Sometimes the trip takes you

I should’ve had a bad day. Woke up to a very bad day but Woody knew I was awake. He’d been staring at me for seconds or hours, waiting for me to open my eyes. Hard to fake sleep in front of a dog who absolutely loses his shit in celebration every time you wake up. So he got his breakfast, then his walk—the order he prefers, usually. And I walked across the street for a coffee as he went back to sleep.

I won’t get into why it was supposed to be a bad day. It’s too long or too ridiculous. I’d been worried about the book, the shape of it, the narrative. I’d been worried about a lot of things. But I figured I’d stick to the plan. Then the plan went to shit.

I came to Monterey because it was a place where a thing happened, one of those things that change a trajectory of a life. I was last here when I was 19. I was assaulted. It’s in the book. We don’t need to relive it. That’s not why I came. I came to remember something else about Monterey. Anything else.

Then it looked like I’d have to leave to avoid adding another shit memory to the place. Which would be a shame, I thought, once I drove into town. It’s a really goddamn beautiful town.

I realize I’m being cryptic. I don’t mean to be. This isn’t a—you have to wait for the book. I mean you do. But I don’t want to tell a story I don’t yet know. And that story doesn’t matter for this story, not really.

What I know is I got a hotel in seaside, to avoid a person place or thing in Monterey. One of those hotels named sand dollar or sand piper or sand blaster. The usual seaside hotels. And in the morning, to avoid Monterey, I drove down to Big Sur. Fuck it. I can’t be in Monterey, can’t do what I’m here for, might as well show Woody some cool ass beaches.

When I was here last, I remember someone telling me they were going down to Big Sur, and I said, “the waterbed place?” That’s how long ago it was.

But it’s a town where Henry Miller lived for a time and there’s something like a museum in his old house.

I wasn’t expecting much of the museum. It was closed on my way down and I figured well, shit. Nothing’s going to go right huh? Fine. Let’s go to another beach. But it was open on the way back up HWY 1. I pulled over. It’s a weird damn place. This is in the front yard.

The lawn is art gallery and the main house is a bookshop. So I bought a few books. This guy behind me asked if Woody was a Miller fan and I said no, he’s something of a philistine. We walked back out to sniff sequoias. And the guy, now rolling a cigarette asked if I didn’t worry if I was committing rhetorical abuse by calling my dog a philistine. I said he’s called me worse (I’m sure of it.)

Then Woody flopped down and rested his head on the guy’s boot. Traitor.

The guy asked if I was from around here. I sort of explained about the book. (Still haven’t figured out how to phrase it. Downplay it? Just like, sort of a book. I guess. Mention that I’m not entirely full of shit; I do have a book deal?)

He said he’d heard me on NPR and introduced himself. Michael and his daughter, who asked if she could kidnap Woody, live in Arizona. But Michael’s from this area. And he asked if I wanted to hear a Steinbeck story. Because Michael’s parents were friends with the goddamn Steinbecks. I mean the guy I met at the Henry Miller museum knew John Steinbeck, whose book I’m supposed to be ripping off.

So Michael told me stories and his daughter played with Woody. He’s one of those fascinating guys with an encyclopedic knowledge of old movies and older books who can actually tell a story and has lived more than a few. We tried to go to lunch together but it wasn’t meant to be. The restaurant didn’t allow dogs on the patio. So we hugged goodbye and I drove back to Seaside.

Then I turned around and took my ass to Monterey. Parked down by the coast guard pier. Walked around old fisherman’s wharf. Let a hustler/maitre d convince me to eat at a tourist trap because “we have a dog menu.” (Woody ordered the sirloin burger.) Walked down to the beach where airmen like me used to drink on Friday nights and set Woody loose to run and splash in the surf. When he’d had his fun, he flopped across my boots for a nap and I watched the otters and seals fish.

Because I did remember a thing or two about Monterey. This is where I started reading Steinbeck and Miller. It’s where the seals kept us up summer nights barking at god knows what. It’s where I learned to surf, badly. Find sand dollars. Cook calamari.

That was the bay where I once went sailing with some dumbass airman who bought a piece of shit hobie cat that lost its rudder a half mile out and we had to swim to shore, convinced each bump against our legs was a shark. Probably was. Those were the rocks where I used to read when I should’ve been studying. That was the bar that didn’t ID where an old English guy taught me how to play darts.

I remembered I used to really love this town. I still do. Just had to go to Big Sur to be reminded why.

I keep forgetting while I’m making plans that this—follow Woody— was always the plan. When it all goes to shit, do something for him, and maybe it’ll work out alright for me too. It’s a good plan.