When morning arrives, I depart the hotel and make my way back to the interstate. Right as I merge onto I-5 on my way out of Eugene, I see a shooting range off the highway, with a billboard towering above it asking, “Do you have defensible space around your home?”
I’m briefly horrified by this development. What little I saw of Eugene seemed mostly harmless, even if a friend who grew up here described it as “the meth capital of Oregon” a few months ago1. Is semi-rural Oregon taking the War on Drugs too literally?
A second glance at the sign reveals it refers to fighting forest fires, not people. Someone needs to work on their sign placement.
Now seems like as good a time as any to answer one of the questions I’ve failed to address so far: How I did I get here? How did I get from America’s east coast to its west in just 20 years?
Short answer: airplanes.
The longer answer is that, after my father’s murder, my mom found herself in a situation that she never anticipated: At 33 years old, she was suddenly a widowed single mother of two. Instead of my father’s steady and comfortable paycheck, we survived off of a cocktail of Social Security, life insurance, and Worker’s Compensation.
My father wound up on Pan Am 103 through dumb luck. As the president of the New Jersey branch of Prosys Tech, a software company based in England, he flew there for business all the time, but never on Pan Am. Since we lived in New Jersey, Continental’s Newark hub was far more convenient than Pan Am’s hub at JFK, but during that particular trip, he received a phone call from the New Jersey office saying they needed him back earlier than expected for an important meeting.
He changed flights, and never made it back at all.
As I remember hearing the story, my mom was cleaning the house on the afternoon of the 21st when she felt an odd compulsion to turn on the TV and saw the news that Pan Am 103 had gone down. My dad had alerted her that his plans had changed and given her the new information, but she had no way to know if he had made the new flight. For all she knew, he could have missed it. Maybe the meeting was cancelled and he switched back to the first flight, maybe his taxi got in a minor accident on the way to the airport, or maybe he had been hit by a car and was safely in the intensive care unit of a London hospital.
Since my sister was playing at a friend’s house and I was at school, my mom decided to wait until she got confirmation from an official source before she told us. She didn’t want to deliver such horrible news if it turned out to be untrue, so she told me the next morning2.
In the months after my dad’s death, my mom decided the new math wouldn’t work in New Jersey. While a family friend looked over our finances and assured her that we would be as fine as anyone can be in such a situation, my mom felt it would be better for us to move to her hometown of Memphis, where her parents and younger sister lived.
To say I was less than happy when I was told the news would be an understatement. The sentence “I will never be from Memphis!” might have been yelled, and I may have taken an oath to never utilize a particular colloquial contraction which is somewhat synonymous with the South. To this day, I still haven’t.
I had no say in the decision, of course. The summer after my father’s life ended, we began anew in a suburb of Memphis called Germantown, where, for a while, our lives seemed to normalize. My mom joined the class-action lawsuit against Pan Am for wrongful death, but told us nothing of the fact for years. In fact, I didn’t know that there was a lawsuit until the day before my 11th birthday, when my mom mentioned that Pan Am had appealed to the Supreme Court, and, if the Supreme Court refused to hear their appeal, we would finally receive some money.
My two birthday wishes that year were 1) a Super Nintendo, and 2) for the Supreme Court to reject Pan Am’s appeal. That night, I finally got a Super Nintendo, and it was the first time I’d ever felt like maybe this would all work out. My life was never quite the same again.
Again.
Less than an hour into my drive for the day, I spot a highway sign announcing the next exit is for a town called Scott’s Valley. I’m amused and tempted to investigate, or at least pull over and take a picture, but mostly, I’m reminded of my childhood. When I raged at the idea of leaving New Jersey, my mom promised that we would go back to visit every couple of years, and she fulfilled her end of the bargain. When I was in second grade, she purchased a custom Chevy mini-van with a TV built in3 and when the school year ended, we packed up the van and set off on what would be known as the first of our Month-Long Trips.
Our route took us from Memphis to Washington, D.C., then up to Morristown, Boston, and ultimately Portland, Maine, where my great aunt lived. Both of my father’s parents, Simon and Ethel, passed away before I was born, but Aunt Edie was like a grandmother, teaching me card tricks and baking cookies and, she probably thought, spoiling me rotten with $1 per night during Hanukkah.
