$27 or Two Seventy, One or the Other

A Little Westside Jonny story, just to demonstrate that we're all peas in a pod when it comes to matters of money, power, and sex . . . .

We were on a somewhat stressful trip together to the Middle East that began in Istanbul, Turkey.  As opposed to Istanbul, Montana, of course.  We were on our first day after a long trip. We were jet-lagged and culture-shocked.  Our first little outing was to descend below street level to visit some ancient Roman baths, which did end up being pretty cool.

LWSJ paid the entrance fee and we entered the site.  Turkey is one of those countries where inflation has left the money with denominations in the hundreds of thousands and even millions, permitting the casual traveler to quickly enter the ranks of the very wealthy.  Suddenly, he started to suspect that we had been overcharged.  He began a rant: "That guy screwed us.  He charged us twenty-seven dollars to get in here" and other complaints on an epic scale."  Being easily influenced I felt my dander rise and I, too, began to get upset.  

After a minute or two we figured out that the guy had collected two dollars and seventy cents. We were off by a factor of ten.  We were eager to be outraged and tired enough to be susceptible to paranoia.

I can hear Kenner laughing and laughing.

Off the Hook - Temporarily

Early in each trip the money conundrum rears its personal head and strikes down my serenity.  I think I need to do an inventory on this . . . again.  Our tour company recommended packing light suggesting that we use our hotel's quick and efficient laundry service instead.  Well, we did this - in our ridiculously expensive 5 Star hotel - and wracked up a $35 bill for a few items.  I mutter about this, not caring that much about the money itself (remember the $20 tip at our first hotel?) but objecting to the high cost of a pretty routine service.

SuperK doesn't care for the muttering, rightly pointing out that we're spending so much money on our trip and then letting a small amount become large in my head.

I protest that I don't care that much - suspecting that I do - and partially defuse the situation, skating away relatively unscathed, much to my relief.

After our tour ends, tired, we decide not to go to the streets to look for a dinner place, punting to one of the hotel's restaurants and what did I expect would happen?  I open the menu and am appalled at the prices.  I'm getting ready to suggest that we bolt when SuperK - who knows me too well - exclaims: "What:  You're not thinking of leaving?"  I freeze, caught, exposed, found out, and endure a tongue lashing, well-deserved.

Chastened, I let go of the money.  For a while.  Temporarily.  On the bus today the tour company begins to update the tipping guidelines, and off I go again over the matter of a few more bucks.  I get annoyed that in these poorer countries tourists end up paying for the services that I think I'm paying too much for to the tour company.  I'd rather they pay their people and tell me what it's going to cost up front.

Plus, I bit down on something hard at dinner last night and I'm sure I destroyed a tooth.  Worrying about weird health matters always trumps trivial money matters.

Ha Ha Ha

I have been in the habit of greeting my mother and my old sponsor Kenner every morning to start off my Quiet Time.  It has been a helpful way to ease into and through the pain of their loss.  My loss actually.  The sting of the deaths has ebbed but I soldier on with the good mornings.  I wonder how long I'll do this? 

Anyway, I was worrying about something stupid this morning and I thought of all the times I'd call Ken and tell him what was on my mind.  He never judged; he never gave advice; he laughed a lot.  Uproariously.  He was a silly guy with a big belly laugh, almost shouting.  So I'd come up with something stupid and he'd laugh and laugh and laugh.  I got the point.  I think I started to make stuff up just to hear him laugh.

I'm not going to say what I'm worrying about today. I can hear him in my mind's eye, laughing and laughing.

The Anxiety Gene, Beefed Up

I don't know what it is about me and money.  I spend it like a drunk - like an active drunk - and then I go apoplectic over the littlest things.  Today was Move to a New Hotel Day, a day fraught with all kinds of useless anxiety over the smallest things.  First of all, I was pretty sure the hotel wasn't going to acknowledge the fact that I had prepaid my bill.  Second of all, and third of all and many, many more of alls the move required a few taxi rides.  I'm obsessed with getting screwed by unscrupulous taxi drivers despite the fact that I don't think I've ever . . . you know . . . gotten screwed by a taxi driver.

Worst case scenario - really the only kind of scenario that I envision - is the whole screwing and non-acknowledging would cost me a few bucks.  Not that I like to get screwed, mind you, just that the amount of angst and anxiety worrying about the few dollars far outpaces the pain of the screwing over.  If you said: "Seaweed, if you give me this amount of money I'll remove all angst from your mind" I'd knock you the hell over getting out my wallet.

So the sidebar is that I asked the hotel manager if I could add some extra money to the bill so that he could parcel it out as he saw fit to all of the staff: bell hops, front desk personnel, room cleaners, cooks, etc.  I thought he was going to break my arm shaking my hand.  He really seemed a little flustered at an amount of money not much larger than the amount I was going to lose in a full-on fleecing.  The day door kid said: "Sir, I'm going to miss you."  I think he teared up a little bit.

So it's not the money per se, I don't think.  I don't know what it is.  It's a microbe living inside my head that has totally beefed up my anxiety gene.

