Nacho Cheesier

I drove five guys to Anchorage on Wednesday. 

But let's back up a minute: on Tuesday I drove the taxi from 4pm to 4am.  Then I slept from 5am to 10am Wednesday morning.  Then I drove the taxi back to town where it belongs, and saw the guy who runs it. 

"We've got five climbers who want a ride to Anchorage.  Three Russians and two Canadians.  They need to leave in ten minutes.  You'll have to take the 15-passenger van.  You want to do it?"

"How much of the fare do I get to keep?"

"A hundred.  And whatever they tip you."

My phone was on its last bar of battery power, I hadn't eaten breakfast, and I didn't remember how to get to Anchorage.  

"Okay."

The Russians had summited Denali, AKA Mt. McKinley, the highest peak in North America.  One climber has died so far this season [it kind of bothers me that the first sentence of that article starts, "Finnish skier Ikka Uusitalo had a beautiful girlfriend and every reason to live," but mostly it makes me explore absurd alternatives to that sentence, such as, "Finnish skier had an okay-looking girlfriend with a fun personality, so he didn't have every reason to live, but I mean it's still sad he died," or "Finnish skier had a girlfriend who was both unattractive and had a grating personality, so it's not surprising he took the giant risk of climbing Denali," etc], and out of 488 completed climbs so far this season, only 212 of those have been summits (climbers who made it all the way to the peak).

Two of the Russians were in their thirties and the other one was in his seventies.  Donnie, the friendly Canadian, later told me that the old man was the second-oldest person to make it all the way to the top, at age 74.  He said the oldest person ever to have done it was 77.  The 74-year-old looked wrecked yet scrappy.  He had bright red blisters on his lips from the cold and one bleary, wonky eye.  But the bones in his face looked strong, and he moved like a weary 50-something and not like a frail old man.

Fun fact: many people who are from outside the United States do not wear deodorant.  Fun fact: there are no showers on the mountain.  Fun fact: The average climb takes about three weeks.  Fun fact: the Russians came straight from base camp that morning to the spot where I picked them up in the van.

One of the younger Russians tried sitting in the first bench seat.  The most powerful B.O. I have ever smelled emanated from his body, along with another smell.  What is that other smell? I asked myself. 

It's probably BALL SAC, I answered.  Ugh.

I turned around in my seat.  "Oh, uh.  The other guys have to sit in this seat."

"What!" he barked at me.

"The other guys."  I pointed at the Canadians standing outside the van.  "They have to sit where you are sitting."  I pointed to his seat.

"Why they sit here?" he asked, annoyed further.

"Um, [make something up] because they have to get out first and because they have maps so they're going to help me navigate."

He rolled his eyes and moved to the next seat back, which prompted furious-sounding conversation amongst the three of them with much gesticulation.

I turned back around in my seat probably with an "Eeeeee" look on my face, and the Canuks hopped in the car.  The friendlier, shorter one with truly dazzling green eyes (Donnie) sat in the passenger seat, and the aloof, tall, male model one (Eric) sat in the first bench seat.

When we stopped for gas Donnie and Eric insisted on cleaning the bug-gut-smeary windshield, which is the most Canadian thing that has ever happened to me.  Then the three of us went next door to Subway for some sammies, while the Russians stayed hunched in the two back seats with dour looks on their faces.  Maybe they don't know Subway is a sandwich place, I thought, and walked over to the car with my sandwich.  I pointed at it: "Do you guys want some food?" I asked.

The spokesman of the group pointed at my sandwich.  "Is not food.  Is garbage!"

Ahhhh!  I swallowed the rest of the bite that was in my mouth with my eyebrows raised.  Then I hid behind the van to finish it and my fun-size bag of Nacho Cheesier Doritos.

On the Parks Highway Donnie in the passenger seat and I discussed many things.  I asked him if the culture in the United States felt foreign to him, or if it was basically the same as Canada.  He said it definitely feels distinct, and gave the examples that people in the United States are very friendly to srangers, and that our politics are SCREWED UP.  It took him about ten minutes to dance around that criticism, however, as he is Canadian and can never seem mean. 

We decided we were Titanic Deniers (Donnie: "Shipwreck never happened, it's still out there").  While next to a van advertising a nature tour that had a huge adorable picture of a mother and baby polar bear cuddling and appearing to be smiling, we agreed that bears remind us of dogs.  Then I told him that the housecat seems like a cross between a snake and a rabbit.  "It does!" he said.  "Snakes and rabbits.  That's good."  I stared at the bumper stickers of the car ahead of us ("Baby on Board" and "My Other Car Is a Pirate Ship") and imagined myself driving a car with a bumper sticker that says "Cats seem like they're a combination of snakes and rabbits," and imagined that people in cars behind me would nod to themselves and agree with me, the way Donnie was.

Donnie and I said the same thing and the same time and he said, "Private jinx!" at the same time as I said, "Personal jinx!" 

