Friday
HUGE Breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, fruit, biscuits, OJ, coffee … it goes on and on. Then we walk down to the ocean. Tommy Gilbert quickly finds a stick. He has a knack for finding the perfect walking stick. Trains is sweating so much we’re scared he’s going to pass out.
Back at Guy’s house, gear gets packed up into the Suburban and we all go to El Capitan State Park, a rocky beach area that juts out into the pacific. We claim a picnic table and a grill, put out the beach chairs and we are good for hours, throwing rocks, watching the surfers and the gulls and the dolphins and the seals and the pelicans. Francesca cooks up the leftover sausage along with potatoes and chips and fruit. There is beer. In the middle of all, a rocket is launched from Vandenberg AF Base.
Group 9
If you’re flying American Airlines and you’re in Group 9, good luck. Group 9 is last at everything. Last to chose seats. Last to board. Banned from using the overhead compartments. Carryons any larger than a cell phone must be checked. Sometimes you’re called on to check the pressure of the plane’s tires, or help load luggage with the baggage handlers, or help the flight attendants with beverage service. People look at you with pity in their eyes, or even worse, disdain. (When Jack tells the attendant scanning our boarding passes that we, Group 9, are the Rodney Dangerfields of the passenger list, she suppresses a smile. A smile that says, “Move along, losers.”)
Clearly David bought tickets no one else would buy, because it appears there is no one else in Group 9 on any of our flights. Way to go, David.
Somewhere over these three days, during one of our many discussions concerning the shame and lack of respect of being a part of Group 9, there is a shift. We embrace the label. Being a member of Group 9 becomes a badge of honor. We concentrate on all the good things about Group 9.
(I’m still thinking….) Okay, it turns out the only good thing about Group 9 is that we’re in it.
We’re back to Guy’s house from the beach by around 4 o’clock, where we settle in for another night of food on the patio (this time pasta) and drinks and talking around the fire. There is a discussion about farts. Guy’s friend Jim and his wife Nancy stop by for five minutes to meet us Bozos. Stories. Laughter. Then, for torture, we gather to watch the Super 8 epic, The Return of Joe Beninski. Life is good.
