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Message: <blockquote data-quote="hafrogman" data-source="post: 4609694" data-attributes="member: 8858">Warsaw, Poland"Why am I doing this, again, mother?"Michael spun and twisted in a vain attempt to follow his mother through the house as she stretched herself through half a dozen rooms, packing, feeding the  cat, checking her computer and writing a note for the housekeeper, all at pretty much the same time.  Not watching where he was going he slammed his face into a low door frame with a quiet thud.  His spine bent back 90° at his waist, and with a sigh, he continued to walk that way through the hallway until he finally cornered her in the entrance hall.  Standing up straight in with the vaulted ceiling, he stood in between her and the front door."Well?"The diminutive woman looked up at her son and smiled brightly, oblivious to his frustration."You said you would.  The Republic needs you.  And because your father and I won't be paying your rent this semester.  So it's go, get a job, or move back in with your parents."Her smile takes on a slightly harder edge as her last barb hits home, stunning her son slightly.  She takes advantage of the situation to stretch upwards and kiss Michael on the forehead (How many women can do that?) even as she reaches around his back and opens up the front door.  Halfway out the door she twists her neck back even as she continues walking to the waiting car."Oh, honey, a cyborg-zombie Stalin is causing trouble just over the border.  Your father and I will be busy for a few days. . . and then we're thinking of taking some vacation down in the Mediterranean.  But we'll call you in a couple of weeks to check up.  Bye!"---------------------------------------------------------Somewhere over the ArcticThe next day, Michael found himself sitting on a crate, in the belly of a cargo plane that looked like it hadn't flown since the Soviet days, winging his way towards America.  "We've arranged air travel, accommodating to your special needs", the packet had said.  Michael had assumed they had gotten him a first-class seat, as there was no way he would fit in coach.  But no, that would have been far too expensive.  Far better to dig up this rusty relic and see if they couldn't get it airborne.There weren't even any windows to glare out of.  Alone, in the dark, Michael sighed to himself and tried to find a corner to get some sleep.---------------------------------------------------------Jacqueline Cochran Regional Airport"You've GOT to be kidding me."The taxi driver was waiting dutifully for Michael, holding up a sign, painstakingly labeled,"<s>Str</s><s>Styz</s><s>Styrzw</s>Styrzkwalski"The man glanced at the form lumbering towards him, then back at his economy sized vehicle.  Then back at Michael.  Shaking his head, he threw the sign in the nearest trash bin."You're on your own, mate.  Salton City is that way, take the 86 south."Then he drove off, leaving Michael puzzled and alone, standing outside the airport.  With one lingering glance back at the airport, he sighed heavily, shouldered his bag, and set off walking beside the highway.  He considered trying to hitchhike, but most cars veered away from him, and he thought he heard one or two accidents behind him.After about ten miles, one bored man driving a pickup did finally stop, and offered him a lift, in the bed, for a nominal fee.  Still, it meant it was barely past midnight, Monday morning when Michael reached the Desert Flower Inn Motel.  A harried looking night clerk checked him in while clutching a phone to his ear, barely registering his existence, let alone his appearance."Yes, ma'am.  I know.  We think it's a problem with the air conditioning system, we're having someone look into it.  We'll send up some extra blankets for now.  No, I don't know when it will be fixed."Eventually, Michael made his way to his room for the night, what was left of it, looked askance at the tiny bed, and tried to curl up as best he could to get some sleep.-----------------------------------------------Benny's Road HouseThe entrance swings open, as a man ducks low to make it through the door.  Then he straightens and stands up, and up, and up.  Michael tries to strike a dramatic pose as possible, and casts his gaze around the room.  He takes a purposeful stride forward. . . right into a ceiling fan, which stops and complains until Michael removes his head from its path.  All semblance of confidence (and competence) lost, Michael ducks embarrassingly lower, as he walks towards the bar."Sorry about the fan.  I'm looking for Emily."</blockquote>

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