Inspirational Dissatisfaction

By Steven Kind

Motivation to seek out a sober life can come from a lust for something better.  No two people see the value of a sober lifestyle in the same way.  For some it's a matter of avoiding legal entanglements, for some it's just a feeling something isn't right but for Steve the turning point came after the path he was following threatened to turn his life into something unrecognizable.  The motivation came in time to save his family, his sanity and perhaps his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Kind
• Release date: Oct 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201364915

Steven Kind

Steve Kind is a SMART Recovery facilitator, Certified Peer Recovery Specialist and a volunteer for Minnesota Recovery Connection. After experiencing multiple failed attempts to get sober, Steve has dedicated his life to helping others find their pathway to a peaceful sobriety. As a public speaker it is Steve's hope that his story may help others to avoid giving up hope for a better future.

Book preview

Cali with Ally

Ihad slung my share of drugs in the past; white cross, mushrooms, acid and the occasional pharmaceutical were always part of my wares but I was always partial to, and consistently stocked, with pot.  From junior high through high school and in the years following, pot was always a favorite for me and my friends, who were of course, my clientele.  Coming in contact with Carl truly expanded my inventory and allowed me to not only sell the dank green but to get pre-orders of available varieties.  I was able to charge prime dollars and get enough pre-orders to not only cover the cost of my voracious appetite for good smoke but enjoy a tidy profit along the way. 

After more than a year of enjoying the cannabis connection, Carl approached me with some news and a proposition.  Carl had purchased a plot of land in Northern California and was going to start a marijuana growing operation.  It was still illegal on a federal level, but in California it was allowed on a state level.  Carl had devised a way to grow a limited amount of weed (substantial to his enterprise but small in comparison to the neighboring sites) and stay enough under the radar to make it work.

Steve, I need somebody to drive a pickup truck and a U-Haul trailer out to California and deliver it to my guy in Redding, Carl said. There is nothing illegal involved, it’s just my furniture and household items.  I can cover all expenses for the drive out, cover the cost of a ticket to fly you back and give you $1,500 for your time.

I immediately loved the idea.  I loved to travel.  I loved driving.  I’ve always loved visiting new places.  Hell, I was always up for an adventure.  I was working at a job selling promotional materials on a strictly commission basis, and it was not bringing in very good money.  I was in!

My younger daughter Ally (who has since changed her name to Dwella) who had never flown before and had never been west of Colorado, showed some interest in going with me.  It may sound confusing but Dwella, who was named Ally at birth (She hates that name), will from this point forward be referred to as Hondo (the nickname I gave her growing up and still call her to this day). I was excited for her to join me. I made arrangements to get two return tickets.  That cost me out-of-pocket for the additional flight but Carl agreed not to split hairs on the other expenses.  It was decided.  Two for the road!

Hondo, who was already excited to make this trip, was taking Thursday and Friday off from school (she was in 9th grade at the time) and I had Carl order two return flights for the following Monday morning at 7:00 AM.  That would give us a couple days to get out to California and a day and a half to relax before heading back.  Everything was set, or so I thought.  Carl was unable to coordinate everything by Thursday morning so our departure was moved forward to Saturday morning.  That not only allowed zero time for relaxing, but gave us a little over 36 hours to go 2,000 miles.  That was, if we wanted to get any sleep before boarding the flight home.

The day to go west arrived and my wife drove me and my daughter to Carl’s place.  When we arrived I saw what was to be our conveyance sitting out in front of his apartment.  The pickup was a large white truck with multiple storage compartments along the bed.  The middle of the truck bed was stacked so high that the view from the center mirror was completely blocked.  The bed portion of the truck was covered with a plastic tarp and strapped down with a combination of bungee cords and rope.  Hitched to the back was a large six foot by twelve foot trailer.  I have always hated the instability of U-Haul trailers and I was beginning to feel a bit queasy at the prospect of taking this combination on an almost 2,000 mile trip.  As a man who has hauled 80,000 pound truckloads over mountain passes on slick winter roads, you would think I would be quiet, calm, and ready; I was not.  U-Haul trailers are not generally equipped with high-dollar sway bars and the high winds on that particular day were daunting.  Add to that, rain storms were in the forecast covering about the first 500 miles of our journey.  But a trooper I was, and my daughter was ready for the big trip.

