The Bubble Bath, Part 14

  Editor’s Note: We have just arrived at Pat’s King of Steaks in South Philly, where apparently magical things can happen…

  But they’re not happening just yet. First we have to get out of the car and successfully make it to the sidewalk without being mowed down by waves of cars filled to the brim with hungry citizens. These people are fixated. They WILL make it to the next available parking space, even if several strangers have to lose important limbs and/or their loved ones. They don’t play.

  Once on the sidewalk, my initial estimation of the crowd size proves to have been a little on the conservative side. There are people everywhere, running about all crazy-eyed and knocking things over. As mentioned previously, I really don’t like people. They get on my nerves. I especially don’t like immense AMOUNTS of people who seem determined to get on my nerves. Yet I am constantly finding myself in situations where this very thing is happening. It’s my personal karma. I really must have been a bastard in a previous life.

  And I’m really not hungry. I’m just along for the ride, because Bubbles feels that we need to experience the Nirvana of Pat’s. I fully intend to quietly purchase whatever I’m supposed to get here, and then tuck it away for possible ingestion at a later time. If the other two want to eat, that’s fine. I’ll just stand off to the side and look bored, because I’m really good at that. And talking about people behind their back. Those are my two finest skills.

  I survey my surroundings, hoping to glean something of value so I can better understand exactly what is going on here. The rabid citizens seem to be involved in three types of activities. One involves standing in a line along one side of the building, where there are several windows and lots of people yelling things at one another. Why do they have to be so loud? And what language are they speaking? It seems I keep hearing the phrase “we zit” being bandied about profusely. We zit? That doesn’t make any sense, further adding to my confusion and dismay.

  Another group of people are huddled around what appears to be a majorly-serious condiment station. They are snatching and grabbing bits of this and that as if they don’t move fast enough the ground will simply open up and swallow them whole. And it seems perfectly fine if someone shoves someone else out of the way. If you get knocked aside, then you just dive back in, like a herd of piglets fighting to get at some sow’s teat.

  Finally, there are people sitting at the various tables placed about. The barnyard analogies continue, as these people are all making noises I haven’t heard since I used to help Peepaw gather eggs back on the farm as a budding young gay boy. No one at these tables is talking. They are just shoving things in their mouths and smacking. And belching. Really serious belching. As in explosive and ear-ringing. What has gotten into these people?

  I glance at Bubbles to confirm that she really wants to do this. She’s all smiles. Of course she does. Trust me, this is one of the finer things in life. But there’s a process to this, and we must follow protocol and there could be unsavory complications.

  Oh?

  She points to a large sign on one of the walls. It was entitled something like “How To Order” and listed eight or so rules that detailed your expected behavior. It was a lot of information to process. Apparently, a very important discussion point was whether you wanted onions (“wit”) or did not (“witout”). There was more commentary on selecting one of 500 different kinds of cheese toppings. Oh, and the mushroom factor. But the commandment that captured most of my attention? The one at the bottom that said “if you mess up, you have to go to the end of the line and start over”.

  What the hell?

  This was too much pressure. I turned to Bubbles again in abject fear. I’m not doing this. You have to order for all of us. I’m just going to follow along behind you, mutely, pretending that there was an unfortunate incident with my vocal cords many years ago at Velma’s Wee Wonders Vegetarian Bible Camp. (Maybe I was proudly listing the apostles while standing on a prune crate when, suddenly, a blade flew off a nearby combine and sliced my tender strings, but saved my life, because The Lord had plans for me to eventually be in a strange city where I could eat hot meat that was drenched in Cheez Whiz. Yeah, that sounds plausible.)

  Terry nodded as well at Bubbles. Girl, this is all you.

  Bubbles sighed, then began quizzing us about what we wanted on our cheesesteak sandwiches. Of course, all three of us wanted something different, which might lead to Bubbles supreme humiliation in a public setting, but that was fine as long as it wasn’t me. We joined the line to face our doom. (Well, Bubbles’ doom. If anything untoward happened, I fully intended to run through the night until I found a cab and eventually the airport.)

  The line moved surprisingly fast despite, or because of, the intricate procedural rules. It seemed like only seconds later and Bubbles was at the first steamy window. Bubbles announced our order. Showing complete disappointment in our failure, the ordering guy barked at her to clarify some business with the onions. When Bubbles hesitated for a fraction of a second, he barked again. (This was war, people.) Rattled, Bubbles provided the further intel, but she tripped up a bit on her own sandwich. I did not say a word. My sandwich was fine.

  Two seconds later, three piping-hot sandwiches were shoved at us. Seriously, two seconds. Bubbles paid. We moved to the second window, where you can get fries, and we partook of that. We avoided the final window, where you apparently could receive beverages, assuming you gave the right coded commands. We had bottled water in the car. Besides, if we spent any more time in the nerve-wracking line, we were going to crack, and I was really too tired for all the physical effort required to ensure a satisfactory and entertaining mental breakdown.

  We moved to the condiment station, jostling among the piglets for squirts and sprays of various dressings and flavor enhancers. I just wanted a bit of ketchup for my fries and then I was done. Whilst Terry and Bubbles perused the options, I suddenly realized that the warm meat in my hands smelled really good. Damn good. Perhaps I would have just a bite or two before tucking it away for the intended late-night snack. That’s all. Just a taste.

  I thought we would then head to the car, but a table happened to clear and Bubbles led us to it. As we settled in, she did have some cautionary advice. “These’ll make you burp.” I really didn’t pay much attention to her, because I didn’t plan to eat very much. You can’t get gas from a bite or two, right? I adjusted my sandwich wrapper and took a tentative nibble.

