Author: Kevin Carver

Rider’s Block: A Bus Story

Life getting you down? Hitting writer’s block? Need a little inspiration?

This last weekend my wife and I went to Anaheim for the NAMM Conference and for Disneyland. If you’ve never been to NAMM, or don’t know what I’m talking about, I would suggest googling it for a quick answer. This is not a blog about NAMM—although I may still write one.

This is not a blog about Disneyland, churros, or turkey legs either, though yes, I will probably write one soon. That new Cars ride in California Adventure sure is something special.

No, I have something far more interesting to write about. See, I rode the bus today. The city bus. Yeah, I washed my hands.

Bus.

When you ride public transportation in a new area for the first time, as I did today, there’s one thing to learn and remember: On the city bus, everything is tolerated except for holding up the driver. In another words, ask quick questions, have your money ready, and mount the steed. It’s worth noting that every one is either crazy and filthy, a college student, or a combination of both. So if you don’t know the rates or exactly where the bus is going, keep confident and don’t stress over it — you’re doing fine.

The first gentlemen I talked to was a middle school teacher in Cayucos, CA. He was nice. We talked about guitar, which I teach, and art, which he teaches. There were brief discussions about the economy and the weather. His name was Eric.

Eric left about half way through my hour long ride somewhere in Morro Bay. Not long after, my new best friend and his dog jumped on board. He didn’t have any money and somehow convinced the driver to let him on.

Wiley

First, he sat across from me. The lady next to him happened to be afraid of dogs and it became uncomfortable quick. “Is that a service animal?” she asked with a snarl.

“Yes,” the man answered, never turning his head towards her. He was dressed nice, an older man with a weathered linen, brown-suit and a fedora that left me jealous. His dog, Wiley, sat in his lap and was well behaved.

It’s hard to figure out some people on the bus. He had all the makings of a normal guy and if I hadn’t heard his fare finagling from the street, I would’ve assumed him as such.

“Is that a service animal,” the woman repeated the question with an even uglier snarl.

“I told you,” he said, raising his voice, “How many times do I need to tell you?” The bus fell silent. Finally, the old man looked at me. “That taken?” he asked, pointing at my seat sounding angry.photo copy

I shook my head, not wanting to offend him as he already displayed his temper. You hear stories about the bus, about people who are normal one second and then start throwing feces the next. I guess I was worried he was a loose cannon or something. Or that he would try to sell me socks filled with pidgin feathers. You never know.

Anyways, he stood up and moved towards me. He was large which was interesting; considering he had his dog, it was tight fit between the two of us.

“Some people,” he said, adjusting himself. We were practically leg to leg. Wiley sniffed me. “Where you goin’?” the old man asked.

“Back home,” I said, “in SLO.”

“You live there? Any open rooms? I’m looking for a place.” I look down at Wiley, he looked at me. I shake my head. “Figures…”

Fin

There was nothing magical that happened, or dangerous really. The bus is like that. It takes you out of your comfort zone just enough to make you notice. I ended up talking to the old man about writing, college, and Herman Hesse. He smelled a little weird, but overall, was nice enough. I never figured out if he was crazy.

Right now, he’s probably wondering the same about me.

Short Story: The Cafe Throne

Coffee

When I visit the cafe, I change seats about three or four times before I settle. It’s no science. I’m not a creep or anything. I just like my space. I like my spot—the corner window with the round table.

The workers here probably think I have OCD; but then again, they’re judgmental.

The coffee is how much?

Every morning I have to wait on this guy, he likes the corner window seat too. It’s the same guy every day. I imagine him outside, waiting in the cold, sprinting as soon as they open the door. You can’t blame him, it’s the best spot in the house. The lazy squatter watches the sunrise and the fog burn off both sides of the highway. By the time he gives up the seat, the sun blares in my eyes and I’m left with a lingering smell of his breakfast veggie-wrap.

That’s alright. I grab my coffee, sit, and wait. It’s okay here, the coffee that is. You wouldn’t catch me handing out any awards. They brew it hot enough, I guess. The food does make me sick and good thing, it’s expensive.

The coffee is how much? 

