEED anything and so I killed time wandering around watching people.  It also helped that I knew we would be coming back later that afternoon as Danny spontaneously decided he would buy a new TV just in time for the Oscars.

It was later that evening, after running with his mother to Freddy's for the TV purchase that I began to suspect that I overstayed my welcome.  I don't know if it was because I was not helpful enough or if my sequestering myself to the basement to write a bit and give Danny some space was the cause, but by Oscar time I noticed that Danny was in a less than agreeable mood.  Realizing that there really wasn't a whole lot I could do at this point, I chatted with ACH and her friends and set about enjoying the first Oscars I had ever sat through.  

In the morning I noticed little about Danny's mood had changed so I stripped the bed and again did what I could to help before they left for work and I left for the train station.  I'm sure dropping the already perturbed Danny off in the rain didn't help, but I decided to leave that battle to ACH.  

Realizing that I had 15 minutes alone with her, I set about trying to convince her I wasn't that bad of a guy.  As we drove towards her work we bonded a bit over our love of Audis and I was relieved to note that most of ACH's angst towards me was the product of not knowing me in any context other than drinking.  I hope our short time together helps.