  Jesus appeared before me, blessing me with his work-calloused hands, while several stunning angels wearing the latest heavenly fashions frolicked behind him in a beautiful meadow where everything was clean and pretty and war didn’t happen.

  The vision cleared. I looked at Terry. “Holy cow.”

  He could only nod, grease dripping off his chin as he lunged for a second bite. He waved his hand. We could talk about it some other time, he was very busy right now. (Bubbles giggled with delight and satisfaction as we slightly lost our minds.)

  I took another bite, and produced my first belch. Wow, this stuff acted fast. What the hell were they putting in these things that made them so divine and yet so gaseous?

  It didn’t matter. I had to have more. All thoughts of saving anything for later flew out the window, and I let loose with another belch as I basically slammed my head face down into my sandwich.


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The Bubble Bath, Part 12

Editor's Note: The Bubble Ship has departed Atlantic City, racing back to Philly. Terry and Bubbles are ensconced in the front set of the car, having had less alcohol than me and therefore in a more subdued mood. I have been banished to the back seat, where I am supposed to be blogging, and I am doing that from time to time. But I'm also singing. There are two reasons for my one-part harmony...


One, Bubbles does not have AC in her car. So the windows are down. Since we are traveling at roughly the speed of light, gale-force winds are whipping around in the back of the car, creating a nice sonic shield to muffle my warbling. I don't have to be anywhere near the right key, and no one will care. Two, singing is one of the few distractions I can think of to help me not ponder the fact that the evil wind is ripping the hair from my skull.


Eventually, we roll into Philly and other activities arise...

  First, we have to get beer.

  This is a primary directive in any successful social situation. There must be beer, preferably tons of it so that no one has to make that critical decision about whether or not to swipe the one remaining bottle in the otherwise empty refrigerator. Entire branches of my family no longer speak to one another specifically because someone made the wrong move with that last bottle. There are rules to follow. Perhaps someday I will distribute a brochure to my lesser friends who don’t understand this.

  Anyway, we’re searching for beer, and there are some complications. The most obvious setback is that Terry and I don’t live in Philly. We have no idea where to procure brewskis. Since it is Philadelphia, the natural assumption is that beer surely must be freely available, once one figures out where to get it. We must now depend on our friend Bubbles, especially since she is navigating the rocket ship.

  Trouble is, Bubbles is not well-versed in beer obtainment. Not that she’s not familiar with alcohol, by any means, she just prefers the harder stuff that she can sip while entertaining her guests. She does not indulge in guzzling as the boys from Texas do. So she only knows where to find the hard liquor. Complicating this is the timing issue. There are different hours of availability for liquor and for beer. Bubbles can tell you the precise second when you can no longer score a bottle of gin. She doesn’t have the faintest idea about the deadline for longnecks.

  It is, however, starting to get late. The general consensus is that the beer deadline, whatever it may be, is surely approaching. Decisions must be made. I put aside my netbook with the latest blog draft, something about how lonely my hand is when it’s not holding a chilled bottle, and try to assist in the search for grain-based intoxicants.

  As mentioned, I am not familiar with the area. But it sure seems to me that we are zipping past several establishments that could possibly satisfy our needs. Then again, I am not familiar with any of these store names. I don’t want to holler out a suggestion, only to find that we have turned into the parking lot of an acupuncturist with a fondness for neon Budweiser signs.

  Suddenly, Bubbles spies a venue that meets her needs, and we rocket across several lanes filled with death-cars. She slams the vehicle to a halt and leaps out. She and Terry thunder inside the small convenience store. I climb out of the floorboard and back onto the seat, removing the netbook from my ear, where it had lodged when Bubbles violently terminated all velocity. Initially, I decide to just wait patiently. I’m sure the two of them have the skill set required to adequately complete the purchase.

  Time ticks, and I start to get concerned. Why is it taking so long? Something must be amiss.

  Then I start surveying my surroundings. Have we managed to pull up to a colorful crack house of some kind? Is there a possibility of drive-by violence and irritated people performing rude hand gestures? Perhaps I should investigate. Stealthily, of course. No sense in walking up to that guy standing on the corner over there, asking “Is this the type of place where people get killed?”, as if I were interested in being serviced in that way.

  The door to the store suddenly pops open, and Bubbles trots forth. She comes up to my window. “Do you think a 12-pack will be enough?”

  Good Lord, woman, are you insane? “We need at least a case.” (Only because no one should be forced to make that last-beer decision, you understand. I’m just looking at it from an etiquette perspective, of course.)

  Bubbles nods her head. Got it. Then she adds “It’s packed in there. They stop selling at ten.” Then she turned and dove back into the apparent melee.

  I glanced at my netbook. 9:50p. Holy cow. The drama that would have erupted if we’d been forced to head back to Bubbles’ place empty-handed. I craned my neck to get a better look inside the store, and could see Bubbles and Terry, clutching items, way at the back of a line. I had some time to kill. Great. I could get a smoke in before the rocket ship lifted off once more.

  And I could watch the desperation and mayhem as the local citizenry raced to beat the beer deadline. There’s a dark side of me that enjoys watching panic-stricken people take extraordinary steps to feed their addictions, especially when my own habit-provisions are already relatively secure and en route to my waiting arms. It’s fun.

  And these people did not disappoint me.

  I had barely stepped out of the car when this pickup truck, that couldn’t possibly still be running but somehow was, basically jumped the curb, sailed through the air, and slid to a halt about two inches from my nose. My jaw hadn’t even stopped dropping before the two occupants were out of the truck, bumping into each other as they ran toward the store, and knocking over a newspaper box as they vanished inside. One of them let out a celebratory squeal of triumph as the door closed.

