ée Carlino - Nowhere but Here

Like I said, he wouldn’t give a shit.

That night when I went to Stephen’s apartment to drop off his clothes, he answered the door still wearing his suit. He had ditched the tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves, but the phone was still attached to his ear.

He mouthed, Thank you. I’ll text you.

I handed over the basket full of his clothes and said, “You’re welcome” very quietly.

He liked to text me. He thought it was sexy to send dirty messages back and forth, but the less we connected in real life, the more meaningless those texts became.

Sure enough, two hours later, while I was lying in bed, I got a text from him.

Stephen: U looked amazing 2night

I would have normally come back with something like You weren’t so bad yourself, because at least Stephen was trying, and I felt like he meant well, but that night something became very clear to me. I began to visualize a relationship where I felt cherished. I couldn’t make out the face of the person who would be that for me, but somehow I knew it wasn’t Stephen.

I didn’t respond to him for several minutes. Instead, I got on Google and typed in R. J. Lawson. I scoured endlessly boring articles about his early successes and the contributions his inventions had made toward technological advancements in communications and security. There was little, if anything at all, about his personal life. One article showcased a server prototype he had revealed at a science expo, with a picture of him standing next to the machine. He couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, prepubescent with a mouth full of braces. I searched over and over for additional images, but every time his name was linked to an image, it was either of a computer gadget, the winery, or the logo for a charity organization he had formed. I would go into the interview knowing a lot about R. J. Lawson’s accomplishments and philanthropic work but very little about the man.

Checking the time, I figured I had given Stephen enough of the silent treatment.

Kate: If I looked so amazing 2night then y aren’t u in my bed right now??

Stephen: Early morning meeting. Have a safe trip. See you when you get back.

I didn’t respond. I just fell asleep thinking, I’m all I’ve got.

The next day I flew into San Francisco International Airport at two p.m. My first interview with R. J. Lawson was scheduled for five p.m., and I still had to get out of the city, over the heavily trafficked Golden Gate Bridge, and up to Napa Valley. I hoped that taxis were readily available once I got outside because I wouldn’t have much time to dillydally. I didn’t eat the plane food, so I was starving and starting to get a headache.

As I waited at the baggage carousel, I pulled out my travel itinerary from the coordinator at the Chicago Crier. Under the flight details it showed a reservation number for Avis Car Rental. I immediately dialed Jerry.

“Why is there a rental car reservation on my itinerary?”

“Well, hello to you, too. We got you a rental car because Napa is spread out. I thought you would want to go exploring while you’re there. Plus . . . cab fare just one way would have been more money.”

“I barely know how to drive, Jerry!”

“We have a driver’s license on file for you.”

“Yeah, I got my driver’s license after my high school boyfriend taught me how to drive in a mall parking lot. I haven’t driven since.”

“You press the gas to go, the brake to stop, and you steer with that giant wheel sitting in front of you. How hard could it be?”

“Fine, I just hope you have a big insurance policy. This is going to be a nightmare.” I hung up and reached for my suitcase, which of course was the last one to appear on the conveyer belt.

At Avis, a young female clerk showed me to the car. “I need to do a quick visual inspection to mark any existing damage. I’ll be real quick.”

“Knock yourself out.” I threw my bags in the trunk and then got into the driver’s seat. It was a small Toyota sedan, nothing fancy, but it looked very new. I felt for the ignition and then realized the clerk hadn’t given me the key yet.

She skipped around the car and then stood outside my door. Bending down to look at me through the window, she smiled really cute and said, “No damage, you’re all set, but I think you might need this.”

She held up a little black square. I opened the door. “What is that?”

“It’s your key.”

“How is that a key?”

She put her hand on her hip and cocked her head to the side. “You’ve never seen push-button ignition before?”

“No.” I’m so in for it. Evidently cars had changed in the last ten years.

The clerk gave me a quick tutorial after I told her I hadn’t driven in a very long time. I think she felt sorry for me.

