My Point ... And I Do Have One (6 page)

They have these six peanuts that we need. Six peanuts. Somebody could offer that to you on the street, and you’d say, “I don’t want that shit—get that away from me. Six peanuts? No-oh.” Somehow they’ve done research. They know that the higher we go, the more we need nuts. And we go crazy if we don’t get them.

“Miss, I didn’t get my, uh—my peanuts. And I’d really appreciate it if you gave me some. They’re good, aren’t they? I’ve never been able to get them on the ground either. At least not ones this good. Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

Fuck, what was that! “We’re going to crash!” Oops, false alarm. It’s just the food cart coming down the aisle.

I think they only give you six peanuts so that you don’t spoil your appetite for the disgusting meal that’s soon to follow. You never hear anybody say, “You know, I can’t finish that. Could you wrap that up for me please? That was delicious. It’s just too much. I’m stuffed! What was that, pigeon?”

But we do get excited about it, don’t we? “Oh, here comes the cart, put down the tray! La la la la. Put down your tray! They’re starting on the other side first. Hurry! Hurry! Those people over there—they’re eating. Those people are eating.”

This is the tiniest food I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I guess they figure everything’s relative. You get that high up, you look out the window, “Well, it’s as big as that house down there. I can’t eat all that. Look at the size of that. It’s as big as a house. Me thinking I could eat all that! Ha! Split that steak with me. Now
that’s
a steak.” Any kind of meat that you get—chicken, steak, anything—has grill marks on each side, like somehow we’ll actually believe there’s an open-flame grill in the front of the plane.

Salads are always two pieces of dead lettuce and salad dressing that comes in that astronaut package. As soon as you open it, it’s on your neighbor’s lap. “Could I just dip my lettuce, ma’am? Hm, that’s a lovely skirt. What is that, silk?” But you know, should that happen, club soda’s gonna get that stain out immediately.

That’s the answer to anything you ask up there, I don’t know if you’ve noticed that.

“Excuse me, I have an upset stomach.”
“Club soda, be right back.”
“Excuse me, I spilled something.”
“Club soda, be right back.”
“Ooh, the wing is on fire!”
“Club soda, be right back.”

I thought the food would make me feel less frightened. But it didn’t. Maybe if I stretch my legs and go to the restroom it will help.

That was the tiniest bathroom I’ve ever been in. I guess they figure since the food is so tiny, the bathrooms should be minuscule, too. I read a book once where two people had sex in an airplane bathroom. I don’t see how that’s possible. I barely had enough room to sit down. There is a lit sign in there that reads: “Return to Seat.” “Return to Cabin.” Why do they think that needs to be lit? Because we’ll relax in there for a little while? “Miss, bring my peanuts in here, please. This is
beautiful
. The water is so blue, it reminds me of the Mediterranean. I don’t ever want to leave.”

You have no concept of time when you’re in there—it’s like a casino: no windows, no clocks. I could be the only one to get up out of my seat to go to the bathroom—everybody else is sound asleep when I go—but after I’ve been in there for what I think is thirty seconds, I open the door and everyone in the plane is lined up, looking at their watches, making me feel like I’ve been in there forever.

And now I’ve got to explain the smell that was in there before I went in there. Does that ever happen to you? It’s not your fault. You’ve held your breath, you just wanna get out, and now you open the door and you have to explain, “Oh! Listen, there’s an odor in there and I didn’t do it. It’s bad. You might want to sprinkle some club soda, if you uh …”

I think my only hope of escaping my mind-numbing fear is to sleep; to sleep and perchance to dream. The only trouble is when I fall asleep on a plane, I always have a nightmare.…

I’m in a department store walking through the area with the makeup counters—then all of a sudden I’m a penguin on ice skates—Florence Henderson is cooking macaroni and cheese in my kitchen and my brother has gained 200 pounds and is being fed by three Haitian women wearing disco clothes and in the background the Bee Gees are arguing over what outfits to wear for their big comeback
.

Then I turn into myself again and Bruce Willis calls me up and asks me to go out with him and drink some wine coolers. So, we’re
sitting in an outdoor cafe in Italy called Louis’. He’s telling me his life was meaningless until I came into it. I tell him I’m not ready to make a commitment. Just then I give birth to three sets of twins: they’re nine years old, one has false teeth, two are great dancers. The rest move to South Dakota for schooling
.

Now I’m dancing with Lewis and Clark (my two children) and an iguana who’s making eyes at me (he’s not that good of a dancer). Bruce punches him in the nose. The iguana turns into Sean Penn, who knocks Bruce unconscious. Sean and I start walking, and he tells me his life has been meaningless up until he met me, then we see one of those photo booths, four for a dollar. He urges me to pose with him. So we get in and have our pictures taken. He covers his face for all of them. He asks me to keep them. He beats up the machine
.

I fly back to the States alone. The pilot announces, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we’ll be landing in ten minutes. Ellen, I just want to say my life has been meaningless until you came into it.” We land. I go to the baggage claim, and my bag comes out first. I think to myself, “Ellen, you must be dreaming—that’s impossible.…”

“Fuck, we’re going to crash!!”

False alarm. The plane just landed. I guess I’m alive. Oh well, that wasn’t so bad. But what about that dream! I don’t know what it means. I’m pretty sure it’s sexual.