The bill, of course, was copacetic.  I took three cabs that day where I was treated honorably for fares that averaged about $4.  I tipped like a hundred percent.

Tomorrow, however, it will all be different.

Mr. Head, Troublemaker

As we made our way through security at the airport our carry-on bag was pulled aside for a more thorough inspection.  Fair enough - there are so many rules as to what you can and can not take on the plane, and they seem to change every time I fly and they change according to destination and airline, that I mess something up every time.  The agent roots through our stuff, eventually opening my toilet kit and extracting Mr. Head.  She looks at him for a minute, turning him this way and that, feeling his heft, all with a bemused look on her face.

"What is this?" she asks.

We try to give an abbreviated history of Mr. Head, World Traveler.

"Where did you get it?" is the follow-up question.  We don't go into the particulars of stealing him from a cabin we rented in Northern Michigan 25 years ago but give her a sketchy background check.  She's openly laughing at this point.

"Can I show my supervisor?" she says.

Absolutely.  Mr. Head is a bit of a diva.  He loves the attention.  We see her talking to her manager, other travelers paying attention to the commotion at this point.  Someone asks the security guard about him as she returns him.

"Well, thanks, I'm never going to see that again," she says.

On we travel.  First time that Mr. Head caused a ruckus at security.

No More Middle Seat!

So I'm always in this existential battle about the correct way to pray.  I know that I need to pray - and I do - but the technique can be quite the mystery to me.  I used to pray for specific things - usually to get something I wanted or avoid something that I didn't.  My Higher Power - Joker Extraordinaire - always seemed to corrupt these self-serving prayers, granting me some of what I wanted but warping the whole thing so that the result was just kind of . . . off.  I felt like I needed to keep calling back to the Help Desk to clarify the specifics of the prayer.  For an omnipotent, omniscient being to require this level of detail was really quite vexing.

So I got a lot more generic with my prayer.  While this may have been a touch more noble - praying to be of maximum service to my fellow man and other useless bullshit - it wasn't as satisfying as asking for a big, fat, juicy steak for dinner.  I figured the golden loophole - laid out in wonderful detail in our Book - was to add the qualifier "if thy will be done."  Still, it seemed a little shaky to ask for a red Ferrari or the winning number in the lottery and make it right by tacking on this otherwise noble phrase.  Shallow generosity.  My Higher Power probably has more pressing problems than to consider my requests for Italian supercars and it would be more productive for me to pray less selfishly in the pittance of time I dedicate to prayer and meditation.  Plus, I should probably buy a lottery ticket if I want to win the lottery.

But, you know, the MIDDLE SEAT!  I really didn't want that middle seat so I went full-blown selfish on my morning prayer today.  I kept asking my god to handle the seating situation for me and - if possible - get me out of the %$!! middle seat.  I had been stung enough by the not winning the lottery while not buying a lottery ticket that I knew I had to do some work.  I lept into action at the airport by asking the nice lady at the ticket counter if she could possibly arrange things to that SuperK and I could sit together.

She smiled sweetly - really - and said: "The flight is full. But I will pass your names along to the gate agent in case someone doesn't show up for the flight.

Yeah, right.  Reminded me of the time the cop who investigated the violent and unauthorized removal of my car stereo system told me that he'd get in touch with me if anything turned up.

"Does anything ever turn up?" I asked.

"No," he said.

I even waved off a middle seat - window seat combination if one became available.  I wanted the aisle.  Bad.  We made our way to the gate, cheerfully, resigned, no hard feelings against anyone.  I mean it's not like I was asking my Higher Power to get me a seat on the plane so I wouldn't have to row to Hong Kong.

After a short bit I heard our names being paged.  I made my way to the check-in counter and gratefully accepted our new seat assignments - together and on an aisle.  I'm still not sure what to make of the mechanism of prayer in this instance.  

My kooky god, anyway.

The MIDDLE SEAT!

I do confess to amusing myself.  I have been rigorously, tirelessly trying to figure out the loophole in the middle seat tragedy.  I am going to ask my seat mates to switch seats, well aware that no one is going to vacate an aisle seat and occupy a middle seat; if there is any hesitation, I'm going to offer money - maybe a young kid who's going to screw with his pc would rather have cash, begging the question as to how he could afford to fly to Hong Kong; I'm going to work the stewardesses; I'm going to go to every help desk and reservation counter I see; and I am STILL GOING TO BE IN THE MIDDLE SEAT!

I have always liked the tendency of alcoholics to surrender only after they have exhausted every other opportunity.

Here is some advice I've gotten from friends over the last few days, all of it comforting:
LWSJ: "You'll have Kenner and your Higher Power with you every step of the way," and replying to my comment that I was at the point of the trip when I was getting really worked up: "I know it well."  It made me feel less alone.

Spandex: "LAX stands for reLAX."  That was a good one.  Just relax.  Just fucking relax.

One of my grouchy, dear friends from Vacation City Fellowship, agreeing that he gets all worked up, too.  And why, pray tell?  "I don't know - it's just the way we are."

Next stop: SE Asia.