Nature Actively Objects to Your Presence

She never bothered to tell me how drastic the temperature difference would be. If she had, I would've refused to go. 

It was the mid 1990s, and winter time still meant sub zero temperatures and snow for at least a few months out of the year. I took some vacation time and flew to Arizona to get away from the cold. I guess she forgot.

The night before my flight, I went to see Sleepy LaBeef play at The Decade in Oakland. As bars go, it was always an interesting joint. Three adjoining rooms, none of which were particularly spacious, with bars in the front and back rooms, and the stage in the middle room. Sleepy looked ginormous on that stage. At 6'6, he was anyway. 

Needless to say, I woke up with a hangover and didn't give a damn. It was a cold, gray, snowy morning. This was before 9-11, so I didn't have to arrive hours before my flight. I probably never would have made it. I clearly remember watching them de-ice the wings and thinking it was a particularly shitty day to die. 

In a few hours I would be in Arizona, not freezing. I just had to keep telling myself that.

The flight was uneventful and I landed at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport, no longer hungover, excited to see my old friend Mel, and grab a beer and a bite to eat. It was a sunny day, and to a guy who had just flown in from Pittsburgh, the 74 degree weather felt like a warm hug from Mother Nature herself. Riding into the city, I was treated to typical southwestern colors, mountains, blah blah blah.

I'm from Pittsburgh. I've seen mountains. I've seen colors. Show me something I'll remember.

Phoenix did not disappoint. Getting to spend a week with Mel, I knew it wouldn't. We could hang out in a hardware store and make it memorable, and I'm sure that at some point we have. 

My first surprise came with her apartment. Sure, I was ready for a one bedroom flat. As a musician, I could happily sleep on a couch or stretch of floor. What I wasn't expecting was a Murphy bed. Her building was made of cinder block with literally no expense for luxury additions on the inside. A main room (including the Murphy bed - which I will mention by name every chance possible), a tiny kitchen, and an even tinier bathroom. All of this plus utilities for about twice the price of the average apartment in Pittsburgh. 

Yes. I began to realize that Arizona was weird, in many ways.

Mel hadn't been able to get the entire week off, but I found ways to entertain myself. She gave me a key to the apartment, and while she was away making coin, I hoofed my way all over the Valley of the Sun. 

The first thing that struck me was the sheer whiteness of the place. A lot fewer non-white faces than I was used to, or expected. This was highly unusual to me. Even in Ohio, I was accustomed to a degree of diversity. All I saw were people who probably used SPF50 and higher. 

Yeah, I know - I'm one of them. But, I don't feel the need to be surrounded by them. Never have. Never will. 

I remember seeing one extremely attractive gal - who wasn't Caucasian - when I walked to a Circle K to grab a pack of smokes. She was Pima (or possibly Maricopa) and drop dead gorgeous. She had long thick hair, a nice, trim body, and a look on her face that told me her great-grandkids might still feel the after-effect of her anger. In short, she looked pissed off - so I politely nodded hello and got the hell out of her way. 

I like to think that shortly after,  she kicked the shit out of some two-timing dog of a man, but I have no way of knowing. I just know she looked the polar opposite of happy.

Mel and I always found something fun to do, whether going to her favorite local bar or going out to see a band. One thing I noticed everywhere we went were the same signs: NO CLOVE CIGARETTES! Occasionally, there might also be a less stern request for no pipes or cigars, but cloves were in no uncertain terms banned pretty much everywhere. And I was A-OK with this. 

I just wished that Phoenix had shared the same ferocity towards patchouli...but we can't have everything.

After a couple of days, I was really enjoying the town. I remember taking a walk one morning. It was maybe 63 degrees and seeing ladies wearing gloves and jackets,  I couldn't help but laugh to myself. They'd never survive a Pittsburgh winter. 

Then it rained.

I learned a valuable lesson: Arizona had not planned for rain. The streets flooded. The sewers just weren't built for it. The downpour didn't last long but it was enough for water to pool in parking lots, streets, yards, etc. Even the warm sun did little to hasten the drying. So, I just splashed around in it, much to the horror of the locals.

I knew that my company had a branch here, so I visited - daydreaming about a possible lateral transfer. I was thinking it might not be the worst idea. 

I was wrong.

I found out about Arizona being a 'Right to Work' state. While a transfer was possible, and the local site manager seemed eager at the mention of it, I was given the horrible news. The pay would be about half what it was in Pittsburgh, with the added bonus of double the cost of living. 

I just smiled and said something along the lines of "that's interesting" while making a mental note to hug my boss the minute I got back. 

Now, about that Murphy bed...