As we made our way to the highway that cuts around Mankato (the Minnesota hometown I was born in, raised in, and live to this day) I started getting familiar with the truck.  Windshield wiper control?  Check.  Light control?  Check.  High beams?  Check.  Cruise control?  Hmm, where the hell were the buttons or switches for the cruise control?  They were not on the center of the steering wheel.  They were not on the shifter.  They were not on the steering wheel tree.  Where the hell were they?  After several minutes of attempting to find the cruise control, I decided to call Carl on my cell phone and have him direct me to the switch.

Hey Carl.  What’s up?

Not much, what’s going on?

Just getting rolling, but I can’t locate the cruise control.

I’m not sure if there is one.  I just bought the truck a couple weeks ago, so I have not located all the controls.

I frantically searched for the elusive controls.  As you have likely guessed, there was no cruise control installed in the truck.  That’s not a problem when you’re going to the store but when you’re hauling a swaying truck and trailer on a road trip of 2,000 miles, it’s an issue.  With the understanding that it was going to be less than ideal conditions, we trudged on.

The winds began to pick up and before getting 20 miles out of town, the canvas topping had begun to unravel.  More wind.  More unraveling.  I pulled over and tried my best to get the load covered once again.  The threat of darkening skies made it a priority.  The last thing I wanted was to get Carl’s furniture drenched with rain.  After securing the load with the limited resources at our disposal we pulled back onto the road and continued rolling.  As the wind picked up, the canvas went from unraveling to flapping around, and soon it was ripping.  We had not ventured more than fifty miles from home when we found ourselves hauling a load with streamers snapping and thrashing in the wind.  When we arrived at the outskirts of the next town we stopped at a store and secured more tarps (Both plastic and canvas. Two layers are better than one right?) and a couple of ratchet straps.  Thankfully it had not started raining yet so the load, though uncovered, had remained dry.  I took the little victories where I could find them.

The rain held off but the winds picked up to 50 or 60 miles per hour.  The canvas didn’t stand a chance.  By the time we cruised though Sioux Falls, South Dakota, fewer than 150 miles from our starting point, the canvas once again began its violent dance and let loose.  The ripped tarps were so bad that our only option was to pull over and remove them completely so they didn’t cause any additional damage or get caught in the tires.  We made it to a rest area and removed the shrapnel that once was my newly purchased canvas and plastic covers.  I had been keeping my speed well under the speed limit.  The canvas wasn’t the only issue I was confronting.  The instability of the loaded trailer was its own additional little piece of hell.  But now, as we pulled away from the rest area, we entered a whole new level of frustration. 

The first drops hit the windshield with a splattering sound.  This was not the mist of an afternoon sun shower, this was the indication of a torrential downpour about to let loose.  With the truck bed now exposed, we had to get to some kind of shelter quickly to ride out the storm.

The tank was getting low so we pulled into a gas station and as I was filling the tank the clouds opened up and the downpour began.  We had our first piece of good luck so far.  The overhang kept us and the load from getting drenched.  We sat there about 15 minutes after the rain had stopped just to make sure that the waterworks were not going to lull us into a false sense of security and open back up.  With the luck that had accompanied us thus far, it seemed like the right call.

The rain remained at bay and the next hundred miles went by without major incident.  Of course the wind was no fun.  Every time a truck passed, or in the rare instance that I braved passing one myself, my hands gripped the wheel so hard I thought it may require surgery to separate them.  The sun began to disappear and both Hondo and I started to think about getting a bite to eat.  At that time, one of her favorite places to eat was Perkins.  I remembered from earlier travels there was a Perkins on the other side of Rapid City.  We pushed on and made Perkins our next stop.

The meal was good and surprisingly uneventful. My nerves began to calm down for the first time since leaving home.  We finished eating, paid the bill and set out on the road.  The wind, though still there, had calmed down and we were getting ready to leave the Interstate for a two lane road across Wyoming.  Growing up in Minnesota I am very familiar with the sight of deer running across the road but there was way too much possible road venison that night.  I kept on my toes and managed to go carcass-free the whole way.  The reduced speed of the two lane road seemed to take forever and, though it did slow us down, no major incidents occurred.  Hondo and I were both very tired but caught our second wind when the sun began to rise.  Moments after sunrise, we got gas and ate some breakfast at the Denny’s in Rock Springs, Wyoming before continuing on our journey. 