  Well, then. Perhaps I should be making my performance appraisal from a safer location. Such as back in Texas.

  I walked slightly around the side of the building, to a little area where motorcycles and bikes could park. These modes of transport were smaller and I had a better chance of survival. I really didn’t relish the thought of being massacred by another airborne pickup, my last sounds on Earth being the rattle of empty beer cans in the truck bed.

  Once positioned, I lit my cigarette, and things were instantly better, because that’s how nicotine works. Almost instantly, several previously-unnoticed shadowy figures began appearing from other parts of the parking lot, wandering my direction.

  Terrific. I just wanted a quick smoke. I really wasn’t interested in the bonus plan where I get accosted and/or utilized in nefarious means for someone else’s entertainment.

  I considered my options. I could scream and run into the store, but that seemed a little excessive. I could jump back in the car, but since all the windows were down, these cretins could still lunge through the openings like Cujo after Dee Wallace Stone. (And Bubbles would not appreciate the stains on her upholstery.) Or I could just stand there. And I really wanted to finish my cigarette.

  Two of the figures broke off from the shadowy pack and stepped forward into the light from a nearby pole…


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The Bubble Bath, Part 4

  Editor’s Note: Much to our relief and surprise, Terry and I found that Bubbles’ abode was quite pleasing and satisfactory. An older apartment that has seen better days but was still very cute and comfy. So we settled in, watched a pointless movie starring Sylvester Stallone and Janine Turner (people running about in the Alps or something, with horrible acting and extensive use of blue screens), and finally crawled into bed…

  Of course, lying down on a mattress does not necessarily mean that slumber is on its way. I have issues with getting to sleep. As in, even in my own house, everything must be exactly in order for me to drift off. And the slightest variance in my required parameters can lead to hours of tossing and turning and hatred of my life.

  End result, when I travel, I rarely sleep more than a few hours a night. It’s just my thing. I understand this, and I deal with it. Oh, and to top things off, I am unable to successfully… how shall I say this? Complete the natural process of recycling. Yes, this is by all means far too much information, but it’s imperative that you understand that when I’m out of my comfort zone, it all goes to hell. I can’t sleep, I can’t evacuate, and I cannot relax for the tiniest second. It’s a control issue, I suppose.

  So there I am, wide awake on a strange bed, while Terry is gently snoring beside me, and Bubbles is down the hall, providing melodious snoring harmony. It’s a symphony of nocturnal emissions. Only not the really exciting kind. Well, then. What to do?

  I snag my fancy phone from the nightstand. It’s one of those really multi-talented things they’ve come out with these days. It’s my understanding that it can actually solve hunger in the world, if I could only figure out the precise sequence of buttons to push. I’m nowhere near that level of achievement, but I have managed to download a Solitaire game. This shall be my salvation for the middle of the night.

  Two hours later, I theoretically owe Vegas my life savings. That worked out well. I throw the phone back on the nightstand and curse its existence. This doesn’t accomplish anything, but the venting of anger is always therapeutic at least on a subliminal level. The phone flops off the nightstand and slams onto the wood floor, the battery pack voluntarily disengaging from the device and skittering under the bed.

  Great. Because my personal disappointments with life haven’t been enough up to this point. Why should I be happy, right?

  Anyway, I turn off the light and force myself to lie perfectly still. If I don’t move, and think happy thoughts of, I don’t know, transcendence and salvation, I might be able to drift off. This does not immediately happen. I flip and flop and punch around on my pillow in a fruitless attempt to appease the gods. What can I offer to whatever celestial being might be out there? Just tell me. I will proffer the appropriate sacrifice.

  Days later, I actually begin to drift. There’s the slight dissociation that comes with the transition from wakeful agitation to blurry coma. I’m almost there, just this side of blessed dreamland. A few tiny more steps and I will no longer care.

  Suddenly, from the sounds of it, somebody is violently murdered right outside the window.

  Well, hell. Rude, right? Some people just don’t have any couth or concern for their neighbors. A person just can’t get a decent night’s sleep around here without machine-gun fire and death screams in the night.

  Still, I’m a little curious. Is there a lot of blood? Body parts strewn about? Signs of credit card debt? I decide that I can’t pass up this opportunity, since we’re so close to New Jersey. (What if it’s one of the Sopranos?) Besides, my touristy camera is right there, ready to take pictures of old buildings that no one else will ever look at.

  I cautiously approach the window, knowing that I’m on the second floor and most likely have time to scream and run if the killer is still out there, unsatisfied. I pluck a small portion of the curtain to the side, and peer into the darkness.

  Nothing. No bodies, no axes dripping blood, no signs whatsoever of a crime. Not even a carelessly tossed-aside cigarette butt. I’m actually slightly disappointed.

  And completely wide awake. Terrific. Now I’ve got to start the whole relaxation process all over again, with the added complication of not being one hundred percent convinced that I didn’t just overhear the latest exploits of the Almost-Fishtown Strangler.

  I sigh with overwhelming defeat and dismay, lay back down on the bed, and close my eyes. Two seconds later, Bubbles is bouncing on the bed while bright sunshine fills the room. “Coffee’s ready!”

  And so, apparently, is breakfast. Bubbles has thrown something together with eggs, chorizo, green chilies, tortillas and I’m not sure what else. It’s slightly mystifying but very tasty. A bit of showering and belching later, we’re piled in the car and headed out on our first full day of adventure. Smiles abound, because things haven’t gone wrong yet, and we still love each other.

  Destination: Atlantic City.

  It’s only a little over an hour away, according to Bubbles, our gracious host and cruise director. On the flip side, Bubbles tends to downplay things like time and distance so that we will be innocently sucked into doing whatever it is that she wants to do, because in the end, we WILL always do what Bubbles wants. It’s some kind of fundamental law, I’m sure.

