When my wife Jane and I decamped recently from our home in Oakland
So, in anticipation of the Houston Jones East Coast tour, because I would be traveling with my upright bass, which necessitated obtaining a flight case the size and weight of a Middle Kingdom sarcophagus, some advance planning was clearly in order. The plan was that Jane and I (with, as is customary, Chance the Dog for company) would pick up the travel case for the bass in Oakland, stay in a hotel close to the airport, the morning of the flight she would help me wrangle the bass to the odd size baggage window, and off I’d go. An easy call, you say.
The first brooding omnipresence on the horizon was a violent eruption at my day job minutes before I was scheduled to leave, the consequence of which was that I would be hauling an additional 30 pounds of ballast with me and spending my free time on tour with my laptop rather than frolicking with starlets and throwing furniture in the pool with my band mates. The second sign, although we did not know it at the time, was the call from Jane asking if I wanted something to eat—she was getting 99 cent tacos.
Tacos declined (by me), sarcophagus stowed, off we went to the hotel. Law and Order limit reached, Chance gently snoring, lights off, all is well. Until it wasn’t. Having spent a year in the Middle East as a child, I am not unfamiliar with food poisoning. As of , June 3rd, as evidence would suggest, neither is my wife.
I will be discrete here. Suffice it to say, it was obvious that I was not going to be able to leave as planned. The airlines were happy to reschedule my flight to later the same day --for a $150 penalty and the difference in the ticket prices. Which is to say their sympathy would cost me $600.00, and they would book me on the redeye.
The plot at this point was thickening, because Houston Jones had a gig in Connecticut Hartford
The malign intelligence of food borne bacteria had a different idea, though. Jane, contrary to my expectations, was not getting better; she was, in fact getting worse. Chance the Dog, for whom the universe is confusing in the best of circumstances was now utterly bewildered at the transformation of his beloved mistress. And so, it became obvious that the redeye was not now an option either, and I would need to call on the sympathy of my friends at the airline once again. And miss the gig.
That transaction negotiated for a comparatively minor fee (but not without peril—the agent initially cancelled not only my redeye flight but Peter and Henry’s return flights as well; they would have been stranded in Central Connecticut when they tried to return next week), we spent another night in the hotel (ching, ching, goes the cash register). The incidentals associated with the 99 cent tacos were now edging past four figures.
The next morning, Jane was able to remain vertical long enough to bundle her into the car to drive her and the confused dog back to Sonora
So that’s what I did. Jane is recovering. Chance is presumably snoring. I’m on the ground in CT, headed to a radio interview and then to NYC (!). And this is to say nothing of the incident on the last leg of my flight, which involves 50 AFLAC employees coming home from a company retreat in Cancun , stuffed geese, and a woman from South Boston commandeering the flight PA system.