Hondo and I were enjoying the scenery.  That area of the country is a beautiful and fast changing landscape.  Even from the limited views allowed by staying on Interstate 80 the view quickly changed from the brown and rust colored rolling hills and rocky cliffs of western Wyoming to the steep grades of the Three Sisters.  I’m not sure if truckers originally named the Three Sisters but it is three back-to-back long pulls up and down a fairly straight stretch of road east of Evanston Wyoming.  That roller coaster ride opened up into the canyons while entering Utah.  The canyons were beautiful and curved downward at a slow pace until we were swallowed up by large mountains, which then opened up to the Echo reservoir and a flat green valley that stretched for miles.  After we passed through the valley, the climb began.  Following another canyon area, the twisting climb brought us up the side of the mountains and into the ski resort area of Park City.  I could smell the money.  I would venture to say there were no hidden trailer courts in the area.  After passing through the resort area, the long decline into Salt Lake City started.  The grandeur of that area is hard to put into words.  As we came down the pass into Salt Lake City we went from oohing and ahhing at the mountains around us to, BAM, metropolitan traffic!  Four lanes became five lanes, became split highways, became dual exit lanes, became single entrance lanes and went back to five lanes.  Salt Lake City was one of those places that I felt I had better keep my head on a swivel and watch the signage, or we would end up going the wrong direction and never be heard from again.  As quickly as the mountains ended and the city began, the city was behind us and the Great Salt Lake was in front of us.

It was beginning to get difficult to say what was more urgent at that time.  I was fading fast.  Both Hondo and I were getting very tired, but hunger was competing with the need for sleep.  I knew at the beginning of our trip that I was going to have to cover the entire distance without getting any shut-eye.  As an ex truck driver, I had been on my share of long hauls with little or no sleep but, 2,000 miles in a swaying rig with the safety of my daughter at risk was something new.  Hondo had decided she wanted to try to stay awake for the long journey as well.  I looked over and saw that she had become somewhat rejuvenated by the changes in scenery we had just traveled through.

How are you doing?  I asked.

I’m getting pretty fucking tired, but I’m doing okay, she replied with a grin.  It may shock some that she, a ninth grade girl, slipped the F word in there.  I was not shocked.  My wife and I have never put a stigma on using foul language to emphasize a point.  Hondo was fluent.

We are coming up on a truck stop just around the next bend, I said. We could get some fast food or sit down to eat.  We could skip eating for now, but it will be about another two hours before we’ll get another opportunity to pull over.  The salt flats start right after the truck stop area, and there are no services until we get to the other side.

Hondo had to go to the bathroom and figured we should get some food to get us through the next stretch.  We decided to sit down and have some breakfast.

I ordered coffee and the breakfast buffet.  Hondo had pancakes, her favorite.  I would have taken the coffee in the form of an I.V. drip if it was offered.

How much farther is it to Redding?  She asked me while stretching and rubbing her eyes.

We are a little under two thirds of the way there; I would say about 675 or 700 miles to go, I replied.

Really?  God that’s still a long way!  She exclaimed with some serious eye rolls.

Well Hondo, you really don’t need to stay awake the whole way.  After the Salt flats we’re going to be going through Nevada.  There are some interesting areas going through there but most of it is pretty repetitive once you’ve seen a little bit of it, I explained.

Fuck that.  I want to stay awake if I can, Hondo smirked (Like I said, fluent).

I loved seeing her determination, and I loved the idea of her keeping me on my toes.  We filled the truck with gas and I filled my mug with some truly awful coffee.  We got back on the road.  About 30 miles after leaving the truck stop, the Great Salt Lake had disappeared and we were on the edge of the Salt Flats.  Miles of white flat land stretched as far as the eye could see.  There were rock formations and the occasional bend in the road but, for the most part, it was a very flat and straight stretch of road.  I was going about 65 miles per hour but being passed as though I was in park.  When I was a trucker we used to call this stretch of Interstate 80 the Mormon speedway for a reason.  Either running to Nevada to get some gambling in or running back with their tails between their legs, there was always a constant flow from Salt Lake City to Wendover (nicknamed Bendover) Nevada, the first town across the state line.  Between the high-speed vehicles and the continuous truck traffic, I kept awake and alert.  Every passing truck whooshing wind against the side of my unstable ride and every racing car flying past made me feel the need to keep ever vigilant and ready for anything. 