I’m close to home when I come here. I’d otherwise exist, every morning, with people who know how to appreciate a level table. Here, they bob up and down like a child’s hand in a classroom—can I go to the bathroom? You do all this work, jumping from table to table, getting closer and closer to that prized spot, that seat of accolade, the damn window corner cafe throne, and what’s that? Oh, it wobbles.

The coffee is how much? 

Thirty years I spent climbing the ladder. I’m not talking corporate ladder, I mean an actual ladder. Up and down every day. Up and down, up and down. Painting, cleaning, watching.

I’m tired of the up and down.

I’m Trying to Kill My Wife: Montaño De Oro Edition

photoSo my wife thinks I’m trying to kill her. She keeps pointing out stuff about California I never really thought about and now I must admit; it sounds a little fishy.

“You brought me to a land of earthquakes, rattlesnakes, tsunamis, giant spiders, mountain lions, poison oak, and sharks. Are you trying to kill me?”

“But it’s sunny!” I insist.

Anyways, we went to Montaño De Oro State Park today. It’s literally one of my favorite places on the planet. Today I realized how similar it is to certain parts of the Dingle Peninsula in Ireland. That could be a reason why. So if you haven’t been to this State Park before, go now!

I’ll give you a tip first: Dress warm. It’s always windy, but today was extra chilly. Always worth it of course. Thankfully, last second I remembered a puffy-vest was currently sleeping in the back of my car. That did the trick.

Before you even hit the water, the drive up is incredible. Take Los Osos Valley Rd. until it turns into a little town. Keep straight and it will take you up a little hill that eventually gets curvy, woodsy, and fun. You’ll start seeing signs for the state park. There’s also cars parked along the way, no doubt surfers attempting some “secret” spot.

photo copy

It could be a car commercial road, like wooosh

As soon you pass a gorgeous ocean scenery, well, yeah you’re there. The ocean.

Before I moved to Idaho, I told myself that my favorite spot in California was Montaño. I’m not sure if that holds true any more, but it’s Top 5. And I’m a Top 5 type of guy.

If you’re into scenic pictures, there’s even VW Vans.

Through Painted Oceans

Through Painted Oceans

If you’re into surfing. Don’t go to this beach. It’s very rocky, and I’m not talking Stallone. Well I may be, it depends on your definition of “Stallone.”

I won’t bore you with endless pictures taken from my iPhone. If you scour the internet, I’m sure people brought real cameras and took great shots worthy of a book or something. Still, I really like this last one. So here it is:

I call this one "Rock in Ocean"

I call this one “Rock’n Ocean”

Yeah you should come here. If you’ve been, then you know what I mean. If you are a friend from Idaho reading this, you need to see this for yourself. So come visit already.

Gum Butt: The True Story of a Stuck Butt

So we’re in the car. Driving. I think at this point, it had been sixteen hours. Only two hours left and we were home. Or New home. Whatever.

We’re at that point where nothing is funny, nothing is interesting, everything is nothing. We just want out. Get us out of this car. It smells, we smell, I just ate Taco Bell…

Two hours and then it’s over. We’re out of the car for good.

————————-

So my feet are on the dash and Megan’s driving. My back is completely slump with my butt barely on the edge of the seat. I realize, after 20 minutes of sitting like this, how extremely uncomfortable I am. We can’t exactly just push the seats back considering how we packed the car (as much stuff as anyone could possibly fit in a Prius).

So I stretch and begin to move up. For the sake of my back, I desperately need to sit up straight.

When I attempt to sit up, my butt… it… it just won’t move. I’m caught. Like I can pull up a little, no man, game over. It’s stuck.

My first thought is: ok, my keys are stuck to the seat. Trying not to be obvious, I lift my butt as much as I can muster and check my pockets. But no, there are no keys in my pockets. What am I thinking?  

Megan still hasn’t noticed. I’d prefer to keep it this way. It’s not embarrassing, I just don’t want her to know. As a husband I’m expected to protect her, support her, be her knight in shining armer sort of thing. Currently, my butt is stuck to the seat of the car and I don’t know how or why. 

And then, right before I start to panic, I figure it out. In a complete moment of stupidity, I bow my head and start laughing.

Megan looks over and asks about it. There’s no choice, I have to come clean.

