The Bubble Bath, Part 21

  Editor’s Note: We’re still sitting at IHOP, waiting for our food to arrive, which apparently might not happen in our lifetime. I have just overheard what I think is a drug deal taking place at the table behind me. Terry thinks I’m just operating in my usual drama queen mode and has little interest in validating my delusions…

  Me: “I’m serious. Something is going down.”

  Terry: “That’s nice. Do you think we should paint the bedroom mocha or latte?”

  Me: “You never believe me about anything.”

  Terry: “What would be the point? You’re just going to change your mind in the next five minutes.”

  Just then, the good server comes racing into the room with steaming plates of food for all her customers. Customers that came into the restaurant after we did. And where might our server be? Who the hell knows. Maybe she ran to fetch the drugs that her boss is selling alongside the Rooty, Tooty, Fresh and Fruity.

  I sigh. “I’m going outside for a cigarette. I’m sure I have plenty of time.” Terry nods absently, his mind working on painful ways to torture Gertrude should she decide to ever come back.

  I pass through the little lobby area, and notice that Mayflower, the decaying hostess wretch, is propped up against the wall, probably waiting for someone to apply electrified paddles to her chest. She briefly glances at me, and I can tell by her eyes that she hates everyone in this building and wants all of them to die. I hear ya, sister.

  Once I’m out the front doors, I wander around to the side of the building to do my business. (I’m one of those people who try to be considerate with my dirty habits, not one of those losers who will stand right there in a high-traffic area, belching exhaust on innocent families and then wondering why people spit on them. It’s no surprise that NYC has basically banned smoking in any place where anyone might possibly want to breathe.)

  So I’m doing my thing, waiting for the nicotine to flood my body and trick my brain into thinking I actually enjoy my life. I glance to the left, where I spy two men sharing a wrinkled, brown bag that obviously contains a bottle of hooch. I consider joining them. Seriously. I don’t care that we might transmit germs to one another. (The alcohol would kill most of that mess anyway.) But what actually stops me from sauntering over is the prospect of having to talk to another human being, which is the last thing in the world I want to do right now.

  I turn my head in the other direction and, lo and behold, there’s Bubbles traipsing toward me, her happily-tended toes putting a spring in her step. As she comes even with me on the sidewalk, her perceptive analytical skills kick into gear, and she immediately senses something amiss. “Spill.”

  “Well, we’re still waiting on our food.”

  Her mouth drops open. “You’re kidding me!” She reflects briefly, then advises: “I’m gonna run into this shoe store over here for a sec, then I’ll meet you inside.” Translation: If we still don’t have our food when Bubbles completes her footwear transaction, she is going to march into IHOP and burn the mother down.

  I stab out my cigarette, check to make sure it’s really dead, chunk it in a nearby trashcan, and then race into the restaurant to tell Terry the news. Bubbles is gonna whup some ass and we’ll be in the front row! Woo hoo!

  But before I can share all the juicy details, a parade of servers comes marching into our neglected room, all of them carrying bulging bags full of to-go boxes. They pile these on a spare, empty table near the loudmouth in the corner, then they all turn and march back into their holding pen while the restaurant manager slips into the room as well and approaches Don Bigmouth. “Your order is ready.”

  Dang. So it wasn’t a drug deal after all. Just some really hungry people. Not that I’m a fan of illicit recreational merchandising, but it had been a little exciting to think I was this close to activities that could send somebody to the Big House. Terry just looked at me. See? Food. Not drugs. You really need to quit watching “X-Files” reruns.

  Amazingly, Gertrude, our server that we had assumed had fled the country for political reasons, actually made another appearance. She explained that the kitchen was really backed up because someone (she glanced at her manager with obvious distaste) had allowed someone else (she glanced at Don Bigmouth with even more dissatisfaction) to order 20 meals for takeout.

  Oh. I see. But that’s not really our problem, now is it? Where’s our food? She went to check, as if something miraculous might have taken place during the fifteen seconds since the last time she had been in the kitchen.

  Then we descended into madness.

  The jerk in the corner, Don Bigmouth, was chowing down on his meal along with his silent but devoted groupies. Suddenly, Bigmouth discovered something on his plate that was completely unacceptable, leading to the following dialogue. (Keep in mind that Bigmouth is also Trashmouth, and there has been a bit of tidying up with the language.)