After about thirty-five miles of watching Bendover slowly draw closer, we finally entered the rocky terrain of the approximately 420 mile gauntlet standing between us and California.  Immediately upon entering the state of Nevada the land became a combination of rocks, sagebrush, and miles of sandy brown and tan landscape of unforgiving country that stretched for long distances between glimpses of civilization.

Dad, that sign says don’t pick up hitchhikers.  Prison area, Hondo said while looking over at me with bloodshot and weary eyes.

Yeah, you will see many of those as we cross Nevada.  There are a few private prisons along the side of the interstate, I replied.

What do you mean private prisons?  Hondo questioned.  What is private about them? That’s weird.

Most prisons are run by either the federal government or state government.  These prisons are actually owned by private individuals and corporations and they are run like a business, I explained.

Why would anyone own a prison? She asked.

They make a lot of money.  Personally, I think they are a bullshit concept and shouldn’t be allowed to exist.  My reply came with obvious disdain.

How do they make money?  Hondo asked with some confusion.  Do they make the prisoners make things to sell?

"No, their main source of income comes from the state paying them to house the inmates themselves.  The inmates are the product." I did not cover up my disdain for the system.

That’s bullshit! She said, proving she is definitely a lot more like her old man than she might want to admit.

Rocks and rough country gave way to more rocks and more hard country.  We began a long climb and I pointed out that we were down to about 500 miles left on our journey to Redding.

We’re only about eight or nine hours from hopefully pulling into the hotel in Redding.  I said, expecting to hear a little bit of relieved response.

There was no response at all.  Hondo had finally given in to the ever-present pull to get some sleep.  She was sitting with her head bobbing to the beat of the slats in the road.  I swear she had a bit of a grin on her face.  I was happy, and admittedly a bit jealous, that she was enjoying her slumber.  I know she wanted to stay awake for the entire trip but I couldn’t get myself to interrupt her sleep.  We had about another 150 miles worth of fuel left.  It might have only been a nap, but I felt it would do her a world of good.  I decided to push the limits of the fuel tank to give her some time to snooze.  Winnemucca would be our next stop. 

As we approached Winnemucca, I attempted to wake Hondo up.

Hondo, we’re going to stop for fuel if you want to go to the bathroom or get something to munch, I said.

No response.

Hondo, I said as I tapped her on the knee.

Don’t do that Raina! She said as she swatted my hand away.  I don’t care Raina, it’s not up to you.  She said with a little anger in her voice.

Raina was the name of one of her best friends and was obviously the subject of whatever dreamscape she was floating in.

Wake up Hondo.  We’re stopping for gas.

She slowly and reluctantly opened her eyes.  She was dazed and having a bit of a struggle grasping the reality of what was going on.  It took a minute but she finally sat up and shook off some of the cobwebs, as we were getting on the off ramp into town.  She had to readjust her eyes as it was extremely bright out that afternoon.  Midafternoon in the desert didn’t comport with her Raina dream.

Where are we? She asked.

We’re in Winnemucca, Nevada, I said.

Where the hell is Winnemucca?  She asked me.

I knew the crux of her question wasn’t so much a matter of geographical significance.  The subtext was how much farther did we have to go?

We’re getting pretty close.  We’re about 160 miles from Reno and then it’s only about 200 miles to Redding.  I’m hoping to get us to the hotel by about ten o’clock California time so we can get a full seven or eight hours before we have to go hit our connecting flight in the morning, I said hoping that would put a smile on her face. 

The smile didn’t come.  She was hoping we were farther along.

How long was I sleeping? She asked.

I told her she had gotten about two and a half hours of sleep.  I asked her if she was dreaming about being with Raina.  She gave me an odd look.

Why do you ask that?

I told her what she said to me when I tried waking her up.  Finally the smile I was looking for crept across her face.  She thought what she said was funny but didn’t recall what she had been dreaming.