Maybe it just means I shouldn’t be flying.

ellen’s new
hobby

J
OURNAL
E
NTRY

I need a hobby. Something to pass my time—a goal I can work toward. I’ve tried knitting, square dancing, social work. I need to have passion about something. Here I am, sitting at my kitchen table, staring at my pancakes and coffee, feeling the emptiness of a life with no meaning.

It’s like I’m sitting in a car but the engine is idling. I’m not even on the road—just off to the side. I see the others swoosh by me. I can recognize the shapes of the cars but not the direction they’re going. I’m alone, all alone in a car on the side of the road.

My dogs are staring at me, trying to give me hope. “You can do it, Ellen,” they say. “Get out of the house, find your path and follow your heart.” I want to find it so bad, I do. But all I can do is turn on my TV and watch
Regis and Kathie Lee
. I can answer those trivia questions. Maybe they’ll call me and put a pin in my city. I want a pin; I want to share a hot-air popcorn popper with number 35. That’s who I would pick.

I just saw a flash of a woman with dogs on the screen. She races or something; she used the word
Iditarod
. I looked it up in the dictionary, but it wasn’t there. I was so upset, I started to cry and scream, “Why—why—why?” I was pounding on the table with my closed fists. I was filled with anger—raging with fury—I was a wild stallion rearing up on its hind legs, snorting and whinnying and kicking and … Wait a minute. Hold on just a cotton-pickin’ minute. This is passion I’m feeling. This word
Iditarod
has moved me. I must find out what this
Iditarod
is and do it—I will
Iditarod
and I will win.

J
OURNAL
E
NTRY

I am beginning to feel frustrated. It is my fourth week of training for the Iditarod and I am seeing very little progress, if any at all. The big race is two months away, and I worry I won’t be ready. I already have one strike against me: My sled barely moves along the concrete-paved roads.

Having only two dogs is also not helping. Since I don’t believe in hitting, I certainly won’t strike my dogs just to make them pull me. So I encourage them strongly. “Please, let’s go, come on.” But they come toward me and get in the sled. Seems they’re conditioned to come
to
me when I speak, not away. I’ve tried dog biscuits, but as I place them down several yards ahead of the dogs, by the time I run back to get in the sled, they’ve run to get the biscuits without me in it. Also, one of my dogs is rather small so the times we do move at all, it’s in circles—the larger one sets our course off balance.

I am sweating so much in those big Eskimo clothes because of the warm California climate. I should warn others to wear a cooler version here. Ah, well, I must not give up. It’s a dream. I will race! I can’t let the neighborhood children’s silly taunts stop me. Let them laugh all they want. I will race in the Iditarod one day.

J
OURNAL
E
NTRY

I’ve given up returning phone calls. I’ve given up my so-called “normal” life. I can’t be bothered. The race is but a month away. I eat, drink, and sleep Iditarod.

I’ve begun to question aspects of my training. I had heard that carbo loading was good, but now I am not so sure. My dogs have gotten fat and lethargic. I may need to change their diet of spaghetti, potatoes, pound cake, and ice cream. Now, when I bring them to the sled, they just roll over and fall asleep. Sometimes, to my eternal shame, I do the same.

Perhaps I should quit. No, no, no!! I cannot allow a negative thought. My will cannot be broken or bent. I must continue chanting my mantra:

Icanwarod, Iwillarod, Iwinarod, Iditarod.

Icanarod, Iwillarod, Iwinarod, Iditarod. Icanarod, Iwill-arod, Iwinarod, Iditarod. If I chant loudly enough, I can barely hear the jeering from the neighborhood children. They are ignorant philistines. No matter how many times I correct them, they get it wrong. I scream to deaf, uncaring ears, “It’s pronounced
Iditarod
, not idiot!”

I have ended my quest for corporate sponsorship. The only offer came from a place called Uncle Huey’s Dry Cleaning and Donut Shop and only if I wore a vest with their motto: “If you get some jelly donut on your clothes, we’ll clean it before you’re finished with your second cup of coffee.” I have too much pride. I will not look ridiculous, so I turned them down. They can keep their $35.

J
OURNAL
E
NTRY

I do worry that I will not be ready in time to race the Iditarod after all. It is only two weeks away, and I have made little progress. The dogs sense when we are about to begin training. They watch me get dressed and know that when the big boots come out, we are headed for the sled. It’s 87°, unusually hot for this time of year. I have lost fifteen pounds just from wearing these big bundly clothes and sitting in my sled, but I must get used to the bulkiness.

I have made some progress, though. Last Thursday, Bootsie, Muffin, and I were out in the street sitting there, same as every morning—we’ve chosen to go out at 3:00
A.M
. to avoid both traffic and cruel neighborhood children. Suddenly, Bootsie and Muffin took off with a start that caught me unawares (I had dozed off). I was thrown from the sled and the dogs ran for a half a mile or so. I caught up to them and encouraged them profusely. “Good doggies,” I said. “Good dogs—two good girls.” I’m not sure, but I think they saw a squirrel or something. It’s too bad there wasn’t another squirrel to get us back home. We walked; I carried the sled. I sure hope we’ll be ready. Maybe there are squirrels in Alaska.

J
OURNAL
E
NTRY