Driving to Diego Pops (Human Pursuits 20/5/22)
On a Saturday night in Scottsdale Arizona: Part One
SCOTTSDALE, AZ – The desert sun hung stoically above Arizona’s Salt River Valley as Leah and I waited for Shomas to cross the pool deck and unlock the gate. It was just after 2 pm on Sunday but already a faint half moon could be seen lingering in the blue sky above the condo development where we were staying, as if the landscape was some remote outpost and not a popular destination for stags and snowbirds. Our friend Kevin’s parents had bought the unit in the Village IV development about a decade prior, and he had finally coaxed us to come pay a visit on the promise of U.S. portion sizes, soaring temperatures and poolside convos. He and his boyfriend Shomas had delivered on the first two the night before, and the third appeared to be in hand as Shomas slipped on his black slides and crossed the deck to let us into the pool. We walked back towards a set of lounge chairs that seemed well loved by the complex’s elderly residents, our sandals slapping against the hot concrete. From behind my sunglasses, I watched Kevin float listlessly on a blue floatie, his mind submerged in what would become a two day hangover.
After arriving at Sky Harbour the day before, the four of us had stopped at Fry’s Food and Drug for supplies. Green grapes, Fritos twists, limes, cocktail shaker, a citrus squeezer, plastic muddler, simple syrup, a bottle of Cointreau, a bottle of Casamigos. Kevin and Shomas had been in Arizona about a month already, working remotely, and their skin was tanned and hydrated and they looked healthy even under the harsh glow of Fry’s overhead fluorescents. We wandered the aisles and I felt a sense of alienness. Of awe standing at the capitalist alter that is the regional grocery store. I pushed the cart and thought about how, upon visiting a different grocery chain down in Texas, former Russian President Boris Yeltsin realized communism was failing the Russian people. A few months later the Berlin wall fell; a whole economic system abandoned, all because one guy was amused by pudding pops. I took some cash out of the envelope Leah and I were using to store our US dollars and paid the grocery clerk. We had bought 10 items or less but the forty-something bag boy still spread them across several plastic bags that crinkled and crackled as we carried them out to Kevin and Shomas’ Audi.
Fifteen minutes later, we arrived at the condo. Kevin gave us a quick tour, explaining that we had to keep the shades drawn so Rupert, the miniature goldendoodle, perfect size and perfect colour, wouldn’t bark as people passed by. Outside the sun shone bright and white and hot and its light sliced through the small cracks in the blinds, diffusing the room with ambient light and transforming it into a liminal space. Leah and I placed our luggage in the living room. In the kitchen Kevin started making lime margaritas. As he did, Rupert criss-crossed around the condo, carrying a dog toy that looked like a Cheeto. We clinked glasses and quickly drank the contents, the margarita’s tartness lingering on our tongues as we left to take Rupert for a walk.
When we returned, we opened a bottle of Rosé and made another batch of margaritas. We sat in the living room and talked. I was pretty buzzed but I said yes when Shomas asked if I wanted another margarita. “I’m at about an 8 out of 10,” he said as he sat down next to me. He wanted us to drink more so I downed my glass and poured a splash of Rosé into a small port glass in hopes of drinking just enough to placate him. The sun had gone down and the room’s liminal feeling had dissipated, replaced with something more comfortable and familiar. Kevin turned on the TV and switched to a cable music channel. Dance music poured out of a Bose soundbar located just above the working fireplace. We talked some more but the night lay ahead of us. Kevin and Shomas were determined to show us a good time. We ordered an Uber to Old Town Scottsdale. It was just after 8:45 pm when we stepped over the condo threshold and into the navy blue Arizona evening where a sedan sat idling on the hot asphalt of the condo parking lot.
In the backseat, Kevin and I passed a can of Sugar Free Vanilla Coke back and forth, over top of Leah, as the car raced down the highway. Our driver, a nondescript white man with a ball cap and chin strap, seemed friendly but also strange, and I wondered what it would be like to drive with him alone. I shifted in my seat and stared out the window towards the dark, inky desert where some cactus were still blooming with spring flowers. On the near horizon, Camelback Mountain stood shadowy against the moonlight.
As we raced forward, Kevin launched into a story about how he had gotten stuck in an elevator with a group of people while studying abroad in France. “It was only supposed to hold five people,” he said “But we had 13 in.” He said it had taken hours for them to get out, because it happened on a weekend, and that he had been the one trying to speak French with the operator on the emergency line. He had been worried he might have to piss in a wine bottle, he had to go that bad. “Still better than a pop can,” I said. “Seems like a good way to circumcise yourself,” said the driver from the dark of the front seat. We laughed and I gripped Leah’s thigh firmly to signal my discomfort. “Oh my god, an adult circumcision,” I said, trying to break the mounting tension in my chest. “I already had one of those,” he replied. Outside the window, the mountain stood in total shadow beneath the bleached moon. To my left, Kevin tried to steer the conversation back to elevator. “We were halfway between floors. The firefighters had to pry the doors open so we could get out,” he explained. “That sounds like something that happened on Grey’s Anatomy,” he said “Did ya’ll ever see the episode where that lady is cut in half by the elevator doors?” Kevin handed me the Vanilla Coke and I took a sip. The driver continued. “They hate America over in France,” he said. “You should have told that operator to speak American.” We laughed and I gripped Leah’s thigh even tighter and felt bad for Shomas in the front seat. Later, Leah would tell me that I kept repeating the phrase. “Speak American, speak American, speak American.”
We exited off the highway and pressed on towards Old Town. Single storey strip malls littered either side of the street, a short gully guiding us towards our final destination. Because we had ordered with an app, I guess, the driver knew we weren’t from Arizona. “Are all of you Canadian?” he asked. We told him we were. “I’ve heard stories about Canada,” he said. My inner troll clawed at my insides, digging its nails into my esophagus, scratching its way to the surface. “What stories have you heard?” I asked with a smirk. He thought for a second. “I’ve heard your beer is 70 bucks a bottle,” he said “And you’ve got free health care.” We all kept talking and I gripped Leah’s leg tighter and tighter. The car pulled off the street and into the parking lot. We opened the doors and exited the vehicle, thanking the man profusely, the ick silently dripping off us. With a jolt the sedan pulled out and back into the murky evening, soaring down the highway like a silent bird of prey. Beyond the curbing, Diego Pops, the Mexican restaurant, stood gleaming like a hazy desert jewel underneath the soft street lights and the palm trees of Old Town; a mirage beckoning us towards the sweet release of temporary annihilation.
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