Yep, we both slept in it. Mel insisted, and I wasn't going to argue. She's always been a good looking woman and I'm rarely one to say no to share a bed with such. But please, get your mind out of the gutter. We didn't go there. 

People had always assumed her and I were a couple. When we met in college, we clicked immediately. To our surprise, we had grown up about 25 minutes away from each other. We got each other's jokes, shared the same taste in music (mostly) and had a lot in common in general. Honestly, we could've done a lot worse - but we were (and still are) just friends. 

We long joked about just running away to Mexico. Needless to say, she got closer than I did. 

She was living in Columbus, Ohio and got a wild hair up her keister, packed the car, and took off for Arizona. She's always been a more spontaneous type than I am (although, my diary reminds me that this isn't always the case - especially when reminded of my lost weekend, waking up on a Tuesday in a shabby hotel somewhere in Tamaulipas, wondering what happened to my socks). She learned the hard way that if you move somewhere others consider nice, people will want to visit. 

And I was one of them.

Mel and I have always been close enough to share a bed. Aside from the occasional arm across my face or knee to the kidney, there was no issue. She'd wake up early, get cleaned up, head to work, and I'd wake up later, make the bed and then close the Murphy bed into the wall. Sometimes I'd reopen it just to close it again. I really thought it was fun. 

Behind her apartment building was a canal, which fascinated me. I started taking daily walks along it. It ran behind a rather working class neighborhood, but it was drastically different than the Pittsburgh equivalent. There were a lot more chickens and roosters. The latter, I was informed by an older gent, were used for cock fighting. He alleged that one of his was a big prize-winner. He pointed out the dew claw and suggested I should come to a fight. I begged off but thanked him for the conversation. 

Then there was Mr. Horse.

He was, not surprisingly, a horse. Of course. He was clearly old and past his prime. He was kept in a small, fenced in yard. He didn't appear to be abused or neglected - just old and his usefulness probably in question. Our first meeting was due to him slowly peering over his fence, looking at me as I walked up the canal. He just stared at me. I stared at him. I put my hand up to pet him, and he seemed thrilled for the attention. This became a daily ritual for me, and very possibly both of us. I'd bring an apple or a carrot and feed it to him. I'd just pet Mr. Horse and talk to him. Nothing heavy, no current events - just asking how his day was. I doubt he understood me, but he liked the attention. One day, an old woman came out of the house and asked what I was doing to her horse.

"Just having a talk."

She wasn't sure if I was nuts, on drugs, or an animal welfare agent. It was the last time I saw her, but not the last time I saw Mr. Horse. 

I found out that the canals led out of town and eventually to paths into the desert. For a yinzer, this was big adventure. 

OK, the desert is mostly dirt and rocks - but we don't have a desert in Pittsburgh, so it was fun for me. 

I was raised with just enough common sense to not disturb any wildlife I came across. There wasn't much, unless you looked close. Spiders, scorpions, all sorts of bugs, the odd lizard. It was interesting. Once the sun started getting too warm, I'd make my way back - always remembering to stop and see Mr. Horse.

One day, as I was soaking in the pool (much to the disbelief of the residents - it was barely 80 degrees outside!) Melanie came down and suggested we drive up to Prescott to see 'this great band'! Sounded like our kinda fun, so I hopped out, toweled off, and grabbed my bag. She said it was less than a two hour drive.

What she didn't tell me was that it would likely be every bit as cold as Pittsburgh, and that maybe I should dress for it. I noticed a time and temperature sign as we left Phoenix. It was 84 degrees.

Along the way, after yelling at me for flicking a cigarette out the window, we made note of some of the unusual town names we saw along the way. Two favorites were Big/Dead Bug Creek and Bloody Basin. We joked about how fun it might be to buy a house in Dead Bug Creek just so we could tell people that's where we live.

When we arrived in Prescott, it was 22 degrees. Fahrenheit. It felt much, much colder. I was not emotionally prepared for this.

I probably would have enjoyed the town much more had it not been colder than a well-digger's ass. We stopped in a few of the legendary bars (each with their own NO CLOVE CIGARETTES signage) but the only one that stuck in my memory looked like something out of a western. I remember a giant moose head on the wall behind the bar. But this was not our destination.

We trudged a couple of blocks and around the corner to a tiny hole-in-the-wall bar. My kinda place! There was no stage. Just a bar, a few tables, and limited breathing room. One guy sitting at a table had his foot stretched out on the bar. He was polite enough to remove it so we could walk past. 

The band was good, very bluesy, with a young lady playing some very tasty slide guitar riffs. They weren't quite as memorable as the drinks.