We only went on two true Month-Long Trips. When the third was due in the summer of 1995, my mom decided it would be easier for her if we flew up and rented a car instead of driving the whole way. As such, the third Month-Long Trip lasted only two weeks4, and there was never a fourth.
A tradition developed on these trips: If we found a town that included one of our names in its own, we would stop there. My mom, Meryl, never got a town, and I can’t remember any Scotts, either. In fact, this “tradition” centered mainly on the fact that my sister shared her name with a town in New Jersey. On each of these trips, we would stop at a particular McDonald’s in Elizabeth for lunch.
As I think of this, I speed past the exit for Scott’s Valley, too late to investigate. I don’t mind in the least. While its name contains my own, I lay no claim to it. For now, the road is mine.
With California rapidly approaching, I stop in Medford, Oregon for gas. Yesterday, I learned that Oregon is one of two states in the country—New Jersey being the other—where it’s illegal to pump your own gas. As the attendant fills my car and cleans bugs off its windshield, he cordially asks why the convertible’s top isn’t down on such a beautiful day. I reply that I’m on a road trip, and the next stage, through the mountains on the border, will likely be too cold.
Before returning to the road, I swap the CD changer to Bruce Springsteen’s Born to Run, the iconic album by one of the few artists I know my father enjoyed. Somehow, I have never listened to this album in the car before, but before I’ve made it even two songs in, I already know I’ve been seriously missing out. An engineer like my father would explain that my car is propelled forward by a series of explosions fueled by the gasoline in my car’s engine, but it feels as though I’m being willed onward by the mighty power of the E Street Band.
My car, a silver 2004 Chrysler Sebring, will never be mistaken for cool5, and that was part of its appeal when I bought it. At the time, I felt pretty strongly that I wanted a convertible, and strongly considered a Mustang, but the Ford’s smaller interior, worse mileage and premium gas requirement turned me off. I also gave a lot of thought to getting a Prius, convertible be damned, but there was a six-month waiting list, so I defaulted to the Sebring.
My friends chastised me for the decision, pointing out that for what I spent, I could have bought a far cooler car, like a used BMW or Mercedes. I said that I knew, but I didn’t want to have my first real car be a cool one. I wanted to leave myself something to aspire to.
I’ve never been cool, but in at least one case, my near-painful dorkiness paid off royally. My many geeky tendencies led me to Seattle for the first time.
While I don’t know when exactly we received our settlement from Pan Am, nor how much it was worth6, I do know it was before December 1995. That month, after six years of off-brand board games and gift certificates to used video game stores7, my sister and I were stunned to unwrap matching CD player boomboxes on the first night of Hanukkah. At the time, we didn’t realize it had anything to do with our father’s death. We thought our mom had finally stopped being cheap.
In those days, my sister and I were in different school systems, thanks to a quirk in the area’s public schools. As a result, we had different spring breaks, and my mom had wrongful death money burning a hole in her pocket, so she decided to take us on separate vacations, anywhere in the continental United States we wanted to go.
My sister chose New York, because she’s always loved the museums and musicals and metropolitan feel of the city. I loved New York as well, but felt called to go elsewhere.
By 1996, it seemed like everything I loved had something to do with Seattle: It was the American headquarters of Nintendo; the world headquarters of Wizards of the Coast, the company behind Magic: the Gathering; and Pike Place Market had even appeared in an X-Men comic book when a character visited the city. It was really no decision at all.
Upon arriving, we discovered we visited at a perfect time—the mountains still had enough snow for us to ski one day, while the weather in the city was nice enough for us to wander and see the sights. We didn’t make it out to Nintendo, and Wizards of the Coast didn’t offer tours, but I loved the trip nonetheless.
The next two years, I returned to attend a week-long camp. We stayed in the University of Washington’s dorms, and I enjoyed those stays enough that, when I began to consider colleges, the UW was at the top of my list. The school accepted me, and in August of 2001, I moved to Seattle to start college8.
I’ve yet to make a better decision in life.
