On the road

I cold called several weeks ago after picking rando dots on the map and looking to see if those dots had newspapers.

Turns out this dot had a paper and the guy needed someone.

He interviewed me by phone and offered me a reporting gig a week or two later.

I headed out on the road before he offered the job; I was driving to California regardless.

He offered a few days into my trip. He didn't know I was on the road. I accepted a few days later.

The road changed me. Or maybe it solidified what I knew in my heart.

I told him I wasn't sure if I could do it again after 9 years away from the game. I told him my deepest fears.

He gave me a few more days to think it over. A few days later I said I would do it even thought I didn't want to.

A few more days went by and I was a complete wreck and not just because of this decision.

When I got to Long Beach, then L.A. to see my dad, and after spending 4 days back home, I told him I can't do it.

I told him I have zero desire for the newspaper game and wouldn't be able to give him my heart and soul.

He didn't know me a month ago and he won't remember me a month from now. He'll find the right person for that gig.

Today I returned the rental car, some 3+ hours to the bowels of California.

I knew I made the right decision not to take the job. I couldn't live there. My soul would have died there.

I hopped in my car and drove up to Indio then west across I-10.

It's a hard fucking drive and I felt like dying somewhere around Palm Springs. But I made it back to Long Beach.

Booked a room in downtown but the room sucked. My descent into temporary madness continued.

I was hot and bothered and exhausted and on the verge of breaking down emotionally.

I booked another room by the Long Beach Airport. It's everything I need.

I walked across the street to get sushi for dinner but the wait for a table, or takeout, was 45 minutes.

I walked around the corner to the Mexican joint and ordered a large beef burrito with red sauce. The poster made it look so good.

I walked back across the street to the hotel but stopped at a produce cart on the sidewalk manned by a Mexican dude.

I told him to cut me up $7 worth of mango. I took his photo chopping it up. He made it look so easy. His name is Cesar.

I came back to the room and ate a handful of the mango. It was ripe and sweet and perfect.

I wolfed down the burrito with red sauce and extra sour cream. It was good and better than any sushi platter I would have eaten.

I'm on the bed right. It's a king with clean fresh sheets and big fluffy pillows. I'm watching CNN. CNN is all I've watched on the road.

I feel like shit for leading the newspaper guy on but I couldn't do it. I thought I wanted to do that again but lied to myself, and wasted his time.

I'm a wreck. I'm typing it out here because it helps. I'll be fine. I'll snap back. I hope I will. Maybe I won't. Maybe I'm ready for Bellevue.

The best part of today was watching Cesar chop some mangoes. The ripest mangoes I've ever eaten.

That's the gist of it.