||| FLOTSAM & JETSAM by MAURICE AUSTIN |||

Among the joys of rolling out of bed early on Turkey Day at O’ Dark Thirty and heading for the Red Eye—loading the last bits of the load by headlamp even though missing the headlamp—is that one or another essential item for the excursion might be missed. Neglected. Misplaced during loading. Forgotten.

In my defense, I’d loaded most of my clothes, reading material, extra shoes and a pair of boots, gloves, rain jackets, tarps, a floor jack, pepper spray, binoculars, flares, pillows and blankets, and sleeping bags beforehand, the night before, along with fire-starting materials, kindling, campfire wood, and MREs just in case. One never knows what might happen along I-5, after all. Bear spray. Shock deterrent. Handgun. First aid kit. Jump pack. Reading glasses, because the instructions on the bear spray are printed in like size 4 font, sheesh.

Alas, once I’d been assigned a lane at the terminal, I went to check the time, and…and…and…
     …some minor hyperventilating ensued. The phrase “It is what is is” echoed somehow through my early-morning skull.

Dawn seemed to dawn slowly. Yep: I’d forgotten my phone. Nah, I thought. Must be here somewhere. So I searched the vehicle. Wasn’t there.

Perhaps I’m just dreaming? Perhaps some coffee would…   …but alas, the market at the terminal was closed. Which I mean, that’s nice of them to do for their employees—that shows heart. Two thumbs up. It’s just—look. I’m without a cellphone here…how long have I spent without a cellphone in constant reach since…no—wait: let me re-phrase that: how long has it been since you have been completely out of touch with a cellphone, and for how long?

Frankly, my phone is off or muted during work hours, and I typically leave it unattended elsewise. But on a road trip? The phone is compass, clock, and companion. And here I am unloading in Anacortes, without a clue as to the time, but at least knowing which way to turn when I got to I-5.

Which seemed knowing more than some of the other motorists knew, sheesh.

At mom’s, the wall clock, stove clock, microwave clock, and TV clock varied by degrees exceeding 24 hours, which I didn’t think possible, but then she claimed she didn’t have to be anywhere before a few hours ago, or until several hours earlier, which makes sense, in terms of living large in one’s retired years, without having to pay too much attention to the clock. Alas, my attempt at securing a ferry reservation for “variable” bit the dust. Er…bit the crustacean-crowded waiting-line concrete, for those poetically-minded..

Were this piece a comedy bit and nothing else, I’d probably mention that over the the neighbors’ turkey and mom’s mashed potatoes and the neighbors’ gravy and mom’s sweet potatoes, I’d asked mom’s wing-nut neighbors what time it was, over and over, until they bored of the gag. Because—you know—hey, buddy—you know what time it is? Do you? I mean, do you?

That’s not this bit, here. But do you? Mom’s neighbor still proudly displays a “Biden is Not My President” banner on his fence, is the thing, so time is…well, telling time is…so…do you? I’m waiting for an answer.

Once I returned home, the phone was right there on the table by the entry. The time it shows is the time on the clocks here—there’s been no power outage.

There’s just been a me outage, for better or worse. For travel or worse.

Mom has good neighbors, despite the banners they fly, and let us pause to acknowledge that time isn’t only measured in turkey and stuffing, and mashed potatoes and gravy, and cranberries—but in some sort of measure of kindness, which much resists incrementation.

So: Neighbors: +1.

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