We got gas, went to the bathroom, grabbed some snacks for the road and set back out.  We made our way through the rocky terrain and followed the interstate through the winding canyon that twists and turns its way into the Sparks and Reno area.  When I asked Hondo if she wanted to stop and get a bite to eat, she curtly said no.  She just wanted to get to California.  We proceeded while keeping an eye on the prize of arriving at our destination.  My hopes were to get to the top of the pass that leads into Lassen National Park before losing the sunlight.  I have never been on that stretch of road and wanted to have a decent visual, both for safety reasons and simply to see the beauty of the park.  The trip had gone without major incident for the last several hundred miles.  I was beginning to think we would not only get there on time, but perhaps even a little earlier than my estimate.

I knew our luck was not going to hold.  It didn’t.  After crossing the state line into California, we entered into an agricultural inspection station.  When it was our turn to roll through, we were asked several questions from the woman at the booth.

I see you have Minnesota license plates.  That’s a long trip.  What is your reason for visiting us today?  The woman asked.

I’m helping a friend move out to the Redding area, I replied.

Do you have any fruits or vegetables in the vehicles?  She asked

No ma’am, I stated

She asked me to wait a moment and went into the booth.  A few minutes later she returned with a bit of news I really didn’t want to hear.

Please pull the rig forward and park off to the right in the inspection area, she said as she pointed to the concrete slab set up for inspections.

Her and one of her male associates then came over and asked us to open the back of the trailer.  We did.  That’s when the fun started.  The inside of the trailer was absolutely packed!  It was so full, in fact, that it was difficult to open.  Once I managed to get the door open, they wanted us to take out a recliner and a table that was set on its side, so they could get a better visual of the load.  This was easier said than done and took some arranging just to get the legs of the table free to be able to be removed.  The whole time this was taking place, the sun was beginning to set behind the mountain range.  After they had taken a quick look, we were told we could put everything back in and proceed on our way.  Shit.  How the hell was I going to get this back in and get the door closed?  It was like playing Tetris to move everything around enough to get the items back in the trailer.  I was never very good at Tetris.  It was a nightmare.  Once it was all situated I tried closing the door.  No go.  I moved things back out and made another attempt, then another and another.  It was a good hour before I was finally able to get the door almost closed.  I had to ask the man at the station to help me by pushing against the door enough for me to latch the door.  The sun was gone.

We made our way down the road and before long we passed through the town of Susanville.  Immediately on the north end of Susanville we began a long and snaking climb.  It was a bit of a surprise how quickly the ascent took us from town directly into the mountains and forests of the high sierras.  As we climbed, we were able to see the lights from the valley below grow smaller and more distant.  Within about 15 minutes we were in almost total darkness on winding two lane roads.  Did I mention I had a swaying trailer attached to the truck?  Through almost the entire trip thus far, I was familiar with the roads from my trucking days.  This particular stretch of road, however, was unchartered territory for me. 

With the trailer pulling and pitching behind me I was treated to the challenge of navigating through hairpin turns posted at 25 miles per hour, then up to 55, then 35, then 55, then 30.  My legs were getting a workout jumping from the accelerator to the brakes.  It was wearing on my tired and fraught nerves.  About 40 miles into the nightmare of a highway we hit a steep grade.  As we descended at 40 miles per hour a deer jumped directly into our path ten yards in front of us.  I hit the brakes hard and felt the whole rig pull to the right.  The load shifted and tugged us toward the ledge, which I could only assume would have been our doom, had I gone off the road at that point (confirmed later on subsequent trips). 

Along with the tug, the brakes hung up for a brief period and then released.  We missed the deer by mere feet but then the brakes began to feel very soft and spongy.  Something was not quite right and we still had a ways to go to get to the bottom.  I kept the speed low and applied light pressure to the brakes.  I was happy to make it to flat land a couple minutes later.  Flat, not straight.  We were back to hairpins and saw two more deer.  Luckily these deer were not daring me to hit them.  They were in two separate locations on the side of the road.  My nerves were shot.  I just wanted to be done.  Every mile felt like time had slowed to a crawl.  After what seemed like an eternity I finally saw the lights of Redding drawing near.

My instructions were to go to the Northside Motel 6 to meet with a man named Don.  I had his cell phone number and I had directions to get me to the motel.  It was around 1:00 AM when I called Don’s cell and told him I was minutes away.  He said he would be waiting to meet me in the parking lot and said that Carl had already booked a double room for me and Hondo.