  Next thing I know, we’re thundering down some highway. I had naively assumed that the tremendous velocity that Bubbles had achieved on the streets of Philly was at the max end of her speed skills. This was far from the truth. Out in the wide open spaces, Bubbles floored it along using a warp drive previously thought to be undeveloped on our planet.

  The trees along the highway were just a blur. Road-side buildings appeared and almost immediately disappeared at the same instant, like the buzzing of dive-bombing mosquitoes zipping past your ear but you don’t really see them.  We may have broken the sound barrier a few times, because there were moments when I couldn’t really hear anything at all. Or those may have been instances when I just passed about from the G-force pressure on my weakened body.

  (Police Officer Stanley, hidden in the special stand of trees where they watch for speeders, speaking to his buddy: “Hey Vern, you feel that? What the hell was it?


  Vern: “Musta been Bubbles again, making her weekly escape from Philly.”


  Stanley: “Oh, right, I heard about her. Never seen her, though.”


  Vern: “Nobody has, that’s problem. Just a cracking sound in the sky and then she’s gone.”


  Stanley: “Think we should try and catch her? Guys at the station will think we’re Da Bomb if we do.”


  Vern, eyeing his younger buddy with slight irritation at the boy’s ignorance: “Son, by the time we pull out of these here trees she’ll be in another country and protected by international law.”


  Stanley: “Oh. Mebbe you’re right. You gonna finish that donut?”)

  Anyway, we make it from Philadelphia to Atlantic City in what felt like 15 minutes. It probably wouldn’t have even taken that long if Bubbles and Terry hadn’t gotten into a short squabble about which Lady Gaga song is the best, thereby causing Bubbs to become slightly distracted and slow the car down to 80mph.

  As we squeal down an exit ramp, and round a corner on one wheel, music CD’s ricocheting all over the interior of the car, one of them nearly decapitating me, Bubbles informs us that we will be parking at Caesar’s Palace. This makes her happy for some unexplained reason. We don’t question her announcement, too busy making sure that we’re still alive and that the depressurization caused by reentering the Earth’s atmosphere hasn’t mussed our hair up too much.

  Caesar’s has a massive, multi-level parking garage, built to accommodate the billions of people that apparently flock to this establishment on a regular basis. Bubbles, however, doesn’t really believe that the parking structure belongs to Caesar’s. Instead, she considers the twisting levels to be her own private hunting ground.

  And woe to the innocent pedestrian or passing vehicle that doesn’t comprehend this arrangement. If you don’t cross in front of the car fast enough to satisfy her, she will run you down. If you take half a second too long making a decision about a potential parking space, she will run you down. And if you dare to even THINK about saying or doing something to express your dissatisfaction with her actions, she will sense the brainwaves emanating from your idiotic pea brain, and she will run you down.

  We race through the levels at roughly 300 miles an hour, shooting through gaps that we should never have survived, totally destroying speed bumps with the massive impact of the lumbering Bubbles Mobile, and causing entire families to scream in terror and voluntarily leap over the side of the building, because anything must be better than one more second spent in the exhaust-coated hands of Bubbles.

  By the time Bubbles finds a space to her satisfaction, and she has gutted the fool who tried to take said space without her permission, I am huddled in the floorboard of the back seat, crying hysterically, and clutching a crude crucifix fashioned out of sticky milkshake straws and strands of my own now-whitened hair.

  Bubbles grabs her purse, throws open her door, and steps out into the parking garage, the agonized screams and moans of her various victims filling the air of the many levels of cars. (Plans are already underway to start a telethon to raise money for the victims.) “Ready to go, boys?”

  I remain perfectly still. Perhaps if I don’t move, she will assume that I’m dead, another unintentional notch in her dipstick case. I hold my breath and wait, stifling a whimper.


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The Bubble Bath, Part 3

  Editor’s Note: Our life with  Bubbles continues. We have just breached the interior of “Standard Tap”, a fine local establishment where Bubbles promises that the drinks are decent and the food is fab. We must trust her judgment, because we have no idea where we are and therefore are dependent on her remaining alive so that we can return to the life that we know at some point. And here we go.

  Preliminary observation: These people around here must really love Bruce Springsteen. Not necessarily his music, but his look. Because any of the first 23 people I encounter in Standard Tap could pass for him on a late Friday night. I am now in the land of people who inspire his songwriting, which is actually kind of interesting. Yes, he’s from New Jersey, but that’s just down the road, basically. This should be fun. We can learn things about why Bruce is the way he is.

  First off, the music is really loud. This explains why Bruce has spent a lot of his life screaming his songs, thereby resulting in his distinctive rasp. He has to yell to be heard above crowds of people who can’t carry on a conversation in a subtle tone. These people holler and will cut you if you have a problem with that.

  Luckily, Bubbles leads shell-shocked Terry and I out of the main room of the bar, and back to an area with a few booths and, thankfully, at least partial walls to buffer the roar of humanity in the other room. We select a booth and settle into some nicely-worn benches. The table DOES seem excessively large, so I briefly glance at Bubbles, wondering if, once she has imbibed a few drinks, she might use this expansive space to perform one of her shocking performance art pieces. I’ve seen her do this a few times, and have heard outrageous tales from back in the day.

  She looks at me innocently. “Is this okay?”

  I nod. Sure. This should be fine. Unless you’re going to take your clothes off and reenact the Battle of Gettysburg using your breasts. Because I know that you can.