  Bigmouth, bellowing: “There’s gosh-durn bacon on my truckin’ plate!”

  His homies wail and clutch at their faces, horrified at this utter outrage.

  Bigmouth, yelling across the room at a server that is NOT his: “Get the truckin’ manager right NOW.” (Said server looks at Bigmouth dully, sighs, then slowly ambles out of the room. Apparently this type of discourse was common for this restaurant, so she did not have any urgency concerning her rudely-given directive.)

  Bigmouth, bellowing: “There’s truckin’ bacon on my gosh-durn plate!”

  Thank you for the clarification. I don’t think Brazil heard you the first time.

  The manager appears, his face slightly pale and sweaty. He gulps and approaches Bigmouth’s table. And Bigmouth explodes with a fury. Big is beyond upset about the porcine surprise, compelling him to cuss out the food, the server, the manager, the restaurant, the city, the state, and anyone who has ever spoken approvingly of pork in their entire lives. This goes on for quite some time.

  During all this mess, I surreptitiously fake-stretch and glance over my shoulder to get a visual, fully expecting to see half a pig lying across the table behind me, an apple in its mouth. Instead, Big is jabbing at something with his fork, a little speck of meat that even ants wouldn’t bother to tote back home. “Don’t tell me that’s not bacon!” challenges Bigmouth, his homies nodding their heads and pointing.

  Bigmouth really likes repetition: “I said, don’t tell me that’s not bacon.” (Look, no one is disputing the bacon status. Geez.) “I don’t eat bacon. I know what it tastes like. THAT’S bacon!” (But if you don’t eat bacon, how would you…) “It’s bacon!” he practically screamed. “Bacon!”

  Well, yes, it’s probably bacon, but if that tiny thing is going to bother you, you might as well never leave the house. Because there are much bigger disappointments out there. Of course, I don’t vocalize any of these thoughts. After all, Big is waving a pronged weapon and has enough adrenaline and/or drugs coursing through his veins that he could chew rocks. Besides, it’s really not my place.

  It’s the manager’s place. Yes, you should placate the customers. But you should not allow them to disrupt civilization as we know it. However, the manager did not understand this, letting Big scream for a good 10 minutes before finally wandering away. Which was exactly enough time for the big hand on the clock to reach the same number it had been on when we walked into this place.

  We had been sitting here for an hour. And still no food.

  Terry and I looked at each other. “We’re done,” we said at the same time, and started gathering up our things.

  Right on cue, Bubbles walked in the front door. She didn’t even bother to head in our direction. She took one glance at our table, quickly noted the absence of any plates, and immediately cornered Mayflower at her little hostess desk, demanding to speak to the manager. Mayflower just kind of shrugged, nodded her head at the pale, sweaty guy just leaving our room, and then went back to giving herself CPR. Bubbles walked up to the manager and launched. Terry leapt out of our booth to go express his thoughts on the matter as well. I scampered to keep up with him, not wanting to miss any of this.

  So there we were in the entryway of the IHOP. Bubbles and Terry were ripping this guy a new one, arms flailing. I was just standing there, trying not to grin as I pretended to be emotionally distraught. The manager was a total wimp, proffering weak, feeble excuses about the slow service, the lack of food, and how he had gotten to this pathetic point in his life.

  Then he stupidly said this to Mayflower: “Don’t charge them for their drinks.”

  What! Of course you’re not going to charge us for the drinks. That even got ME riled up, and I usually don’t say anything, ever. Now Bubbles, Terry and I were tag-teaming with the invectives.

  And wouldn’t you know it, right then Gertrude came wandering up with our plates of food, confused because we weren’t where she left us yesterday.

  But we were done. We stomped out the front doors, triumphant that we had stood up to The Man and given him an earful. We were noble warriors, fighting for justice.

  Then we paused on the sidewalk. We may be the Norma Rae’s of our generation, but we were also still truckin’ hungry.

  Gosh-durn it.


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The Bubble Bath, Part 19

  Editor’s Note: After a mind-expanding experience with an Inversion Table, courtesy of the cutting-edge Bubbles, we retired for the evening, intent on getting some much-needed sleep before we embarked on our last full day in Philly. Turns out we didn’t actually stay in Philly, but more on that as things progress…

  I awoke the next morning, rather refreshed, but clearly a bit behind schedule, as I could hear Bubbles and Terry on the lower floor, banging about and most likely making detailed plans to alter the course of history. These things happen when you leave them without supervision.

