A voice boomed across the scorching Las Vegas pavement: “Hey, what are you doing with my car!”
I turned to
see a large, unhappy man headed my way from the Arco convenience store. Looking
around, I realized that the silver SUV I was trying to fill up with gas was the
wrong one.
“This may be
the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life,” I smiled at him, defusing a
potentially bad scene in the 115 degree heat. I pointed to my silver SUV
rental, two bays away, and explained my mix up.
We sorted
things out and I walked over to the correct car. You’d have thought I would
have noticed that my wife, Eva, wasn’t in his passenger seat, but with tinted
windows and all… I started the gas pump, then walked back. “My wife got a laugh
over that one,” I told him. “Like I said, that may be the dumbest thing I’ve
ever done.” I didn’t see the need to explain to him that my dumbassery had some
recent, stiff competition. (See: Wayne's Blog: FLIRTING WITH DEATH –
TWICE!)
He laughed,
we exchanged small talk, shook hands, and that was that. Except awaiting me,
not a mile down the highway, was another dumbass move on my part.
* * *
I took the
key for the rental SUV into the Dollar desk and handed it to the harried clerk,
alone and overwhelmed. She asked if the car was full of gas, took the key, and
said, “That’s it.” No paperwork. My second mistake.
My first had
been when I had picked up the car, five days earlier. Since Eva had made the
reservation, I assumed (correctly, as it turned out) that I shouldn’t have had to
think. Just get the car and go. But then I let myself think, and right there
was where I fucked up. The rental place had been chaos. A long line. One guy
working. I waited more than an hour, to finally get a half-cleaned car and sent
on my way.
When the
rental guy had asked me if I wanted insurance, I thought back to my recent
challenges from my seizure and then falling on my head, so figured it wouldn’t
hurt. I just wanted to get out of there. It would be worth the cost, which I
figured to be a reasonable amount. As it turned out, it wasn’t, and I never got
a receipt or was told the cost.
The upshot:
when we finally downloaded a receipt a week after getting home, the rental cost
for five days, driving maybe 200 miles total, was over $1,200. Including a
bogus two-hour late fee of $99, which I’m trying to reverse.
It’s probably obvious if you’ve read my last blog about falling on my head, but my brain wasn’t doing its best work. And let me add this. The week before my car rental, I had spent eight days rafting through the Grand Canyon, nursing my aching neck with rest and drugs. It had been hard work. Hot. I had managed – it’s a spiritual experience – although I definitely had felt my newly-arrived, old-man infirmities.
* * *
Back home in
Oregon, after more than three months since my grand mal seizure, I was finally
going to get in to see a neurologist. Be cleared to drive and ride my bike again,
I assumed, since I’d had no recurring incidents. (Not counting falling on my
head.) Ease off the damned anti-seizure meds. I’d pretty well adjusted to the
Kepra, except for one thing. The slightest thing might get me all weepy. A
special song, for example. A poignant memory of Grand Canyon moments shared
with friends. A brilliant political dissertation from a TV talking head. Fuck!
My friend, Peter, says it’s a normal side-effect of getting old, appreciating
things more deeply, but I’m not so sure.
Anyway, on
the morning of my neurology appointment, I drove myself to Eugene, and had a
few hours to kill before I met Eva, so got my car washed, went to the river
trail, and took a nice walk. Smoked a little weed along the way.
Here’s a
tip if you ever find yourself in this situation: Don’t get high before your
appointment with your neurologist. But in my defense, nobody told me there
would be a pop quiz.
In the
doctor’s office, after a lengthy, descriptive story of my incident, which I let
Eva tell, since I remember nothing of several lost days, the doctor pulled up
on his monitor the CT images that had been taken of my brain. It was as if they
had sliced up my head like a baked ham and taken pictures of each serving. Eva
and the doctor talked about whether the little white dots were evidence of
prior strokes, and all manner of esoteric medical and pharmacological stuff. They
might as well have been speaking in Mandarin.
I was just
getting relaxed about the whole thing when the good doctor popped his quiz:
“Name four
states that start with A.”
“Uhhh.
Alaska, Alabama.” I pictured a U.S. map in my foggy brain, drawing an imaginary
finger across the states, west to east. “Arizona! Of course.” After all, I’d
just spent two weeks there. And the fourth?
“It’s a
state where a still-living president is from.”
“Uhhh.
Not Texas. That was Bush.”
Audible
groans from Eva, sitting next to me. Then it hit me. Clinton!
“Alabama,” I
blurted. “No wait… Arkansas.”
This must
have been how Trump felt when he “aced” his cognitive test: “Person. Woman.
Man. Camera. TV.”
As I
stumbled through the A’s, Eva was thinking, “Certainly, even he wouldn’t
get high before his neurology exam,” then realized, “Oh my God. He is
high.”
Next
question. “What comes to mind when I say ‘9-11’?”
“Uhhh…”
My mind went blank as an unpainted canvas. Was that the attack thing? Which
one? From somewhere, I vaguely remembered. After all, we’d been living in its
suburbs when the planes hit the Pentagon. “Washington, DC!”
“Where
else?”
“Twin
Towers. New York City.” Whew!
Then he had
me stand up and perform various tricks, like walking a straight line. I felt
like I was on Cops, but restrained myself, since my good doctor didn’t
seem like much of a kidder.
Later, Eva
said it reminded her more of the drunk walk scene from Reno 911. I couldn’t argue.
* * *
I’m doing my
best to get back to normal, though sometimes it seems like navigating an
unfamiliar obstacle course. Surviving my rafting trip gave me new confidence
that, even at 79, I’m not done yet, notwithstanding my recent spate of dumbassery.
I’ll
probably take forever the lower dose anti-seizure med that the neurologist
recommended. Like most medical options, it’s a complicated risk assessment
decision. But there’s no risk-free option in life. You know what they say: None
of us are getting out of here alive.
In the
meantime, my bicycle still goes fast. I’m surrounded by loving family and
friends. We’ve got front-row seats to hear Jon Baptiste this Fall. There are
wild blackberries to pick. I’m married to an extraordinary human. The still
smoke-free Oregon summer sky is the deepest shade of blue you can imagine. And
I’ll be looking for friends to share our next Grand Canyon rafting charter in June. Life is good.