Neither of us were in a condition to drive, so Mel's friend Bruce invited us to stay at his place. He and I had talked about guitars at the bar, so I was looking forward to seeing his collection. I wasn't prepared for any of the rest of the night.

We followed him up into the mountains to a very nice A-frame house in what I considered the middle-of-nowhere. I wasn't surprised to see patches of snow on the ground, but that doesn't mean I was thrilled to see it. On my vacation. To get away from the cold and snow.

Bruce joked that I was probably used to cold, snow, and mountains. While true, I wasn't in a mood to laugh about it. 

He later brought out his guitars. Very nice, hand-made boutique axes. Nylon stringed, perfect for classical - which I can't play well. I managed some jazzy chordal stuff. He then played a Villa-Lobos etude that he had studied. Turned out to be his big piece. He then asked if I could show him some of the jazz chords. 

We had a few more drinks, and he and Mel smoked a few bowls of what smelled like skunk ass soaked in aged cat piss. I've never been a fan of smoking weed, so I just silently gagged at the odor. 

We awoke to a fresh couple of feet of snow and a bright morning sun. The A-frame was nice and toasty and could have happily stayed right where I was - except Mel and I were almost out of cigarettes. One of us would have to go down the mountain for some - and probably head back to Phoenix. Mel wanted to go out and play in the snow - something she rarely got to do anymore. 

To my surprise, it was about 60 degrees out. I was standing there, in the snow, in shorts, a t-shirt, and a pair of Doc Martens, throwing snowballs. It bordered on surreal. There was a wide space between the pines at the back of the property, so I started throwing snowballs through there. It was suggested to me that it might start an avalanche. OOPS! OK, I threw a couple more just to test the theory. Then Bruce suggested he drive me down to get smokes. 

He drove a really cool old 1947 Chevy pickup (a half-ton 3100 for you gearheads). On the trip, he told me he worked for Coca Cola. His job was to go around changing syrup cannisters, and maintain hoses and soda fountain systems. He said it paid well and wasn't too hard. He also told me to never drink fountain soda. He told me he'd explain why when we got to the store.

The shop was just a little mountain general store with a little bit of everything you might need living up there. Basic groceries, tobacco, beer, etc. And a soda fountain. He told the proprietor he wanted to check the hoses. He then pointed out to me how dirty they were. The hoses and their connections looked more gunked-up than some old cars I'd seen. I've avoided fountain soda ever since.  

An hour or so later, Mel and I were on our way back to Phoenix. Having more than rehydrated that morning, the trip included a few rest stops along the way. In the parking lots of these rest areas were clearly marked signs warning folks to be on the lookout for rattlesnakes and other unpleasant critters. The sign in the bathroom warning of the possibility of scorpions definitely caught my attention. Honestly, it was the first warning sign of its kind I'd ever seen in a public bathroom. “There may be venomous arthropods inside the toilet and/or building” was not a warning my mind had ever conceived. I heeded the warning, looking for the spiny little things before pre-flushing. I wasn't taking chances.

I also double checked before washing my hands and using the dryer. 

Arizona was sounding less and less fun as the week moved along.

OK, I grew up with guns. Dad had an impressive collection of rifles, long guns, muskets, pistols, revolvers, etc. I got my first BB gun when I was about seven. My first rifle at twelve. Guns don't bother me. That said, I was surprised to see how many people took advantage of Arizona's open carry laws. It didn't seem to matter where we went, there were people of all ages and sexes packin' iron. Being given the right to doesn't necessarily mean one has to. Yeah yeah - self defense. But who are these people so afraid of and why? 

Not far outside of Phoenix, we stopped at a bar. Mel needed to use the restroom and I figured I'd have a beer. To my surprise, there was quite a bit of Pittsburgh Steelers memorabilia on the walls. The bar was pretty quiet, only a few people in there. Mostly older, 40s, 50s, and one older gent - maybe in his late 60s. He and I started chatting as I nursed my beer. When I told him I was from Pittsburgh, he was pleasantly surprised. He was originally from Steubenville, OH - where I grew up. I purposely neglected to mention that I knew his daughter, as that would have led to a discussion a father doesn't need to hear. 

After a solid week of Intro to Arizona 101, it was almost time to head home. Mel and I took one more trip to the desert. I wanted some good photos. She knew where to go! She wanted to show me a lake out in the desert. I didn't believe her but as we drove out through the rocks and hills, we made a turn and there it was. A huge, dark blue lake. I got a great photo - making sure to frame the shot to include some obvious bullet holes in a boulder near the road. 

Gotta love those open carry laws. Maybe the people of Arizona have simply become aware of a simple fact: nature actively objects to your presence.