  Terry noticed that I was awake, probably due to the horrified wail of despondency I unleashed when I caught sight of myself in a mirror, and he trotted up the stairs. He had an agenda update. “We’re going to eat at IHOP while Bubbles gets a pedicure.”

  This was news. Neither of these options had been on the table when I laid my weary head to rest. I immediately sensed that this change of plans had something to do with Bubbles consuming the high-octane coffee that she insists on brewing, because one sip of that mess can make you see Napoleon Bonaparte hiding behind a potted fichus tree.

  I leisurely rolled over in the bed, since I was in one of those moods where you just want to remain wrapped up in comfy bed linens, and stare at the ceiling for hours, choosing a life of non-productivity. Okay, I’m always in that mood. But anyway. “Really? So I have to get dressed?”

  “Yep. Jump in the shower and we’ll go.” He exited stage left and returned to giggling and plotting with Bubbles.

  I flopped onto my back. Some day, I promised myself, I would find a career where I never had to leave the bed but did not involve intimate relations with paying customers. I’m sure that type of job is out there, I just haven’t searched the Internet enough. Because that’s hard to do when you don’t want to get out of bed.

  After several more minutes of making dramatic sighs that no one was listening to, I hauled my ass out of bed and wandered into Bubbles’ bathroom to attend to things.

  Now, I haven’t mentioned it as of yet, but there’s a certain feature about Bubbles’ comfort station that I must now address. Namely, the door to this chamber of extremely personal activity. Because there really isn’t one.

  Oh sure, there’s been an attempt to ensure privacy. But this attempt is basically a folding door that doesn’t quite slip into place in a satisfactory manner. A folding door. Not a robust, solid door that one can slam shut and lock out unwelcome eyes, ears and random sexual deviants. Nope, we have a structurally-suspect bit of folding wood that does little to instill a sense of personal freedom and relaxation.

  Now, due to the unique layout of Bubbles’ abode, I fully understand why someone chose to install a folding door at some point in the history of the dwelling. The bathroom is located in a slightly-odd manner, abutting a fairly narrow walkway leading to the master suite. If a real door had been utilized, and you weren’t paying attention as you exited the privacy chamber, you could easily knock an unsuspecting visitor over the railing of the walkway. They would then plummet to the lower floor, creating an unsavory, bloody mess that might make people avoid consuming the tasty hors d’oeuvres you had spent hours preparing for the dinner party.

  This simply wouldn’t do. Ergo, the folding door, which was less likely to cause body displacement and humans falling from the sky, disrupting otherwise benign after-dinner conversation.

  However, the folding door did not prove a soothing balm to someone like me, who has issues with anyone overhearing my attempts at recycling. I don’t want people to be aware of my doing that. I want them to think that I have had this activity outsourced, and that someone in another country is doing Number Two for me. That’s just my thing.

  In essence, because of the folding door, I basically had not contributed to the Circle of Life since we arrived in Philly. Couldn’t do it. People could hear, and thus things slammed shut. I would try, of course, but no one on the assembly line was willing to cooperate, and union stewards were filing grievances about the unsatisfactory working conditions.

  Now, I could tinkle with complete freedom, no issues there. But that leads us to yet another complicating factor for this morning in question. The previous night, Terry and Bubbles had slipped off to bed a bit before I did. I had stayed up, working on yet another blog post, because that’s what I do with half my life. I eventually reached a stopping point and decided to join my slumbering family.

  But first, before slipping into bed, I needed to release the last bit of beer I had consumed. So I slipped into the facilities, did my thing, and then tried to exit the comfort station.

  The door was stuck.

  What the hell?

  I jiggled and wiggled the thing, trying to be discreet because the house was now silent and people were in dreamland. But I soon surmised that my subtle escape attempt was getting nowhere.

  Frustrated, I gave the door an especially strenuous tug.

  And the door slipped out of the sliding track thing and was only still standing up because I was holding the knob in my hand.

  I took a deep breath. Things weren’t that bad, all I had to do was get the door back into the track, and then run like hell. But that wasn’t in the cards. No matter what I did or tried, the freaking door would not go back in the track. I pushed and pulled and cussed. Nothing. And I was really making a lot of racket. At some point, Bubbles or Terry was bound to wake up, firmly convinced that Satan was in the bathroom and ready to take our lives.

