The Phoenix Airport

I think we circled in and out of the airport departure zone four or five times before I decided to get out of the car and enter the airport.   I had never had treatment before, of any kind, in-patient or out-patient, so I was beginning to doubt that shipping myself off to Arizona was the best decision.  So were my parents.  But somewhere deep inside I knew I had to get out the car.  I could always leave, right?

By the time I landed in Phoenix, I had decided that going to Remuda was not a good idea.  What was I getting myself into?  I’m not a Christian.  This is not going to work.  I could do this at home on my own.  As soon as I got of the plane, there was a burly looking woman holding a sign with my name on it.  How did she get through security?, I thought.  No one get through security anymore.  In retrospect, I’m pretty sure Remuda pays the airport for permission to access arrival gates directly so that they can head people off before they change their minds and bolt.  It’s a good thing they do, because seeing that woman really through a monkey wrench in my plan to get the hell out of dodge.  Still, I told her that I was not going with her, that I would be renting a car, driving to the Ranch myself, and taking a look at it before I signed anything.  Then I went into the bathroom and called my mother.  Thirty years old in a bathroom stall calling my mother.  I guess I hoped that she would tell me that it was okay to hop the next plane home.  She did not.  Instead, she convinced me to go with the burly lady to the Ranch.  I could always leave, right?