Lost and Lookin’

A reflection on a lack of direction

If you’re a fan of the mournful heart-render, “Lost and Lookin’ (for my baby)” covered by Sam Cooke, Lou Rawls, and a host of others, that’s not what this story is about. Sorry.

No. Rather, this piece is about the fact that I don’t know my ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to navigating uncharted territory in my car. So many times over the years, I’ve been “lost and lookin.’ Even well-charted territory can be new ground for me, depending upon my state of mind.

As a kid, I got lost in my neighborhood, regularly. I don’t know why but can only surmise that a synapse or two in my brainpan isn’t firing on all cylinders. And this was before I was introduced to weed.

I’d ride around the hood on my bike, impervious to time or space or anything, really, replaying episodes of the detective shows I loved so much, in my head.

I was a fanciful kid. Always making up stuff, and I dearly loved to pretend that I was a private investigator ala “77 Sunset Strip.” Now those dudes were cool. Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. as Stuart Bailey, Roger Smith as Jeff Spencer, and Edd Byrnes as that fricken’ Kookie with his comb!

They looked fly and they talked it, about as fly as white guys can be, anyway, and they had a secret place in this little girl’s heart.

I had friends, sure, but I was also perfectly happy to romp around by myself. But sometimes, during one of my particularly pleasurable flights of fancy, I’d wander off, and even if my ramblings took me only a few blocks from my home, I’d be completely discombobulated. Lost! As if I was a stranger in a strange land. And the more time goes by, the more I’m starting to feel like exactly that.

My mom and dad, and other people would tell me time and again, “Sherry, just remember that the lake (Michigan) is in the east.” Or the west. I don’t even know as I grew up in a suburb of Chicago and my response would always be, “But I can’t see the damned lake!”

So, yeah. Nailing down north, south, east and west is a non-starter for me. I’ve always found my way by utilizing landmarks. “Ok, so there’s a Taco Bell on the left corner and a nail salon on the right.” Like that.

I’m talking basic stuff.

Not knowing where you’re going can get you into trouble. I had an experience that was so surreal that thinking about it to this day gives me the willies. And it was all because I didn’t know where the fuck I was.

My husband and I had just moved to a suburb far west of Chicago, where we were previously living. We knew very little about the town other than the fact we got a. great deal on a stellar home.

It felt like we’d landed on the moon. Twenty years ago, when we moved in, the burb was very countrified, at least in comparison to Chicago proper. I was still working at an ad agency in the city, too, and had a nightmare of a commute.

One day, I had to be on set for a commercial we were shooting. I don’t remember what it was for, only that I’d written it! Anyway, the shoot went on for hours and it was late by the time we wrapped up, so I was told to take a cab home. No Uber or Lyft, or even, navigational software, then.

The cab arrived, manned by a very nice (or so I thought) Pakistani fellow, and off we went. Note that my husband and I live about forty-six miles from downtown Chicago, a ride that should have taken about forty-five minutes for a driver who knew where the hell they were going.

Mine did not. Let me repeat. For my cab driver, my home address might have been in upstate New York for all his directional acumen. It was the blind leading the blind, guys, and let me tell you, the shit got crazy.

I did my best to “direct,” however that said, I got us on the wrong highway going in the opposite direction from where we were supposed to be heading.

Every time I’d try to point this out to my driver, he would giggle in response. In fact, that’s all he did was giggle. After a while, it started to scare me. Was I going to be jacked? If so, why? I didn’t have anything this guy would want. Well…maybe I’m selling myself short, just a bit.

But I digress. So onward we went, around and around in circles. Literally. I was so lost I couldn't think straight. Plus, I was exhausted, mentally, and physically. It had been a long day and all I wanted to do was get home and dive into one of my husband’s perfect martinis.

As it turned out, that wasn’t going to happen, for hours. That’s right, I said, hours.

If memory serves correctly, I must have had a phone or borrowed the driver’s car phone because I recall frantically ringing up my hubby in an effort to get some help. He, in turn, called the cab company to see what the hell was going on with this giggling maniac. I suppose in retrospect, I could have called them myself but I was a mess at that point.

The driver even giggled when I told him his ass was grass!

Finally, after some help from the company dispatcher and my husband, I made it home, in one piece, but traumatized. I practically fell through the front door.

I’d been in that cab for no less than four hours. I know. Hard to believe, but it happened. And all because I never know where the hell I’m at.

As you might expect, the bill for the ride was in the “hundreds.” Yes, the agency heads were askance, but I seem to recall that I was fully reimbursed. I can only imagine what they thought happened. I just told the truth. What else was I to do?

Today, I’m just as clueless when it comes to finding my way around. Even with my phone’s GPS, I can take a wrong turn. Like yesterday, for an example. I had to take my car for a vehicle admissions test so I could renew its registration for a cool $160.

Even though I’ve driven on the main road leading to the place for years, I spaced out and went a mile and a half out of my way coming home. I completely missed my turn-off.

That’s not such a big deal, certainly, but when I get lost, I start to panic. It takes about ten seconds until I’m virtually useless. When that happens, I pull off the road and try to regain my focus.

Maybe this is the reason I lack direction in other areas, most specifically, in my “career.” I no longer know what the hell I want other than to write. I’m here, I’m there, I’m everywhere and none of it is paying off in the way that I’d hoped. I’m still lost and lookin.” For what, I’m no longer sure.

As I told a writer friend here, I feel like a hamster on a wheel, going nowhere, fast.

Maybe this is why that cab driver was giggling. He was prescient. He saw something in me, a lost soul, perhaps. Whatever it was, it made him laugh his head off.

Not the best sign.

© Sherry McGuinn, 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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