  So I finally gave up. And left the folded door propped against the door jamb. Really nice of me, right? Very considerate. But what was I supposed to do? Wake Bubbles up in the middle of the night, hollering about tearing up her house? That really wasn’t necessary. She’d certainly figure it out in the morning.

  And I went to bed.

  Flash back/forward to the next morning. Bubbles and Terry are downstairs, waiting for me to get my ass moving so we can eat and Bubbles can have her toes pampered. My digestive system is so backed up at this point that I’m waddling. I’m miserable, and I haven’t had any coffee.

  I peek out of the bedroom door.

  The folding door for the bathroom is miraculously back on the track, most likely courtesy of Bubbles, so it’s apparently not the first time said door has proven to be a challenge for drunken idiots. I slipped into the bathroom and very tenderly slid that door closed.

  I almost skipped the morning constitutional, because really, what was the point? Things were not going to happen, not until I was back in Texas, that’s just how things went. But just as I reached to turn on the shower, a telegraphed message was received at company headquarters. Incoming. Incoming NOW.

  Oh?

  Well, then. I could hear Bubbles and Terry, still downstairs, still laughing and running around and apparently occupied. Maybe I could do this. Maybe, for once in my life, I could get this done quickly without all the trauma and straining.

  I assumed the position.

  And yes, we appeared to be on an express track. We had bubbling and gurgling. All systems go.

  So, of course, right at that moment, both Terry and Bubbles decided to thunder up the stairs, laughing and carrying on and hollering for me to hurry the hell up because they were HUNGRY.

  The portal slammed shut.

  Just shoot me now. Please.


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The Bubble Bath, Part 17

  Editor’s Note: We’re still in that sports bar on a Sunday afternoon in Philly. The bartender has attempted to make a vodka gimlet, something that no one in this city has ever heard of or seen. I am now sampling his creation…

  And it tastes like total crap. Oh well, he tried.

  I smile grimacingly at Belinda the server. “That’ll work.” She beams and scampers back to report the false positive news to Scotch and his battered book of bartender secrets. They seem awfully giddy and happy with themselves, so I slightly regret giving them the encouragement to think they can actually do something important with their lives.

  Bubbles looks at me. “He didn’t do it right, did he?”

  “Nope.” I brace myself for another sip of the foul brew, continuing my pointless charade. I’m continually lying to people just so they don’t feel bad. To this day, certain co-workers and family members think that I actually like them when I really don‘t. Perhaps some day I’ll snap and tell the truth to everybody around me, but at this moment in my life I haven’t taken enough prescription drugs to adequately prepare me for such an event.

  Luckily, despite what else the bartender has thrown into his mix of deception and desperation, he’s followed the age-old ploy of bartenders tasked with making a drink that is unfamiliar and possibly not even real: just throw in enough alcohol that the patron won’t care after a few swallows, because their tongue will have gone numb. Halfway through the drink, I once again loved everybody in the world. I even managed to pay minimal attention to the football games on the TV’s, because people were yelling a lot and that seemed like fun.

  So our little gang proceeded to spend a pleasant hour or two in a bar that we would probably never see again. This is the beauty of vacation drinking. You can basically do whatever you want, since most likely you will not make a return visit to the scene of your crimes and get to see the notice posted on the front door that you are no longer welcome, accompanied by a picture of you doing the lambada (“the forbidden dance!“) whilst waving a half-eaten burrito and drooling on yourself.

  The only incident of note during this otherwise carefree afternoon took place when I slipped outside to have a smoke. (This seemed to be a recurring theme during our visit to Philly. I slip outside to satisfy an addiction, and wackiness ensues.) This bar had a long, narrow patio area in front, facing the street, with the umbrella-sporting tables currently empty because of the crappy weather and the slight chill in the air. I politely marched to the far end of the patio, away from the entrance, because I really do try to be considerate when billowing clouds of carcinogens.

  Things went rather swimmingly for the first few minutes, as I relaxed and perused the passers-by on the sidewalk, again marveling at how fashion seemed to be completely irrelevant in this city. I also studied the immense older building across the street, covered in ornate detail, and speaking of a different time when grand buildings were the rule and not the exception.

  Then the family arrived.