Sacramento confuses me the minute I leave the highway in search of a hotel. Signs on the road suggested the city’s NBA arena should be right here, but I see nothing of the sort. The off-ramp leads me straight into an area which looks like a suburb that sprung up some time in the previous two years, all fresh and new and orderly.
I stop at the first hotel I see, which seems brand-new as well. At least, that’s the impression I get as I glance around the lobby, waiting to be helped. In front of me, a man tries to pay for his room in cash, but gets stymied when the desk agent tells him she needs a credit card for incidentals. None of his cards work for some unknown reason—the agent tries several, which all fail, before the man walks off mumbling. I have no such problem with my American Express, a card I feel ridiculous even owning.
Our family’s settlement from Pan Am was structured such that my mom got a lump sum immediately, but the judge made her set aside money for my sister and me. My mom was presented with a few options, and settled upon one where we would each receive annual payments on our 18th through 24th birthdays, with the remainder coming on our 25th. The idea was that it would pay for college and grad school, if we wanted. If my mom had gotten her way, we would have received the last payment at 35 instead.
Several months ago, I received my final payment from the Pan Am settlement, and I went about trying to invest it. Since all the markets were in free-fall at the time, I discussed the situation with my mom and we agreed that the best route would probably be to invest in short-term CDs and reassess when they matured.
One day last December, I went into the bank around the corner from my condo and asked the bank manager what their CD rates were. He inquired how much I was thinking about investing, I replied with a number that was a fraction of what I had, and he, with eyes suddenly wide open, informed me that said amount qualified me for Premier Banking.
I have never enjoyed this sort of moment.
For the first couple of years that I received the settlement money, the checks went to my mother’s house, and she deposited them on my behalf. The third year, though, she decided to overnight me the check instead, and I took the bus to the investment center downtown in my then-trademark cargo pants and dark-colored t-shirt9. I wore my headphones and sunglasses when I entered, but I removed them promptly, just in time to be halfheartedly greeted by the man behind the counter, who was helping another customer.
“Deposit?” he asked, unwilling to waste any more syllables on me than strictly necessary.
I nodded.
“You can use the machine over there,” he waved me towards a kiosk near the door, a gesture simultaneously informative and dismissive.
“I’d really rather have this handled by a person,” I replied, in what amounted to an understatement. In my hand was a $40,000 check meant to sustain my final year of college tuition, rent, and ultimately, part of a car purchase. So, I grabbed a seat and waited.
After the man finished with the customer, he looked at me with clear condescension in his eyes. “Now, how can I help you?” he inquired with the bare minimum of courtesy.
“I need to deposit this,” I answered, sliding the check across the counter to him.
Immediately, everything about his treatment of me changed.
“Well, Mr. Rosen, I can certainly do that for you today,” he replied with a smile. The instant he saw the value on the check, I transformed from a kid not worth his attention to “Mr. Rosen” in less time than it would take to read the dollar amount involved aloud.
At the end of the transaction, he made a point of giving me his business card, as well as that of one of his associates, whom he said could provide any advice I might need in handling the money, even after I mentioned I was already being advised on the subject. I left angry, and have felt the same every time I’ve been treated that way since.
Which has pretty much been an annual occurrence.
When the manager at my local bank announced I—an unemployed twentysomething—qualified for Premier Banking, I felt the urge to walk away on principle, but instead of showing my indignation, I meekly followed the man to his desk and listened while he left a voicemail for the Premier Banking people with my information.
Days later, I sat in a downtown office and provided my financial outlay to a couple of strangers in suits. Over the next few weeks, they ran projections and drew up portfolios on how my money could achieve optimal growth.
I hated every minute of it10.
A few weeks later, one Wednesday morning at 9:30, when I was trying to sleep in, I woke to a call from one of the besuited strangers, who told me about an American Express credit card that she thought would be perfect for me. I was only half-awake as she explained the benefits, but I agreed to get the card. A few days later, I logged into my online banking account to discover the card had a $25,000 limit.
Less than five years ago, I was declined by every credit card I applied for, and now, Premier Banking is offering me cards with high enough limits to buy a new car.
Which is fucking crazy.