  Our little server immediately rushes up, so this is a good sign. Lethargic staff response does not make me happy. But our hostess, and I’ll call her Gertrude only because I don’t recall what she might have said when she introduced herself,  quickly proves her efficiency by taking our beverage orders without a pad (always impressive), pointing out the chalkboard over our heads that lists the menu, explaining that she only lives to ensure that we remain satisfied, and then changes someone’s flat tire without missing a beat. I instantly love her.

  We do have a little bit of an issue with the chalkboard menu. I’m the only one who can actually see all of the selections, perched as I am in the apparent exact spot where some chalkboard artist must have been seated when s/he constructed the menu. Bubbles and Terry would like me to offer a full analysis. I don’t find their request to be valuable or worthy at all, having already decided what I want. So I pretend that I can’t see everything as well, which is a total lie, but I don’t care.

  Luckily, Bubbles has been here before, on some sordid first-date that wasn’t entirely satisfactory, but at least she got fed, and that’s always a good thing. She especially recommends the burgers, because she artfully used one to shove bits of such in her mouth when her date proved less than pleasingly conversational, and thus had plenty of time to savor the taste while avoiding giving a response to something insipid her date uttered. Bubbles and Terry order variations of this burger.

  I order fried clams, mainly because I want them, but also because Bubbles has got me thinking about utilizing food as a means to avoid conversational participation. Not that Bubbles and Terry won’t thrill me with enticing bon mots, but you should always have a backup plan if things venture into a territory of pointlessness. If push comes to shove, part of that shoving can include bits of clam in my mouth that I can chew on for hours until they forget they were expecting a response from me. Safety first.

  We get our first round of drinks, and they are strong enough that the overwhelming music and noise from the main room becomes less intrusive. (Alcohol is such a fine equalizer. I strongly suggest usage of such in any potentially compromised situation. Sure, it can lead to the failure of body organs, but really, what doesn’t these days?)

  Now properly lubricated, Bubbles shares her latest love adventures. There was the guy who brought her here, but that didn’t really go anywhere. Something about initial promises not carrying through to completion. There was some stalking on the part of other guys, but nothing proved worthy enough to overcome the basic creepiness factor of people who, you know, choose to pursue you without your consent or encouragement.
Oh, and some mess about an unfortunate experience with bad kissing and rabid mosquitoes.

  Needless to say, I ate my entire platter of fried clams during these revelations.

  Gertrude arrives with our second round of drinks, and we thank her profusely, because really, people bearing this type of gift should always be worshipped. Mid-drink (I don’t waste any time) the nicotine urge hits me, and I must step outside to do this.

  So I do. This bar is located right on a corner, so I’m at an intersection of sorts. It’s a little busy, with people dashing to and fro, trying to look cool as well as find their next destination. It’s not really considerate of me to stand right there and blow smoke about, so I head a short way down one of the streets. This resulted in the exact type of conversation that I always try to avoid, and thus regret ensued.

  There was a man leaning against the wall, eating a sandwich. Which is fine and all, people get hungry, right? And sometimes you have to eat right where you’re at. I take a few steps past him and light up.

  Sandwich Man considers this the official start of discourse. “Good sandwich,” he says.

  “Cool, man,” I respond, weakly attempting to be street. I then pretend to be fascinated with the front window of a closed antique store, because that’s a really butch thing to do.

  “REALLY good sandwich,” he now proffers, as my first reaction was not satisfactory. “I like the juice.”

  The juice? How would I know about the juice? Is he coming on to me in some way? And how does one respond to such? I smile and nod my head, because nothing remotely functional comes to mind.

  “It’s a GOOD sandwich,” he repeats, lips smacking. He takes another bite, and I notice that his teeth are massively large.

  I start to get the first queasy impression that my life might be in danger in some way. Am I about to be stabbed because I don’t know the response protocol when one speaks of sandwich juice? But screw it, I’ve got a strong drink and a half under my belt, and there are witnesses all around. Okay, inebriated witnesses, but still. Time to go on the offensive. “Can I have a bite?”

  A look of fear crosses his face and he clutches the remains of his sandwich to his chest. “It’s mine!” (Then stop talking about it and just eat it.) He glances in both directions, as if suddenly realizing that hordes of people might want his meat. It’s like a scene from “The Fugitive”, only deli-style. He suddenly darts into the night.

  Done. I stab out my cigarette, toss the butt into a trashcan, and march inside the bar and back to our table. “I hate smoking outside.”

  They don’t care. I’m not even sure that Bubbles and Terry hear me. They are reliving younger days before people got jobs or pregnant. I down the remainder of my drink and signal for Gertrude to keep ‘em coming.

  Eventually, we wind up our experience at Standard Tap, reward Gertrude handsomely for her proficient meeting of our needs, and embark on the journey home. We pile in the Bubbles Mobile and creative driving commences once again as we head to Bubbles’ homestead. We haven’t been there yet, so Terry and I are quivering with excitement to see our friend’s dwelling. What’s it like, we ask, eyes aglow with anticipation.

  Bubbles gets a bit quiet. “Well…”

  Terry: “Something wrong?”

  Bubbles: “Well…”

  Terry: “Bad neighborhood?”

  Bubbles: “Well…”

  Oh God.

  Bubbles: “The realtor told me it was in the Fishtown area, which is cool and funky. But it’s not really in Fishtown.”

  Terry: “Okay. Fishtown-adjacent?”

  Bubbles: “Well…”

  Where the hell is she taking us? Is my insurance up to date?

  A reflective silence settles over the car as we speed along. Apparently, potential housing shame does not dull Bubbles’ need to dominate the roadways by sheer force of will. Our journey has a constant soundtrack composed mainly of the screaming of terrified citizens as they leap out of the way at the last second. We’re just a blur of speed and horror in the night.