  A younger couple, man and woman, with layered, slightly-bohemian clothing to ward off the nip in the air, pushing a baby stroller wherein was plunked a small child most likely of the male gender. The little tyke was also layered, although mostly with colorful blankets and toys that had been ignored since the day the boy was introduced to this means of transportation wherein he was basically bound and could not move.

  The couple came to a halt directly in front of me as I stood on the bar patio, close enough that I could have reached out and tapped my ashes into the beehive hairdo that the woman had found necessary to create for her familial outing. Then they just stood there, young Mortimer or whatever softly cooing in his cushy prison and gently flailing one arm about, a gesture that could mean simple contentment or was a directive to sell Verizon stock when it hit 35 bucks.

  This was mystifying. Why stop here, right in front of a man who is clearly smoking, when there were acres of unoccupied concrete in all directions? They weren’t reviewing the lovely example of architecture across the street, they couldn’t possibly be perusing the restaurant menu tacked to the front door because it was way over there, and I didn’t see any demarcations that this particular spot was designated as a waiting area for some type of public transportation.

  They just stood there, not saying a word. (Well, little Morty had a lot to say, but he was speaking in a language that I hadn’t used in quite some time. Besides, the tender urchin didn’t appear to require any responses to his babbling, secure in his conviction that all of his edicts would be immediately carried out by the giant people who served him, even if they didn’t know the correct way to drape a scarf on one’s shoulders.)

  Well, I felt a little awkward. After all, I was smoking, still had plenty of length left to my chemically-drenched tobacco stick, and therefore would be expelling more noxious vapors for the next several minutes. It didn’t seem right that I should be doing this near non-smoking people, especially when one of the trio had little control over his physical positioning in life, strapped in a carriage where Mommy insisted on hanging stupid animals that affected his peripheral vision and smelled like old formula.

  I quietly pretended to see something of interest in the distance, stepping off the patio and moving a good fifteen feet down the street, taking up a new stance near a currently closed shop that proffered artwork for sale “by appointment only” (translation: you can’t afford anything in here so just keep walking”). I continued my pretense by gawking at ugly, horrid oil paintings depicting flowers and inbred royalty sitting about in gold-leafed chambers, waiting for servants to lift the soup spoons to their mouths and then tilt their heads back so they could swallow.

  Amazingly, the couple released the parking brake on the baby carriage, and began to move in my direction. They stopped directly in front of me, once again, and just stood there, once again, not looking at me, but close enough that I could see a birthmark, shaped eerily similar to Australia, on the man’s neck. They continued to not speak.

  What was going on?

  Did they want to ask a question, but were simply too shy to utter the words? Were they interested in a three-way sexual tryst of some kind? (They obviously were familiar with the mechanics of exuberant slap-and-tickle, as evidenced by Exhibit A in the stroller, currently batting at one of the hated hanging animals and making hissing noises.) Did they perhaps want to adopt me, havin learned that little Exhibit had proven far too intrusive in their social agenda, and they were hoping to exchange for an older model that could be left to his own devices should someone call with exciting news of a wine-tasting weekend in Sonoma?

  I moved back to my original location on the patio.

  They followed, still with the not saying anything.

  I stabbed out my cigarette in a nearby soggy ashtray, blew my final gust of smoke directly up into the sky instead of downward into the lower altitudes where little Mortimer lived with his hated fringe of animals in nooses, faced the man, and cleared my throat. “Can I help you… with something?”

  He and the woman both looked at me quizzically, as if totally stunned that anyone was standing near them. (You’re kidding me, right?) The man studied my face, his own visage a complete blank. “No,” he muttered, and then both of them turned back around to resume staring at nothing.

  I sighed, marched back into the bar, and walked up to Bubbles at our table. “I just don‘t understand these Philly people.”

  Bubbles waved her hand in a dismissive manner. Been there, learned that. Then she continued telling Terry about the 1984 Prince concert that had changed her life in an interesting and miraculous way.

  Eventually we grew a little restive, packing up our things and heading back to Bubbles’ hacienda. (Along the way, we stopped at Target, and I have this to share about the chain of retail stores: A Target is a Target is a Target. It doesn’t matter where you go in the country, the same things are happening. Unsupervised children running and screaming like they have a bad case of worms, shifty people openly shop-lifting and glaring at you if you glare at them, and check-out lines where you should not be surprised if you find a used diaper shoved into the candy display.)

