Flat Spin by David Freed Read Free Book Online Page B

control an intellectually challenged cat. How could I possibly be expected to arm wrestle possums?
    Grassroots Environmental group looking for organizers to help save endangered forests. Yeah, right. Let’s cut down a bunch of trees and grind them into newsprint so we can get the word out about saving the ecosystem.
    Couple seeking private chef to prepare fresh, organic meals 3 to 5 nights per week . Forget it. I’m a cook whose idea of an oven timer is a smoke detector.
    After three minutes of scanning the want ads, I concluded that there were no jobs to be found in the greater Rancho Bonita area that required my skills, such as they were. I refolded the newspaper, quietly propped it against Mrs. Schmulowitz’s door, and walked back to the garage.
    Kiddiot was lounging out on top of the pink refrigerator like the Great Sphinx of Giza. The tip of his tail swayed back and forth, over the edge of the freezer. His eyes were closed, but I knew he was only pretending to be asleep, the way cats do.
    I washed the day-old “Savory Turkey Platter” out of his bowl, of which he hadn’t eaten a bite, and replaced it with a fresh can of “Tender Ocean Whitefish and Tuna in Delectable Juices.” I set the food bowl down on the floor near the kitchen sink and waited for him to make his move. He got up, took his time stretching, and hopped onto the sink, then down, onto the floor. He approached his food bowl warily, like it was hiding an improvised explosive device. He sniffed the bowl from a foot away, flicked his tail a couple of times, leaped back on top of the counter, then up onto the refrigerator.
    A wise man said once that the purpose of cats is to remind man that not everything in life has a purpose. He was wrong, at least so far as Kiddiot was concerned. Kiddiot’s purpose was to remind me that friends and wives may come and go, but furry, antisocial mooches never leave.
    “Anybody ever tell you you’re less than worthless?”
    Kiddiot bathed himself with his tongue and ignored me like some sort of lesser life form. I turned on the TV and dialed in Animal Planet so he could watch his favorite shows, grabbed my blue, sweat-stained Air Force Academy ball cap off a hook on the back of the door, and drove to the airport.

    E l Molino is up the coast and inland from Rancho Bonita. As the crow flies, it’s about 115 miles. As a Cessna 172 flies, depending on winds aloft, the trip normally takes about an hour—the operative word being “normally.” That morning, the winds came screaming out of the north, bucking my little airplane all over the sky, while reducing my ground speed at times to less than fifty knots. On Highway 101, 6,500 feet beneath the Duck ’s wings, I watched cars passing me like I was standing still.
    Bumpy air and pathetic ground speed aside, the extra time gave me an opportunity to think. I’d had a restless night, what with the heat and Savannah’s unexpected intrusion in my life. The wee hours had been spent sweating atop the sheets and staring up at the ceiling, with memories of her coursing through my head, the soundtrack of my insomnia, an old Bob Dylan tune about switching off your emotions to cope with the loss of that special someone forever embedded on your brain.
    The Buddha teaches that suffering is the essence of life, that desire is the root cause of that suffering. Get rid of that which you desire and you get rid of the suffering. Easy. And yet, as I fought the wind on my way toward El Molino that morning, I realized my desire for Savannah had never left me. I’d just learned to turn it off.
    The coastal mountains north of Rancho Bonita gave way to the Agua Caliente Valley, a loose patchwork of gentle hills studded with stands of oaks and vineyards. After about fifteen minutes, Rancho Bonita Departure handed me off to Oakland Center, followed by several minutes of silence on the airwaves. I checked in to make sure the Duck ’s radios were still working.
    “Oakland Center, Cessna Four