“Remember that wad of gum I threw out of the window a couple hours ago?” I ask. She nods her head, “Well, it didn’t exactly… make it out the window.”

“Where is it?” She asks, with a smile, mine giving something away.

I’m trying to find the words, proper words that make me still feel like a man, but all I come up with is: “Under my butt… my butt is stuck to the seat.”

A brief moment of silence passes. She bursts into laughter. I burst into laughter.

I grab the ice scraper for the windshield and began to free myself. There’s a feeling in the pit of my stomach, or butt maybe, that I will probably hear about this for the rest of my life.

picstitch

A Bend in the Road

Bend, OR

We left this morning. After a string of goodbyes, breakfast, and tire pressure checking, we hit the road. I don’t mean to get dorky here, but it reminded me of leaving Rivendell. You know, Lord of the Rings style.

So we got a cheap room in Bend, OR, which isn’t exactly half way, but that’s okay. After the last few days, it’s far enough.

But Bend was at the end, and it’s not what I want to write about. What happened on the beginning of our journey today is what’s worth noting.

Megan’s parents generously gave us a Garmin GPS for Christmas. Like any new toy, we fooled around with the settings until it became unique to us.

A few years back, after buying the Prius, I changed the display screen to French. I don’t speak French or anything, it’s just how I get my kicks. Don’t judge me.

So Megan turned the red car on the GPS screen into an awesome looking eagle… or hawk. I’m not quite sure. You can’t really see the beak. At first, I couldn’t stop staring at this bird. Every time the car moved, the bird flapped its wings. As the driver, this was bad news.

Eventually I took my eyes off of the eagle and back on the road. As I admired the significance of the bird’s wings in concordance to the distance we were rapidly gaining from home, I was filled with wonder.

(Hesitant to make another Tolken reference, I will remove a metaphor to the eagle scene from The Hobbit.)

Each mile we drove, or flapped rather, we traveled further from home. It soon became apparent that we were on our own. Hitting the road. Just the two of us. Finally.

The adventure has begun.

So we drove. And drove. The GPS bird tirelessly flapped its wings. The Prius, a little heavier than it’s used to, carried us along and groaned at the hills.

In Bend, OR, we stay the night and get up early for the final leg of our drive. It’s a drive we’ve made many times before, though only to turn around too soon and head home. Now we have six months to spend. Maybe more.

Our home isn’t Coeur d’Alene, Idaho anymore, but it isn’t San Luis Obispo either. Our home is each other. That’s where we belong.

And of course, on the wings of a God who loves us.

Saying Goodbyes, Lessons of Moving

picstitch

Laying awake last night, my wife slept and my mind raced with questions: Should we really leave? Is it the right decision? Can we really fit everything in the Prius? Can the Seahawks beat the Redskins? … there may have been one or two rabbit trails.

It’s been close to four years since I left California for Idaho; an easy decision at the time. Now, I can’t imagine why I would ever leave Idaho… the Northwest.

It’s beautiful. There’s snow. The people are as genuine as it gets. There’s coffee on every street corner.

I absolutely love the comfort of life up here. Still, I know I’m near to leave. This time, I suckered a pretty lady into coming with me. Well we’re married so she has to come.

So we’re saying our goodbyes. My work friends, her family, our church amigos, the turkeys on the street, we will not see them for a little while.

I wanted to write an in-depth reflection of my time here, but that sounds boring. Instead, I think I’ll just give a little advice:

Live Like It’s Your Last Week In Town: Tell those you love that you love them. Hang out with the people most important to you. It’s foolish to wait, as I have, to thank everyone for their kindness and grace. Enjoy the present.

Throw Away Your Stuff: We have been getting rid of things I never knew existed, and yet for some reason have been packing around for years. It’s great to get sentimental over things that matter, but a pile of burned CDs from high school just needs to go away.

Go On An Adventure: I’m a big fan of these. It doesn’t have to be a life changing-geographical move, but grab someone you love and take them somewhere new, somewhere challenging. Phones, internet, TV… they are all promoting a lie that the world is a small place. It’s not, in fact it’s huge. Go out and see for your self.

Hey north Idaho, thanks for everything.