  Once at Bubble’s Love Shack, as were going about getting settled in for the evening, I was startled to hear Bubbles hollering for me to come upstairs to help her with something. Slightly concerned, because you never know with Bubbles, I headed up the creaky, time-worn wooden stairs to see what her issue might be.

  She was standing in her bedroom, next to a large, odd-looking contraption that was actually taller than her own body. She smiled brightly. “I’m going to show you how I invert myself, and then we can do you!”

  What in gay hell?


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The Bubble Bath, Part 16

  Editor’s Note: We have just entered a sports bar on a Sunday afternoon in Philly. We are fully expecting the upcoming experience to be a wild circus of testosterone and people who didn’t understand the concept of “inside voice”…

  This did not turn out to be the immediate case.

  Yes, there were several large TV’s scattered about, all of them showing men in various colors of tights knocking each other down in the interests of moving a football to this little area where you could do creative victory dances. I normally didn’t watch such stuff, but I knew enough to realize that the simple airing of these games usually caused people to bellow directives at the screen. This didn’t seem to be happening.

  In fact, the sprinkling of patrons in the bar seemed to be rather sedate, calmly watching the goings on whilst quietly sipping beverages. This was slightly unnerving. There should be boisterous behavior and back-slapping, not lethargic consumption of what looked like weak tea. Something was very wrong here.

  Troubled, we decided that perhaps we should distance ourselves somewhat from this dubious gathering of Stepford people, in case whatever they had was communicable and there was the possible risk of ours truly behaving ourselves in the same discreet manner. That simply wouldn’t do.

  We moseyed our way to a small group of tables on a long, slightly-raised platform running along the front windows of the establishment. This elevation factor satisfied our natural gay (and gay-friendly) tendencies to both dominate a room as well as arrange ourselves in a manner that allowed the regular folk to see how fabulously we lived. It’s just something that our people do.

  Once settled, we waited with anticipation for someone to arrive and see how they could satisfy us in a beverage-serving capacity. This took a bit longer than I really expected, getting dangerously close to a minimum-grade annoyance level. Finally, some woman wandered out of wherever they were storing her, and approached the table.

  She inquired if we might be interested in menus.

  We were not. No, we just wanted to drink. Thanks for checking, though.

  This relieved her somewhat, realizing that she wouldn’t have to transport hot plates across the massive expanse of the restaurant and then climb that dreaded single step up to our viewing platform. Well, then. How would us lovely people like to start off on our journey to inebriation?

  Bubbles and Terry announced their selections, and our server, who we’ll call Belinda, nodded sagely, as if they had made a smart choice that would allow them to live to see another day. Then she turned to me.

  “I’d like a vodka gimlet, please.”

  She looked at me as if I had just spoken disparagingly about her vagina. “Excuse me?”

  “A vodka gimlet.”

  She turned to Bubbles and Terry, deeply concerned. Apparently I was a foreigner visiting her beloved country, and I was having trouble with the language. Could one of them possibly assist with a translation?

  They could not, staring at me with same look as Belinda, as if I really shouldn’t be talking about personal orifices in such a manner, especially since we had just met Belinda and it was a bit unseemly of me to be so intimate.

  I sighed. “A vodka gimlet,” I repeated, as if repetition would somehow solve this impasse, and Belinda would suddenly be struck by a bolt of insight out of the overcast, slightly dreary Philly sky. Stranger things have happened. But not this time.

  Belinda reluctantly turned back to me, hesitant and a bit dismayed that I might start making more tribal gruntings that she did not understand. She did, however, remain professional in our conversation, trying to prepare me for possible devastation and loss concerning my request. “I’m not sure he can make that, but I’ll check.”

  By “he”, I’m assuming she meant the bartender, who was currently standing behind the nicely-carved wood of the bar, and staring at a bottle of Scotch in his hand, as if wondering how the mysterious item had managed to get there. My prospects were dim.

  Belinda hustled off to place our apparently-challenging drink order. Since the staff would most likely have to consult some reference material, or possibly even the Vatican, it might be a while before we could expect to quench our thirsts. So we turned to gaze out the windows and people watch for a bit until Belinda and Scotch could work on their intimidating task.

  Now, I am by no means a fashion expert. For years, my favorite attire has been an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt, preferably without a pocket, because I don’t care for my chest to be uneven. That’s it. So it’s really not my place to judge the efforts of folks who might want to gussy up a bit more.