  Eventually, there’s a change in the local flavor. The surroundings go from quaint, rustic and charming to abandonment, graffiti and wanton use of concealed weaponry. At any second I expect the Sharks and the Jets to show up from “West Side Story”, but instead of a choreographed rumble of dance, there’s going to be death, dismemberment and violation of personal space.

  Then we come up to a decaying bridge that crosses, I don’t know, the Gulch of Hell, and Bubbles pauses the car. She looks at both of us solemnly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Then she turns her eyes back to the road and inches the car forward.


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The Bubble Bath, Part 2

  Editor’s Note: Okay, we finally got on the plane. I’ve covered all the trauma of plane travel before, and you can read about it Here. Suffice it to say that we finally landed in Philly, around 10:30p or so, and we were about to experience Bubbles’ Transport Service…

  This part of the airport is basically deserted, with only a few folks in the immediate area. Perhaps the paucity of people is due to the lateness of the hour, but this is Philadelphia, so one would think it would be a bit more bustling than this. Perhaps the local authorities have been notified of our arrival, and this terminal has been mostly evacuated for security purposes.

  Terry gets on the horn to let Bubbles know we’re here. Even from where I’m standing, several feet away from Terry and already wondering where the hell I can smoke, I hear an abrupt piercing noise from Bubbles’ side of the conversation. I can’t quite tell if this is a squeal of excitement, or an indication that something might be possibly awry.

  Bubbles instructs Terry to proceed to the Baggage Claim area. There’s only one.

  Well, no there’s not. I can see signs for Baggage Claim, and the signs are clearly herding people in various directions. I point this out to Terry. He does not seem to be alarmed. “Let’s just pick one.”

  So we head in the direction where most of the people seem to be going, assuming that if we are never seen again, at least we’ll have companions to talk to as we wither and die. I hope these people are at least interesting, because if I’m going to pass on, I’d like a nice floor show before the final curtain.

  But I’m concerned about certain members of our party, namely a family of dirty blonds, a daddy, a mommy, and an attention-deficit child. To give you an idea of what we’re dealing with here, the daddy is wearing a T-shirt that says “Wide Open Motorcycles”. And these words are centered in between the spread legs of a woman on her back. Yep, real quality. No wonder that child can’t focus on anything.

  Luckily, the child’s inability to adequately process her surroundings leads to her tumbling to the ground. She’s fine, but the parental units stop to confirm this diagnosis, because even parents sporting obscene depictions on their couture have to at least pretend they are concerned about their child’s welfare, or they won’t get the government check.

  I quicken my pace, forcing Terry to walk faster. I am NOT going down with those people. I don’t want my last vision on Earth to be a slutty invitation to the bat cave.

  We finally get to the baggage claim area (well, at least one of them) and Terry whips out his phone to report our accomplishment. Based on his side of the conversation, perhaps this isn’t the same baggage claim that Bubbles is hovering about, assuming that she’s hovering. She could be in Jersey for all we know. It seems Bubbles needs some quality landmarks and will then process the data for her next move. Terry does so, noting particular airline names, what type of vehicles we see outside the doors, and a meteorological five-day forecast for this particular spot on the planet.

  This doesn’t really compute with Bubbles. Further discussion ensues. Terry, desperate, provides additional details. There’s a big speed bump to our left, a large Avis bus currently receiving people cargo, and a life-challenged woman in short-shorts, bending over for no apparent reason and showing us her two-moon junction. (Why am I being continually hounded with explicit visions of female anatomy? This is supposed to be The City of Brotherly Love, not The City of Winking Vaginas.)

  And let’s not forget, it’s been hours and hours since I’ve had a cigarette. Decades, in my opinion. I am in serious need of nicotine. I don’t have a lighter, being forced to leave it behind in Dallas so security people wouldn’t throw me up against a wall and shove a cattle prod in my tender regions. I could presumably bum a light from one of my fellow addicts, but what if Bubbles drives up in the next few seconds?

  I would prefer to suffer for a bit longer, rather than get one good drag out of a cig and then have to put it out before completion. I’m in one of those moods. I want the whole thing or nothing at all. I don’t think I’m psychologically prepared for anything less.

  Bubbles is apparently still in another state. Nothing looks familiar, and certainly doesn’t match Terry’s endless reportage from the trauma scene. I’m cranky, unfulfilled and needing a drink. I’m seriously on the verge of asking a nearby couple if they will adopt me, because at least their transportation has arrived and they are happily throwing their bags in the trunk of a vehicle where one of the occupants is clearly smoking. At this point, I have no shame. Will work for nicotine.

  Suddenly Terry slams his phone shut. “There she is.” I turn my twitching eyes in the direction he is looking, my deprived arms clutching a sticky concrete pillar that I’ve been using to keep me upright after the long day. I spy Bubbles driving up, waving excitedly. Hallelujah.

  We hurl our luggage in the car and are firmly strapped in and ready to go within four seconds. Please get us out of here, Bubbles. Or we will take your life.

  Got it. Bubbles hits the gas and we rocket forward. Bubbles, it seems, has little concern for things like speed bumps, stop signs, pedestrians, and gravity. We are out of the airport in what I am going to assume is record time, because if we had been going any faster there would be women rolling a cart down the aisle and serving peanuts.

  Then things slow down a bit, and I tense up. Bubbles is offering us food and entertainment options available at this hour. Sadly, reviewing the possible itinerary causes Bubbles to let off on the gas, and we are no longer zipping. We are crawling, like old people trying to figure out why there are so many lanes on the roads these days.

  Please don’t do that, Bubbles. Please keep moving. I beg of you. We need to get somewhere that I can smoke before my head completely snaps off.