I don’t feel I’ve earned this AmEx, this card that I just handed to the front desk agent of a suburban Sacramento hotel. She doesn’t know this, though. What she does know is that my room is on the second floor and to the right.
After a quick food run, I settle into my room and mindlessly channel-surf on the flat-screen TV. Eventually, I stumble upon a White Sox-Red Sox game on ESPN Classic, and try to discern when the game was played and why it’s showing on a channel that plays only the best games from throughout history. Alex Gonzalez’s presence at shortstop for the BoSox places the game in 2006, and the score sits at 3-2 in the 8th inning of what appears to be an unremarkable contest. With the benefit of hindsight, I know that neither of these teams even made the playoffs that year—starting in late July, the Red Sox suffered a stunning series of injuries, which caused an August collapse highlighted (or lowlighted) by promising rookie pitcher Jon Lester being diagnosed with lymphoma.
I have no idea why this game is on ESPN Classic. I have no idea why I’m watching, given that I could hop on my computer and find out everything about this contest in roughly thirty seconds, but I keep watching anyway. During commercials, I flip channels, but every time, I switch back to the game. In the 9th inning, the White Sox tie it up on a Jermaine Dye home run, and I keep watching until the 11th, at which point I change into my running clothes and head downstairs to the hotel’s exercise room.
I don’t do this sort of thing.
A few years ago, I joined my neighborhood gym and paid for three months in advance under the theory that if it was already paid for, I would have to use it; I went three times. I’m not in bad shape, thanks to the walkable neighborhood in which I live, but I’m not in good shape either. But I know I’m going to be on the road the next few weeks, and I know that’s going to mean fast food, and I know I should probably do something about that. So, exercise.
I’m not in the best shape, but I take some solace in knowing that I’m closer to fit than my father was at my age. Until a year or so before he met my mother, he was obese enough that, during a routine doctor’s visit, he was warned that unless he lost a lot of weight, he would end up with adult onset diabetes like his father.
He responded to this by losing 80 pounds from his 5’7″ frame.
I have neither the aspiration nor the need to lose that much weight, but I wouldn’t mind being trimmer, or at the very least, being able to walk home from downtown without sweating profusely. Making some attempt to eat healthy on this trip would be a good first step there, but I’m willing to indulge my vices as long as I indulge in hotel gyms as well.
With a podcast on my iPhone and brand new running shoes on my feet, I climb onto the elliptical machine and begin flailing. I’ve always been self-conscious about the sheer silliness of this sort of thing, but tonight, I do it anyway. I’m alone in here, and even if someone was watching me, I would never see them again. Tomorrow’s another town.
After half an hour, I stumble back to my room and take a shower. Once I’ve dried off and changed back into my non-running clothes, I turn the TV back on to discover that the Sox-Sox game is still going, well into the 16th inning. Both teams have scored two more runs, leaving the score knotted at 5-5, and I watch until the White Sox finally win it with one out in the 19th.
I take no sorrow from the Red Sox defeat. The past is the past. The only question that lingers is why I chose to dwell on it to begin with.
- I mentioned this in my Facebook status upon arriving in Eugene, and the same friend leapt to her hometown’s defense, denying she ever said the above quote, while saying that if she had, it was probably about Springfield. In her defense, we were drinking at the time.
- As a result, I assumed that my dad had been killed overnight. For years, I thought he had died in the early hours of December 22, not December 21.
- This was the first and only time to date when my mom has ever been ahead of the curve technologically.
- Which makes it the spiritual opposite of Gilligan’s three-hour tour providing roughly 49 hours of TV.
- In fact, Michael Scott, as played by Steve Carell on The Office, drove one with an identical exterior in the early seasons of that show for precisely this reason.
- My mom has told my sister and I that we won’t know until we go through her records after she dies. My best guess is mostly informed by knowing that she has an opinion on the federal estate tax.
- I spent four years begging for the aforementioned Super Nintendo before receiving it. Even so, it was a special bundle which came with a single game, on sale, and my aunt bought the second controller.
- Oddly enough, the cities my sister and I chose for those vacations were the same cities where we (at least initially) went away to college.
- Likely from a Hard Rock Café. I have no excuse for this.
- I fully acknowledge that I have stupid problems.