  However, the parade of people passing by outside (and just WHERE were so many people going on a dreary Sunday afternoon?) had all apparently signed some type of clothing manifesto which required them to wear outfits that were starting to the eye. This was not just sloppiness or disinterest in their appearance.

  This was calculated couture abuse.

  Nothing matched. Nothing. None of them had ever heard of an iron, or hair product, or clothing that didn’t have a stain of some kind. Things were unbuttoned, torn, or generally disheveled. The general theme seemed to be that if anything you were wearing actually coordinated with anything else, then you were doing something unforgivably wrong.

  I tried to get Bubbles’ attention. “Am I really seeing this?”

  Bubbles couldn’t even tear her eyes away long enough to glance in my direction. “I told you I hate Philly.”

  Then a horrible thought struck me. What if I was so out of touch with current fashion that my sartorial sense had been irreparably damaged, leaving me adrift in a hopeless sea of non-worth and decay? Would there be eventual retribution? Would I have to surrender my gay card for failing to keep up with critical developments in Paris and Milan? I was nearly immobilized with fear and confusion.

  But that only lasted about three seconds and I was over it. When you get old, you just don’t care as much. About anything.

  There was a clatter and a clump as Belinda returned from the bar, bearing our drinks on a small serving tray and smiling bravely. She placed frosty offerings in front of Terry and Bubbles, and waited for them to sample such. They both did so, and then nodded approvingly. Of course their drinks were fine. They had had the decency to order things that people could recognize. I, however, had offended nature and mankind by speaking in an unknown dialect and requesting a drink formerly unknown on this planet.

  Belinda turned to me, still bravely smiling, although I could detect a bead or two of sweat on her otherwise unblemished forehead, her tender skin completely free of wrinkles because she was still young and hadn’t yet faced enough disappointments in life.

  She gently set my glass on the table and gave it a delicate push in my direction.

  Behind her, I could see Scotch pretending like he wasn’t leaning over the bar in anticipation of my review, even though he was. Gathered before him were roughly 700 bottles of liquors, liqueurs, and mixers, along with the remains of a lime that had clearly been violated in a societal uprising of some kind. So at least he had tried, and therefore I must show appreciation for his efforts. Even if the showing resulted in the frantic calling of medical authorities.

  I raised the glass to my lips…


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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 13

Editor’s Note: When last we met, I was standing outside a beer store in Philadelphia. Bubbles and Terry were inside the store, probably making friends with everybody, because they have that kind of skill. I had stayed in the parking lot, because I don’t want to make friends, and I don’t want that skill. Sadly, two members of one of those dreaded “parking lot gangs” were marching toward me in the murky dimness…

  I glanced around me, looking for random items lying about that could be used to, you know, kill these people if I didn’t like them. In my quick search, I only spied part of a discarded cheesesteak sandwich (such things are everywhere in this town) and what might have been a used condom. I really couldn’t fathom how either of these could be used in a violent manner, so I braced myself to perform the kung-fu moves I always imagined myself doing but had never actually learned.

  The duo came into full view, stopping a few feet away from me. Turns out it was a man and a woman, with that odd genetic resemblance indicating that their brother and daddy might be one and the same. This did not relax me.

  “Yo,” said the man. “Sup?”

  Okay, I can do street. I’ve watched “Oz” a time or two. “Just hangin’. My bitch and his bitch is in the sto, gettin’ some gin and juice.” (Which they actually were, so I wasn’t really lying. Just being stupid.)

  The woman spoke up. “How yo bitch gotta bitch?”

  The man decided he didn’t need help from Jack McFarlin, and gently shoved his companion into the side of a trash can. He looked back at me. “You gotta light?”

  Oh, that’s easy. “Sure.” I whipped out my slightly-salty lighter that had survived my romp through the ocean at Atlantic City. I held it poised before me.

  “You gotta cig, too?”

  I pondered this. Of course I had plenty. Bought with money I had earned from a job I went to every day. I had not taken the slacker route by sitting in a beer store parking lot and waiting for ignorant people to smoke in front of me and prove that they had nicotine supplies. Then again, I also was jobless and nearly homeless back in my day. It was not my place to judge. “Sure, man.” I held out my pack, fully expecting them to take the whole thing.

  Instead, he just took two, handing one to his sister/mother as she still leaned against the trashcan, not happy and fiddling with her trampy top. I lit them both. “Just two?”