  But Bubbles insists that we participate in her route selection. Do you want seafood? Chinese? Maybe a neighborhood bar that has great food?

  Oh my God, that last option sounds like the Rapture, because surely people light up there. I turn to Terry with pleading eyes. He’s the one that has more discriminating tastes, so I generally leave food decisions up to him. I’ll eat anything. Well, at least once.  Twice if alcohol is involved. Please, Terry, pick the bar. I’ll love you forever. Or at least until I can have a cigarette.

  Terry agrees. (Yay!) And Bubbles knows just the place. Off we go.

  Now that we actually have some purpose to the driving, Bubbles reverts back to her disregard for traffic signals and other vehicles. She does things with her car that I didn’t think were possible or survivable. But live we do, and before I know it she’s parallel-parking in an area with funky-hip bars and such. I release my grip on the car’s roll bar and realize that I no longer have feeling in my hands. A little tense, I guess.

  We clatter out of the car, with Bubbles and Terry marching off to conquer the neighborhood. Oh, hell no. “I’m going to have a cigarette right now. The whole thing. Do not move until I’m done.”

  Bubbles looks at me with confusion. “But you could have smoked in the car. I do.”

  You’re kidding me, right? See, this is why I suffer in life so much. I don’t adequately express my needs to other people, and end up needlessly suffering far longer than anyone wants or expects. I really need to talk more. Or at least carry around flash cards with status slogans that I can wave at the appropriate moment. “Hungry. Tired. Gassy. Really hating you right now and plotting your death. Run.”

  I finish up and we head to the bar that Bubbles is quite confident that we will enjoy.

  She opens the door, and the smell of stale beer hits us in the face.

  I’m home.


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The Bubble Bath, Part 1

  Editor’s Note: Terry and I are headed to Philly for a short vacation. We’re off to see our friend Bubbles, who is quite a character, so this should be an eventful trip. Unless we end up in jail (which could easily happen within 15 minutes of landing), there’s bound to be some exciting things to report. And here we go…

  Airports suck.

  Well, I suppose that’s not entirely true. I’m sure that somewhere on this planet there’s a very nice airport where people are really sweet and nothing dispiriting ever happens. I’ve just never been there. I’ve been to the DFW Airport hundreds of times, and never once have I walked away from the experience thinking “I am SO glad I did that.” Instead, I usually stagger away needing medication, alcohol, and a lawyer.

  Let’s start with the parking. You see, if you’d like to park anywhere near the terminal where your airplane is hopefully departing from, you’ve got to shell out a fortune. It’s like $150 bucks a day. Okay, maybe a little less than that, but I did try it one time. I was only gone about five days, but when I came back from wherever it was, the total parking bill was astounding. I actually had to move that month because I could no longer afford my rent.

  So we usually leave our vehicle in these quaint little things they have at DFW known as “remote parking”, since it’s far more reasonably-priced, albeit a bit cumbersome. There are two such things, cleverly named “Remote North” and “Remote South”. (I’m sure it took a large committee several years to come up with these titles.) Both the North and the South crap-fest are located hundreds of miles from anything useful at the sprawling airport. So you have to ride a big yellow bus to get closer to your final destination.

  You also have to wait for this bus to decide it’s finally interested in picking you up.

  Picture it. You’ve already had to buy an extra tank of gas just to get to this parking lot, apparently located in Arkansas. (No one will confirm this, but I did spot a discarded banjo in one of the ditches. That’s about all the proof I need.) Then you have to find an actual empty parking slot in this place, because only the Dallas Cowboys can afford the fancy covered parking near the terminals so everybody else parks out here. You drive around for hours to no avail, until finally somebody decides to leave and vacate a spot. As soon as that person starts to back up, you can hear the sounds of tire rubber being left on asphalt as 15 cars race to stake a claim.

  Unless you’re just amazingly good, you’re going to come up short on the first three or four rounds of this competition. So pace yourself.

  Once parked, you have to trudge for miles to get to the little bus terminal. As mentioned, this is the discount parking area, so don’t expect anything like covered parking or sliding sidewalks. It’s you, in the baking sun, lugging that now stupidly-overpacked suitcase across acres of melting tar, the shimmering vapors oozing upwards and making you dizzy. Oh, and don’t forget to keep an eye on the shark-cars that are circling all around and waiting for a parking spot to open up. If one does, and you’re somehow in the way, you better run like hell.

  As is the natural law of things, by the time you finally crawl to the bus depot, you will be just in time to see the particular bus that you need pulling away from the curb. To make it even more of an insult, you will realize that if you were in any type of decent physical shape at all, you could probably catch up to the bus, banging on the door like a frantic scene in an action movie just before a building blows up. But you’re not in shape. You can barely breathe just from walking. So you just stand there and hope that another bus will come along.

  One eventually will, of course, but it might be next Tuesday, which won’t do you much good since your flight leaves in two hours. You glance around the little station for something that might give you an indication of the time tables for the yellow buses. At the other end of the station, there’s clearly an announcement posted, with rows of numbers that are probably times of the day. But you can’t tell for sure, and the sign is WAY down there. After all the walking you’ve already done, you don’t know if you have the psychological strength to walk some more and possibly be disappointed in your findings.

  So you just stand there, waiting, hoping that the bus will at least come back today, but preferably this hour. If it doesn’t, well, you’ll just have to deal with that later.

  And it’s at this point that the creepy people come out.

  Granted, everyone gets bored while standing and waiting in places that are hot and not really anywhere they’d be if given a choice. But the creepy people get bored faster than others, which explains part of their creepiness factor. You can usually tell right away if you’re dealing with a creepy by the way they stare at you. This is Dallas. You don’t stare at anybody for longer than two seconds unless you want to date them or you want to kill them. I am usually blessed with people pursuing Option B.