My directions to the motel were spot on, and minutes after calling Don I was pulling into the parking lot of the Motel 6.  Don was standing at the entrance and waved me over to him. 

I’m Don.  If you want to pull around this way I’ll show you a spot you can back the truck into for the night, Don said.

I pulled the truck around the building and backed in as directed. 

Don was a man in his late fifties with a look about him that said he had been around the block a few times.  I would find out in the future that my summation was very accurate.  He obviously had some weary miles on him but seemed like a nice guy.  After I parked the truck Don came over, shook my hand and lit up a cigarette.

Carl thought you would have been here earlier tonight.  Did you have any problems?  Don asked.

Thinking back through the myriad of problems we encountered, I decided I would give him the short version.  Got stopped at the inspection station coming into California and they made me open and partially unpack the trailer.  Other than that, there were no major problems.

Yeah they can be pricks, Don stated as he exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke.  Here is the key to your room.  I assume you want to get in and get settled.  I know you have an early flight in the morning.

I said goodnight to Don, unpacked everything me and Hondo had in the truck and went to our room.  That was the last I saw Don on the trip.  He disappeared in a haze of cigarette smoke as he walked to his room.

It was 2:30 in the morning.  Time enough for about a three hour nap.  Hondo and I settled into our beds and crashed hard.

The 5:30 AM alarm came way too soon.  My attitude was bordering on hostility.  I don’t remember what I was dreaming or even if I had dreamt at all; all I know is I wanted more of it.  That was a day that I had already been dreading, but as odd as it may sound, the idea of starting it off as a walking zombie could actually be considered a good thing.  I went to the shower and did my best to prepare for the day.  My eyes were already bloodshot and they were not helped by the couple of pulls I took off of my one hitter (a convenient small pot smoking device).  Ah yes, smoking pot in California.  It seemed righteous.  I stepped out of the bathroom and Hondo stepped in.  I went into my shower bag and pulled out my pharmaceutical cocktail of valium and two sleeping pills. 

Taking downers could be considered counterintuitive.  I had no sleep and was already feeling like a corpse that hadn’t realized he had crossed over, but damn I hate flying!  That day was going to be an extra special circle of hell for me because our itinerary included taking a prop plane from Redding and flying into LAX.  No biggie.  Los Angeles airport is just one of the largest and busiest airports in the country.  From there we would board a commercial jet and head home.  My nerves, the ones I still retained, were on edge.

While waiting for Hondo to get out of the bathroom, I went down and grabbed a couple sweet rolls, some orange juice and a cup of coffee from the complimentary continental breakfast.  After she came out of the bathroom Hondo ate the roll and drank the juice I had picked up for her.  You could tell she was exhausted from the trip and lack of sleep but she was also excited to begin the journey home.

The cab arrived and took us to the outskirts of Redding and up to the terminal.  Naming the damned thing terminal is not helpful for those of us who fear it may be exactly that.  We got out and checked our bags and waited for about a half hour before the boarding began.  The plane was very loud and the seats felt like vibrating massage chairs.  I had flown on small prop planes before and they were fairly loud but this was a whole new animal for me.  Hondo was excited.  We taxied to the end of the runway and paused.  For me it was like the pause looking over the ridge of the first drop on a roller coaster.  It was the pause while waiting for the steep drop and the instant regret.

The engines grew louder and the plane rattled as the brakes released and the rush began.  I wanted to close my eyes but I was transfixed looking at Hondo with a big, semi concerned, shit-eating grin on her face.  She was enjoying it, and I was actually enjoying watching her reaction to our takeoff.  I don’t know if it was the downer cocktail or watching Hondo, but it was actually the least panic-stricken launch into the wild blue yonder I had ever experienced.

With the possible exception of a few minor rumbles of turbulence, the flight went quite smoothly.  The two of us were looking out the window watching the scenery of the beautiful state of California unfold beneath us.  Hondo had the window seat and was taking full advantage of her view.  She was digging it in a big way.  I loved seeing the smile on her face and lost myself in that enjoyment.  That is, until we began our approach at LAX.  I hate the takeoff.  I hate the landing.  Okay, I hate it all.  Hate it as I may, it was a pretty smooth landing, and I felt no major need to kiss the ground when we disembarked from the plane.  Another first.

