Did flying always suck? I mean, you see those posters from back in the halcyon days of the 50's and 60's of people actually smiling on airplanes, and there's a sexy stewardess handing them trays full of edible food, and it doesn't appear, looking out the tiny window that they've been taxiing around a runway for five hours. Was it actually like that, or was that just highly effective propaganda? Is the past just a lie? I see the same type of advertisements like that now for airlines, with grinning passengers and sunshine beaming through the windows, and let's just say that's not an entirely accurate picture of reality. At this point, a more timely, comfortable and customer service-conscious mode of transportation would be hitchhiking.
Speaking of propaganda and preconceptions, I'm not all that wild about traveling to the South. It's my first time here, and as a Northerner who bases his entire worldview on the movies I've seen, the South gives me the creeps. Southern people think (generalizing? mmmaybe) that Yankees like me are so jealous of their quaint, gentrified, countrified way of life. That we pine for the lovely southern belles like Scarlett O'Hara (played by Vivian Leigh, a Brit, by the way) and yearn to stroll down by the old crick under the weeping willows while our slaves mournfully belt out some classic Blues as we sip gimlets and chain-smoke tobacceee cigarettes we grew and rolled ourselves.
Northerners do not think the South is or ever was like this. That's not the Hollywood myth we bought into. For the most part, we think the South is crawling with toothless, shirtless, illiterate, Waffle House-patronizing, hopelessly-inbred rapists. Sorry to burst your bubble, any Southerners who happen to have someone to help you translate what these little squiggles on the computer screen mean.I know this preconception probably won't last long and I certainly hope it won't. Actually, so far Atlanta (okay, the airport) looks just like any other American city, with the exception that the security guards are wearing possum-fur hats.
No, really, so far it's been-
Car is here. Finally. Damn it, I didn't order a pickup truck with a drooling bloodhound riding shotgun and a wooden rocking chair for a back seat!
More as I go...
...At the stoplight... McDonald's... Starbucks... same buildings you'd see anywhere else...
A Waffle House! Aha!
...Now at the hotel, totally exhausted. I'm glad I waited to send this post. Please forgive all the previous jackassery and Confederacy-bashing and understand that I'm running on absolutely no sleep. Despite this, I'm dying to see what's in the storage locker. I'm going to grab my tenth cup of coffee and drive over to it. It's only a few blocks away anyway.
...And I'm back once more at the hotel after my trip to the storage area. To recap:
I was amazed at how bright all the lights of Atlanta were even late into the night, and was considering heading downtown to check out all the action before realizing that all the light was actually dawn. Crap. Overall, Atlanta looks like everywhere else in America. Everyone has been friendly, helpful and sporting an acceptable number of teeth. I'm not sure why I'm disappointed.
You had to enter a security code to get in the gate, a nice setup that must have set back the Doctors Yoshida a fair amount of Yen. Once inside the gate, I drove the rental car up to the storage garage, parked, and used the same code to get into the individual storage area, which was about the size of a walk-in closet.
Once inside, I found a grand total of one box containing file folders. Again, disappointed. I admit I was kind've hoping for racks of beakers containing weird liquids, cages filled with bunny skeletons, and/or the Ark of the Covenant. A box of file folders. Whoop-de damn doo.
As I began to rifle through the box, I heard a car engine outside. Peeking out, I saw a black sedan driving up to the security gate out in front, a spotlight attached to the driver's side window sweeping over the storage area. I had every right to be where I was, but for whatever reason I started freaking out a little. Then the front gate began to slide open and the car crept forward, the spotlight darting back and forth over the asphalt in front of it. Maybe it was because I was so short on sleep and in a "foreign land", so to speak, or perhaps it was something about the car, the way it rolled up so very slowly, but acting on instinct I lowered the garage-style door to Doctor Yoshida's storage area and knelt down inside, my ear to the metal door.I could hear the rubber on the tires squeak as the car pulled up in front of my door and stoped, the transmission shifting into Park. I held my breath as it idled for a long moment, then the car door opened. My breathing was rapid and shallow as I heard footsteps coming closer and closer until whoever it was was standing right outside the metal door on the other side of me.
I heard a voice. I was surprised to hear that it didn't sound Southern, but instead had a completely different accent I couldn't place. His speech had a professional, even military cadence. I pressed my ear harder to the door and could barely make out what he said: "Red raw to blower. Bongo, advise." A pause, then, "Acknowledged. Knock at the door need to know only. There's-" I couldn't make out anything else as he started walking away, back to his car. The car door shut, and I could hear it slowly drive off. Just in case, I waited in silence inside the storage area until I thought I could distantly hear the front security gate open and close.
It occurred to me at this point that my rental car was parked right where he was just standing, and I hoped that he hadn't slashed the tires or something. I gently opened the storage door, sighing with relief that I actually could open it from inside, something I hadn't considered when I panicked and shut myself in.
Giving my car the once-over and deciding that everything looked normal, I tossed the file box in the backseat and threw it into drive before noticing a slip of paper stuck underneath the windshield. Without getting out, I rolled down the window, reached out and grabbed it. I turned on the dome light and read it. It was an address in someplace called "Hollis Crossroads", followed by the words, "Tanaka. Today."
Now back at the hotel, the adrenaline rush has given way to utter exhaustion. Before I pass out, Doctor Yoshida, does the name Tanaka mean anything to you? My eyes are closing even as I'm sitting here. Too tired to process what happened. Please advise.
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