  You don’t want to encourage the creepies, because doing so will only lead to heartache and grief. So you look everywhere you can except directly at THEM. You study the sky, you repeatedly check the watch that you aren’t really wearing, you pretend to get a phone call from someone named “Xavier” and proceed to discuss macaroons. Anything. Because if you make eye contact with a creepy, they will instantly accept this as permission to race over and violate your personal space. And race they will, drool flying off their chin while they hum the theme song from “Star Wars”.

  Then we have the yackers.

  These are the folks who really are on the phone, but they’re talking about stupid crap, and doing so as loudly as the possibly can. (You’d think the creepies would go after THESE guys, since there seems to be so much going on. But no, they come after me, the quiet one who didn’t have the foresight to fully plan an evasive maneuver as I struggled across the immense parking lot and had plenty of time to think about it.)

  The yackers just love to yack. They like to hear themselves; it satisfies some unnatural need deep inside them. Perhaps there were neglect issues in their childhood, maybe they didn’t make the swim team at a critical validation point in their lives. Whatever the case, a crucial quality-control valve broke off their brain stem, rolled away, and has never been seen since. They simply cannot talk on the phone in a reasonable manner.

  And these people usually stand right beside me. I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. I want them to go very far away. Like way down yonder, near that sign that I think has bus arrival times on it. Maybe you could yell out the schedule? I know I’ll be able to hear you.

  To be fair, there’s the slim possibility that a very small percentage of these phone screamers are actually dealing with someone  on the other end who can’t hear them very well. (Perhaps the caller is currently hunting wildebeest in Africa or is at the bottom of a previously-covered mineshaft, seeking survival tips.) But really, if the connection is THAT bad, just send an email. Okay?

  Well, hallelujah, I spy a very large loaf of neon banana bread headed our way on the service road. My heart skips a slight beat, but not too much so, because after years of perpetual disappointment, I know better than to get very excited about anything. (I shall now read to you a selection from my depressing book of tragic poems, “Tomorrow Always Dies”.) Luckily, it turns out that this loaf is baked just right, because the driver pulls his rig right up to where I’m standing, on a little platform for people who want to go to Terminal D.

  The driver puts it in park, there’s a startlingly loud hissing of air (how can THAT kind of a sound be good?), and then, amazingly, the bus leans a little toward us. Seriously, leans. What? Wait, did I just imagine that? I look at Terry. Am I having a stroke?

  Then the doors fly open, and like an idiot, I go racing up to the first set, dragging my roller-bag with a vengeance. Only to find that I am now blocking the door, and people want to get out. Because, you know,  they’re done with their journey and need to go the opposite way that I’m going. “Excuse me,” says a well-dressed man, in a clearly polite and non-offended manner. This only ups my idiocy factor and shame.

  I try to get out of his way, but I’m just not coordinated or very fast, struggling with my stupid bag, so people have to squeeze past me and dash to freedom, vowing to never fly the same day as me ever again, whatever my name is.

  Fine. I peer into the coolness of the bus to see if there’s anyone left that I can cut off or offend in some way. We seem to be clear, so we climb the step, and I wait for Terry to decide where he wants to sit, because I really don’t care. Well, he shoves his carry-on into this little storage area, between two seats, which surprises me, because I was just going to keep mine parked in front of me. Okay, I‘ll play along. I try to shove mine in there too, right next to his.

  I am not immediately successful. I can see that there’s clearly enough room for both of these bags in the spot I’m trying to use, so I really don’t get it. I become determined to make them fit. So now I’m shoving and huffing and puffing, my butt waving in the air as I bend over and struggle. Finally, dripping with sweat, there’s movement, and the two bags are now nicely cozy with one another.

  I turn around and flop into the seat just to the right of the storage area. And discover that three strange men are staring at me. Their expressions are a little odd, so I don’t know if they are completely mesmerized by the stunning beauty of my derriere, or if they were so mortified by what they saw that they have become catatonic. I’ll go with Option A this time. Let me dream a little, so it can be shattered later.

  The bus pulls out of the little station, and we’re on our way. Things go very smoothly for about seven seconds. Then we whip around a corner, and suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see Terry leap out of his seat. Well, that’s an action that doesn’t bode well.

  I turn in his direction, and see him squatting on the floor of the rocking bus, trying to wrangle our two suitcases that have somehow become demon children intent on the destruction of life as we know it. The cases are bouncing and careening while Terry contorts himself in desperation. It appears that we might have casualty figures to report when this mess is over with.

  Well, I can’t just sit there, right? I must show support for my partner. I start to get up and join in the fracas, death be damned, when my right elbow comes into contact with a partition wall that I didn’t even realize was there. My ignorance stems from the fact that it’s a wall made of that plexi-glass stuff. Clear plastic. HARD plastic. And I ding my elbow on that exact spot where the pain is so surprising and sharp that you can’t breathe or move for a few seconds.

  I’m only out of commission very briefly, but it’s long enough for Terry to get things under control, firmly wedging the two suitcases nearer to him. I look at him weakly. His expression is unreadable right now. Is he just fine and didn’t think twice about my apparent slacker attitude toward his misfortune? Or is he furious inside, seething at my failure to be of any use whatsoever?

  I have no idea. And if I say the wrong thing at this point, it could make things infinitely worse. Sigh. Relationships are so tricky. So I don’t say anything at all. But something tells me we’ve just had a non-verbal fight. And we aren’t even on the plane yet, never mind made it to Philly.

  This is going to be a very challenging adventure…


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