  He exhaled. “Sure, man. Just waitin’ on a ride. Thanks.”

  They wandered back into the darkness.

  Times like this, you wonder. How do people get where they get? And how close am I to getting somewhere I don’t want to be?

  I finished my own cigarette, then plunked it in a half-empty beer bottle standing underneath a sign reading “Consumption of alcohol not allowed on premises.” Great. People in Philadelphia can read just about as well as people in Dallas. I hopped back in the Bubble Craft, and started scrounging around for my netbook.

  Just then, the door of the beer store slammed open, and Bubbles and Terry came trouncing out with their goodies. There was a brief flurry of activity as purchases were stored and secured, then Bubbles maneuvered her jetliner out onto the main road again.

  Once we were airborne, Bubbles finalized the rest of the evening’s agenda. “Should we get something to eat?”

  Oh. Well, I just wanted to drink until I was happy again (sue me) and food might cause a problem with that. Terry didn’t seem all that excited, either.

  But Bubbles was not to be dissuaded from whatever her agenda might be. She began throwing out dining options that were available in Philadelphia after ten o’clock on a Saturday night. As with any major metropolitan area, the variety of choices was rather expansive. And confusing. It’s so much easier when the only thing open is Taco Bell. I miss Oklahoma.

  Then Bubbles said something that immediately damned us into a locked progression of events. “How about we get some cheesesteaks and take them home?”

  Well, I’d already seen the tossed-aside remnants of such a sandwich at the beer store, so her words made some subconscious inner connection in my fried brain cells. After all, we were in Philly. Shouldn’t we partake of the namesake sandwich? I sealed our fate by stupidly saying: “That sounds great. Let’s go!”

  Terry made a small noise that roughly translated as “you are NOT touching me in an intimate manner until we leave this city.”

  Bubbles immediately whipped out her transponder and punched in the coordinates for our new destination. The rocket ship responded instantly, as we hurtled through the various urban roadways and exit ramps until we were in an older part of town. (Which I guess isn’t really saying much, since it’s Philly. Everything’s old. Everything.) Before I could properly focus, we were racing down streets originally intended for horse carts, not exhaust-belching, AC-deficient terror machines driven by a short, Hispanic woman fueled by the unquenchable desire to annihilate everything in her path. Bubbles did things with that car that would have made Mario Andretti make the sign of the cross, and then apologize to his sainted mother for everything he had ever done in his life.

  Swallowing nervously and trying to remain calm, I tentatively asked our Automotive Dominatrix where we might be headed.

  “To Pat’s, of course,” she responded, said with an air of total disbelief that I wasn’t intimately familiar with this destination.

  I wasn’t. “Pat’s?”

  Bubbles sighed, flipping on the windshield wipers so that they would displace the homeless person she had just hit and was now resting uncomfortably on the windshield. “Pat’s!” she barked.

  This did not make things clearer.

  I glanced at Terry. Are we going to die?

  He glanced back. I don’t think so. But maybe. Are we caught up on our insurance?

  Well, we were, but this knowledge did not prevent me from making a whimpering noise. I glanced at my netbook, nestled on the seat beside me. I hoped it had enough draft blog posts on it to fully explain the mysterious circumstances surrounding my sudden death during a quest for cheesesteaks. I wasn’t sure that it did.

  Bubbles suddenly slammed on the brakes, mashing my once-youthful face into the back of her seat. As I spat out something crusty that had adhered to her headrest, I slumped against the car door, my head hanging out the window that had been rolled down for days now. My weakened and battered eyes observed a surprisingly small establishment just across the intersection from us. Something had to be going on, because there were roughly 4,000 people milling about said venue.

  “We’re here!” said Bubbles, then punched it through the intersection and began honking at a couple who were just then heading to their car parked alongside the building. Apparently, in Philadelphia, thought transference was a necessary skill when it came to dining out. Bubbles did not understand why the couple was not racing to their car and relinquishing the parking space. Bubbles honked again.

  I quietly touched Terry on the shoulder. We had a good life, didn’t we?

  He nodded absently, waiting for a shotgun to be whipped out.

  The innocent couple finally figured out how to operate their car and drove off into the night. Bubbles instantly maneuvered the rocket ship into the vacated space. She slapped at some shut-down buttons on the ship’s control panel and then grabbed her purse. “Let’s go, bitches!”


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