July 24, 2018

The flights back were hounded by bad weather–so they said– and after all that, my final flight from Charlotte was cancelled, because a member of the crew had not appeared for work. The man at the desk shrugged and said he was sorry he couldn’t help me, and, no, there was nothing available even the next day. I said “How am I supposed to get home?” He shrugged and mentioned how he, too, had had a very bad day. Not bad enough said my black heart. An old theater friends, Lisa Sarasohn, was waiting for the flight, too. We shared a Lyft from Charlotte Douglas to Asheville. $114 each. Eddie, our driver, came from Queens and kept us awake and our minds off our tribulations by a stream of talk.  He had serviced ATMs in New York. He had been called when his uncle had died in a Las Vegas apartment and not been found for a week. He used to yellow cab in New York, and served the leather clubs in the East Village, where the bears would enter in bottomless chaps and offer him blowjobs in lieu of fares. Crooks would hold knives to his neck. I realized how, without Eddie’s chatter, my rage might have been ungovernable. We arrived home at 1:30 in the morning.

Woke with the electricians at my door. I am now updated as to things electrical. The pond has its own outlet. The workers were very cute. I hope nothing else happens in the near future to scar my lawn.