Our next plane would not depart from LAX for three hours.  Not enough time to really do anything in Los Angeles but way too much time to be stuck at an airport terminal.  With the added burden of having to go through security again if we left the building, we decided to pass the time at the airport.  We made our way to the Starbucks and got coffee.  We took our time drinking our ten dollar cup of Joe and then did some window shopping at the little gift shop.  High priced, low quality items were there to prove you were in Los Angeles.  I was not that anxious to prove anything.  As we were winding down to only about an hour left to wait, I found a spot to grab a cocktail (a literal cocktail, not pharmacological).  I ordered a Bloody Mary and used it to wash down the last two sleeping pills.  I know, I know, bad idea.  In my mind the bad idea was hurtling across the sky in a metal tube.  I looked at it as a good, sound, medicinal treatment. 

Once seated, we were again at our taxi position ready to ride the next roller coaster.  Every time I takeoff in a jet, I get anxious, queasy and intensely focused on how much I hate being there.  That time was again an exception.  Hondo was obviously excited and I found myself getting excited watching her take it all in.  It was exhilarating rather than dreadful.  I was actually enjoying the takeoff for the first time in my life.  The thrill of watching Hondo all but removed my normal fear.  We climbed to cruising altitude and the dual cocktails began to take effect.  As the inflight movie started to play, I went to sleep and stayed blissfully close to comatose.  I was groggy as I regained consciousness.  I barely remember descending into the Minneapolis airport.  I, again, did not dirty my lips kissing terra firma after leaving the plane. 

I was numb as I floated through the terminal with Hondo, retrieved our bags and stepped out to the car where my wife was waiting to pick us up.  Our adventure was over. 

The Sales Pitch

Carl had been out west for about eight or nine months.  It was at the end of July when I received a call from California with a request.

Hey, Sir Carl!  I said as I answered the phone.  How are things going out west?

Not bad, Duder.  How are things back home?

Duder was the moniker that Carl affixed to everybody he talked to.  I always hated it, but what are ya gonna do?  The weed he sold made the label worth wearing.

Holding the fort down as usual, I said.

Duder, I am in kind of a bad spot, He said with an obvious ask lurking behind the statement.

I knew Carl well enough to reply with just a bit of skepticism. What’s going on?  What can I do to help?

Well, you know I’ve been doing the grow out here, and I am coming up on harvest time.  The problem is, I need trimmers.  I thought I had six people lined up, and now three of them have cancelled, he explained.  Without having enough trimmers, we’ll never be able to get the crop in and trimmed in any sort of workable time period.

What is it you’re asking?  I mean, I have never trimmed before, and I can’t just head out there at the drop of a hat, I replied.

This is where the Carl I knew, the used car salesman in tie-dyed clothes, went into his pitch.  It’s really easy to trim, and you can make some pretty serious money doing it.  He was pouring it on thicker and heavier as he went.  You wouldn’t have to be out here until mid to late September, so you have plenty of time to get prepared.  There will be three others heading out at the same time, so you would be able to ride out with them.  I’ll even give you a little bit of travel money to help get you out here.  You know, like a hundred bucks to cover meals on the way out.

Intrigued, I asked the obvious follow up.  How much does it pay?

If you work a full day, like sun up to sundown, you should be able to make between $500 and $700 a day.  I also have a neighbor in Redding who would pay about the same if you want to do more at night.  That pay is pretty much dependent on an ounce staying at current prices, but I don’t see that going down anytime soon.  If you could make it out I would truly appreciate it, he said, putting the final touch on his sales pitch.

How long would I need to be out there?

Well, Duder, it should only be about three or four weeks from first harvest until all is trimmed.  If you decide to do it, you would have to stay out at the site until it is all harvested.  he said.

Wait a minute.  You want me to stay out in the hills where the pot is growing?  I inquired.

Yeah that’s the only way it could work.  In order to get it all trimmed in a timely manner, it requires starting at the crack of dawn and trimming until sundown.  You may even have to trim by camp light.  The slick salesman had one last statement to get me to drive the car off the proverbial lot.  I need somebody I can trust, and I thought you would be that guy.  Can you help me out?

Wait a minute, I said as a new question dawned on me. You said I would be staying out at the grow site.  Are you not going to be out trimming with us at the site?

"No, man.  I have to be at the house