Phoenix, 2001

Note: this is part of a series of memoir-reflections I’m putting together of places I’ve lived or spent time over the course of my life. This is not just an exercise in storytelling, but a practical means to retain these experiences, as I’ve noticed that my memories of many things are fading now as I age, the details worn down like the face of an old coin, and I want to capture them before they’re lost.

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In the dwindling light of a Flagstaff summer evening, I made my way through the interchange to I-17 South. The San Francisco Peaks stood tall and dark against the sunset, the distance between the beat-up, midnight blue Pontiac 6000 Safari station wagon and the foothills covered by an expanse of long grass, studded with gently swaying wildflowers.

My brother Matt was riding shotgun. Our friend Theresa, whom we’d picked up along the way, sat in the back, carefully avoiding an accidental kick to the 3-foot length of 2x6 lumber that was wedged there, keeping my driver’s seat from falling straight back.

We were Phoenix bound.

Matt and I had begun the road trip several days earlier, clocking a marathon session with the audiobook of Frank Herbert’s Dune. We’d driven from Kirkwood, New York, to St. Louis, Missouri, in one go. About 14 hours, not counting the stops.

From there, we’d made our way to Kansas City, then on to Denver, where we’d stayed with some other friends, before cutting south near the Utah border through Moab and the Canyonlands. There, amidst the red rocks carved out by the mighty Colorado, we camped for the night on the banks of that river, which sustains so much life throughout the desert Southwest.

For the life of me, I do not remember where I got the tent. Probably swiped it from my parents. I was never much of one for camping, because I like bathrooms and comfortable beds, but it was a beautiful spot, and waking up in the fresh, clean air was invigorating. We grabbed some photos by the red rocks and headed for the Arizona border.

Flagstaff, in those days, wasn’t much to look at. Not nearly the bustling ski town it has since become, with its quaint downtown and its boutique coffee shops and art galleries and restaurants. But it had trees, and lots of them, which was the last time we were going to be seeing any of those for a while.

The drive into Phoenix was strange. We left Flagstaff at sundown, while the temperature was dipping into the high 70s. But as we made our way South, the sky growing darker with every passing mile, the heat kept going up. We were dropping in altitude, moving from pine forest to high desert as we drove. I had the windows down, and every time we passed through a cliff face carved out for the highway, we could feel the heat radiating off the rocks. It was like driving past an endless series of space heaters blasting away on the side of the road.

By the time we reached Phoenix, it was midnight, but the thermometer had climbed to over a hundred degrees. It was early June, and the Sonoran desert was doing its thing. I turned the car into the apartment complex and punched in the gate code. I’d never been there before, but my buddies from school who had rented the place had it all set up. Well, as much as a bunch of 20-something dudes fresh out of college tend to set anything up.

The apartment was spartan: a single office chair and a TV on a small stand in the living room, a small kitchen table and chairs, and not much else. The boys who were already living there had a bunk bed set up in their room. I wouldn’t get a bed of any kind for days. The aesthetic was definitely “bro-coded,” if such Gen-Z terminology had existed in 2001. It just was what it was, and none of us had a problem with it. Eddie, one of the guys I’d lived with during my senior year of college, was there to greet us. His brothers John and Danny would be rooming with him in the master suite. My buddy Tony, Theresa’s cousin, another one of our housemates from university back in Ohio, was due the next day, and he and I would be sharing the other room. A third bedroom was set up to be converted into an office for those of us with computers.

Matt, Theresa, and I changed into our swimsuits and headed to the community pool. It was late, and the gate was locked, so we climbed the fence. The glow of the underwater lights, the palm trees overhead, and the heat of the night air all told us we weren’t in Kansas City anymore. Or New York, for that matter. Matt and Theresa would both be flying home in a few days, but this was going to be my new home for the foreseeable future.

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I hadn’t intended to go to Phoenix. Never had any interest whatsoever. I was a sci-fi-loving computer nerd who read cyberpunk novels and got into anime during my college years, and my plan had been to go teach English in Japan so I had an excuse to visit and explore a country that had held my fascination for years. I was worried to go to a place so foreign alone, however, not just because it was unfamiliar, but because I was a good little altar boy, but girl crazy. I thought Asian women were exotic and beautiful, and I didn’t want to go into the heart of darkness without a wingman to help keep me grounded and away from needless temptation. So I’d convinced Tony to apply with me for the job. He planned on being a teacher, so I figured he’d be a shoe-in.

The night before our interview with the tutoring company, there was a talent show on campus. We’d signed up to do a lip sync contest with roommates and friends, and I’d had the idea to have our group of big, rowdy guys — most of them rugby or football players — perform a ridiculously girly song. I’d proposed Jewell’s “I’m Sensitive,” and the guys had groaned, but laughed, knowing it was too funny not to do. But it was a bit nerve wracking, and we’d all started drinking hours before the performance. Tony had gotten a bit ahead of us, and had had misplaced his legs somewhere outside the J.C. Williams center. He was way too soused to perform, so we got someone to take him home and took our places on the stage. The performance was a hit, because it was utterly absurd. And yeah, I have the receipts:

Somehow, for reasons I will never understand, we didn’t win.

Poor Tony had ended up having a rough night, but somehow, against all odds, he was up early, and dragged me, slightly hungover myself, out of bed. We made coffee and jumped in the car, and headed to Pittsburgh for the interview. The address was a high rise with a granite facade and brass-plated glass doors inlaid in the lobby, polished until they looked like gold. We made our way up to the 12th floor, and headed to the conference room. It was a cold, gray, drizzly day, but we still enjoyed the view from the large windows lining the suite. They had a tray with large pastries, and we helped ourselves — a bit more eagerly than we should have — and sat down for the presentation.

I don’t remember a single thing from that meeting. I know that we, along with some other candidates, sat at a large conference table and listened to them give us the rundown about the program. We then separated for individual interviews, where I started to feel imposter syndrome creep in. I wasn’t a teacher. I didn’t even particularly want to teach. I just wanted to travel. But I did my best to act the part, and a month or so later, as we were preparing for finals and starting to get ready for graduation, we got our letters from the company.

I was offered the job.

I was excited. This was actually happening. I’d traveled much of the US, Canada, and Mexico, and made my way through 11 countries of Europe, but I was finally going to get to go to Asia.

I ran upstairs to talk to Tony about it.

“I didn’t get it,” he told me. He seemed…apathetic. I was never sure whether he really wanted to go, but was that relief in his voice?

A couple days later, Tony told me that he’d decided to go to Arizona with our friend and housemate, Eddie. Tony was from the Detroit area, and I was from Upstate New York, and neither of us wanted to go home to our depressing rust belt cities after graduation. There weren’t a lot of prospects for us where we grew up. He told me I should consider coming with them.

I’d spent the next couple of days rolling that over in my mind. I was so disappointed. I really wanted to go to Japan, but I also really didn’t want to go alone. What if I hated it? What if the foreignness of the place left me feeling homesick, and I had nobody to just hang with and talk about it? What if I got myself into trouble? I was full of worries and doubts. Something in me told me that it just wasn’t my time. I went back to the guys and said I was in. I’d definitely help split the cost of an apartment in Phoenix.

Two months later, I was sitting in that pool at the Sonterra Apartments at the intersection of Tatum and Bell, feeling like I was in a place almost as foreign as Japan.