"What is Private Jinx?" I asked him.

"It means I've got to say your first and last name for you to talk again.  But I don't know your last name, so you're doomed.  What's Personal Jinx?"

"It means I personally have to say your first name, it can't just be anyone."

"Oh, in Canada that's just assumed."

"Huh.  Well, now we know what the main difference is between our cultures."

A torrent of windy rain began once I got on the Parks Highway.  Donnie was happy to adjust the heat controls and uncap and recap my water bottle along with handing it to me, so I could concentrate fully on the road.  He grew up in South Africa, which I guess is why his accent sounded Irish [I was hoping to find a website that confirms that the South African accent sounds like the Irish accent to American ears, but instead I found a news article about a woman from Oregon who was sedated at the dentist and woke up with an Irish accent afterward, which is actually BETTER].  Also, Canadians really do say "eh" a lot.  At first I thought he was doing it to be funny, to like, mock himself for being Canadian, but nope... that stereotype's actually just true.  Just like I do not over-use the words "like" and "totally" to be funny.  I over-use them because it's my cultural heritage.

Donnie was keen on hitting both the phantom brake pedal and phantom gas pedal as I drove, which didn't bother me but which did remind me of how sometimes when bored and watching a family member play Super Mario Bros. 3, I would pick up the other controller and pretend like I was playing.  When the whole family has played a video game as many times as we played Mario (as we referred to Super Mario Bros. 3) (we called the others Mario 1 and Mario 2), it's easy to feel, for a spell, like the dead controller in your hand controls Mario's movements. We'd all go for that one question mark because we all knew what was in it.  Etc.  We knew how far we could get to the edge of a ledge without falling off.  But at the same time, no two players make identical choices, so the fun of holding a dead controller and pretending to play is the moment when Mario startles you by not doing what you have commanded, and that moment is a little thrilling, maybe scary, because the first explanation that leaps to mind is that Mario has become sentient.

I was worried, when I dropped the Russians off at the Ramada in downtown Anchorage (the same Ramada where I met these college kids last summer), that they might not pay me.  They took all their bags out of the van and were walking into the hotel without looking at me, so I hurried and stood in front of the one who called my sandwich garbage, blocked his path, and looked at him with The Eyes. 

My roommate in Utah Crisanne used to smoke only half a cigarette then leave the rest on her dresser.  Do you know what a half-smoked cigarette smells like?  It smells worse than a cigarette butt.  It smells like a dank car ashtray that hasn't been emptied in years, or like a chain-smoker's morning breath.  Her dresser was quite near my bed.  One night when she came in and dropped a half-smoked ciggie on it, she noticed my expression, as I lay there quietly. 

"Why are you yelling at me with your eyes?!" she asked, scared. 

I told her and she stopped doing that.  The Eyes.

One time at community college a guy standing next to me while we were waiting for the crosswalk dropped his empty chip bag on the ground.  I looked at it, surprised, then looked at the guy's face, then looked at the bag again.  Then I concentrated on staring at the side of his face until he turned and looked at me.  The Eyes bored into his, then slowly, deliberately, moved to regard the discarded chip bag, then moved back up to his face.  He picked it back up and threw it in the trash can across the street.

Roommates whose smoking habits are gross... litterers... Russian mountain climbers who are thinking of gypping me out of 210 bucks... All crumble like stale Subway Italian Herbs & Cheese bread before the glory... the power... the immolating, radiant, heat... of The Eyes.

In Anchorage I took the Canuks to a strip mall with an REI and got coffee with them before dropping them off at their friend's place.  I bought a sundress and some yogurt.

On the way back to Talkeetna, alone, I listened to the song "Amelia" by Joni Mitchell.  More than once.  It speaks to me.  It's a song where Joni Mitchell's traveling a lot/ too much, sad about her love life, and telling kindred spirit Amelia Earhart about it.  I understand this impulse, as I have had an ongoing pretend conversation with Laura Ingalls Wilder since early childhood.  Although I chose her not because our lives are similarly tragic, or similar in any way, actually, but because she is easily impressed by modern conveniences. 

"Goodness, what on earth is that?"

"It's a toaster!  Watch how it works..."

Outside of Ladies of the Canyon, Blue, and Court and Spark, there are only three Joni songs I like:  "Urge for Going," which is not about having to pee but about wanting to fly south for the winter like a bird; "You Turn Me On I'm a Radio," which I heard Zoe Deschanel cover beautifully when I saw She & Him perform live in LA with my sister one time; and "Amelia," which has some of the best lyrics of any song ever, if you can get over the fact that the synth is kind of 80s/cheesy.

I sang every word of "Desperado," both lead and back-up, really loud.  I wanted desperately to take my bra off but out of respect for the taxi manager (who I thought I might see when I dropped the taxi off)'s pregnant girlfriend (not Jolene), did not. 

I made 115 bucks.

FIN