“It’s just like riding a bike, okay?”

“Yes, thank you, that is very good advice.”

I typed the winery address into the GPS and then proceeded to pull out of the rental company driveway. I screeched and slammed on the brakes every four feet until I got out onto the street. There was going to be a learning curve. The GPS lady successfully got me over the Golden Gate, but I didn’t get to enjoy one minute of it. Paranoid that I was going to hit a pedestrian or a cyclist or launch myself off the massive bridge, I couldn’t take my eyes off of the car in front of me. Once I was out of the city, I spotted a Wendy’s and pulled off the highway. GPS lady started getting frantic.

“Recalculating. Head North on DuPont for 1.3 miles.”

I did a quick U-turn to get to the other side of the freeway and into the loving arms of a chocolate frosty.

“Recalculating.” Shit. Shut up, lady. I was frantically hitting buttons until I was able to finally silence her. I made a right turn and then another turn immediately into the Wendy’s parking lot and into the drive-thru line. I glanced at the clock. It was three forty. I still had time. I pulled up to the speaker and shouted, “I’ll take a regular French fry and a large chocolate frosty.”

Just then, I heard a very loud, abbreviated siren sound. Whoop.

I looked into my rearview mirror and spotted the source. It was a police officer on a motorcycle. What’s he doing? I sat there waiting for the Wendy’s speaker to confirm my order, and then again, Whoop.

“Ma’am, please pull out of the drive-thru and off to the side.” What’s going on?

I quickly rolled the window all the way down, stuck my head out, and peered around until the policeman was in my view. “Are you talking to me?”

To my absolute horror, he used the speaker again. “Yes, ma’am, I am talking to you. Please pull out of the drive-thru.” Holy shit, I’m being pulled over in a Wendy’s drive-thru.

“Excuse me, Wendy’s people? You need to scratch that last order.”

A few seconds went by and then a young man’s voice came over the speaker. “Yeah, we figured that,” he said before bursting into laughter and cutting the speaker off.

The policeman was very friendly and seemed to find a little humor in the situation as well. Apparently I had made an illegal right turn at a red light just before I pulled into the parking lot. After completely and utterly humiliating me, he let me off with a warning, which was nice, but I still didn’t have a frosty.

Pulling my old Chicago Cubs cap from my bag, I decided that nothing was going to get in the way of my beloved frosty. Going incognito, I made my way through the door. Apparently the cap was not enough because the Justin Timberlake–looking fellow behind the counter could not contain himself.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi, what can I get you?” he said, and then he clapped his hand over his mouth, struggling to hold back a huge amount of laughter and making gagging noises in the back of his throat in the process.

“Can I get an extra-large chocolate frosty please, and make it snappy.”

“Do you still want the fries with that?” There was more laughter and then I heard laughter from the back as well.

“No, thank you.” I paid, grabbed my cup, and hightailed it out of there.

Napa was beautiful in October. The sun was setting, the last long rays piercing through the large eucalyptus trees that lined the road to the winery. I pulled off and took a couple of photos and removed a few layers of clothes. At that point I was wearing very wrinkled black slacks and a blazer, unsuccessfully trying to pull off the sophisticated journalist look. It was warm in Napa compared to Chicago that time of year. I knew I was only a few minutes away, so I took some time to go over my interview questions and then I hopped in the car and drove toward the R. J. Lawson property.

GPS lady notified me that I was approaching my destination. When I got to a point where I needed to turn left into the winery, I stopped and waited for a car that was coming from the opposite direction to pass. That car passed, and then another popped up in the distance, and then another. Finally, I had to take my chances and turn quickly. I did just that, overcorrecting and running the car smack into a truck pulling out of the winery driveway. The airbag deployed rather rudely in my face at the very same moment that I heard crunching metal and felt the force of the collision. I started frantically pushing away the deflating airbag when I spotted a figure outside of the passenger window.

“Are you okay?!” he shouted.

I nodded and a few seconds later he opened my door for me.