That’s according to Mark Twain, and he should know. I’m pleased to announce that, in cooperation with my publisher, FUZE Publishing, I will be teaching a six-week online course in writing humor, beginning in November. I look forward to having a lot of fun. For more details, please follow the below link, and don’t forget to click on the video.
https://mail.yahoo.com/d/folders/1/messages/AP9xEPI3OrbtX328pAAH0Kn-yEo
‘Tis the political season again and time to trot out a couple of my short plays with a political bent. I’m starting with “The Running Mate,” which has been performed in Oregon, California, and Delaware. The play is eight years old, which means some of it is dated. But, then again, so am I.
SYNOPSIS: A party’s nominee for president, hoping to get a big bounce in the polls, makes a surprise announcement to his inner circle when he selects his VP running mate minutes before a national press conference.
CHARACTERS:
GOVERNOR: (M) – A man in his mid-60s, a commanding presence, well-groomed and nicely dressed. He wears a red-white-and-blue tie and has a flag pin in his lapel.
MITCH: (M) – The GOVERNOR’s exhausted campaign manager, late 30s. He’s dressed in wrinkled clothes, with a tie loosely hanging around his neck and shirt not tucked in.
CHRISTINA: (F) – The GOVERNOR’s attractive, 20s-30s, high-energy press agent on the cutting edge of a nervous breakdown. Very expressive with her hands.
PAT: (F or M) – The GOVERNOR’s aide, early 20s; a Yes Man or Woman in the making.
SETTING: Someplace in America. A bare-bones office setting. A small desk or table with drawers and four chairs. On the table are three huge file folders or bundles of paper.
AT RISE: MITCH: talks on his cell phone.
MITCH:
As soon as I know, you’ll be the first person I call. Promise. Gotta go. Love ya. Say hi to the kids.
(Mitch shuts down his phone as the Governor, Christina, and Pat enter.)
GOVERNOR:
In a few minutes, I’m expected to walk out there in front of a mob of reporters and announce my running mate. What do you have to tell me, Mitch?
MITCH:
I’ll need your full attention.
GOVERNOR:
All right, y’all. Cell phones off.
(They shut down their phones.)
MITCH:
I narrowed it down to three.
GOVERNOR:
Are they all viable?
MITCH:
Very viable.
GOVERNOR:
Willing to join the ticket?
MITCH:
Chomping at the bit.
GOVERNOR:
What about Senator Banks? I rather like him.
MITCH:
He’s not one of our final three, Governor.
GOVERNOR:
And why is that?
CHRISTINA:
Sir, uh. Once those rumors started about you considering a perky woman as your running mate…
GOVERNOR:
Yes?
MITCH:
The Senator started wearing lipstick and rouge.
CHRISTINA:
Even got his eyelashes extended.
GOVERNOR:
Eyelashes. What is he seventy, seventy-five?
PAT:
Off the record, sir, I heard the Senator started wearing his wife’s outfits and high heels around their hotel room.
GOVERNOR:
Senator Banks in stilettoes? Good God, didn’t someone tell Warren there’s no such thing as a perky seventy-year-old cross dresser? Let’s remember to keep the good Senator and his family in our prayers. Mitch, please continue.
MITCH:
Just so we’re on the same page, I want to review the criteria we agreed on for picking the ideal running mate. First, very strong name recognition was at the top of our list.
GOVERNOR:
Definitely. With cross-over appeal.
MITCH:
Possibly a minority —
GOVERNOR:
— But of a large enough minority to make a difference.
MITCH:
A well-known family man —
CHRISTINA:
— Or woman.
GOVERNOR:
Someone respected by the average Joe.
MITCH:
But capable of taking over in case, God forbid, something happened to the President.
CHRISTINA:
It’s important the person has enough clout with big donors to raise funds.
PAT:
We need a big bounce out of the announcement, people.
GOVERNOR:
Pat’s right. Five points ain’t gonna cut it.
MITCH:
Understood, Governor.
GOVERNOR:
Before I select my running mate, let us hold hands for a moment and pray to the Lord God Almighty for guidance.
(They stand, join hands and bow their heads. Long beat. Governor opens his eyes.)
GOVERNOR: (CONT’D)
I’ve made my decision.
MITCH:
Sir, you haven’t heard my recommendations yet.
GOVERNOR:
I’ve decided to go in a different direction.
(Governor stands, paces. The others watch.)
MITCH:
Sir?
CHRISTINA:
We’re running out of time, Governor. The press is waiting.
(Governor stops pacing. He stares at his team.)
GOVERNOR:
I am selecting God to join me as my running mate.
MITCH/CHRISTINA:
God???
GOVERNOR:
You heard me. God.
CHRISTINA:
Oh — My — You know!
MITCH:
God. You can’t be serious. Is he serious? He can’t be serious.
GOVERNOR:
I’ve never been more serious. God will be my running mate.
MITCH:
You’re picking the Supreme Being for the number two spot???
(Christina spreads her arms ala crucifixion.)
CHRISTINA:
The press will crucify us!
GOVERNOR:
Nonsense, Chrissy. Hear me out. This thing will have legs. We can repaint our plane and call it “The Hallelujah Express.” Tour bus, too. Write it down, Pat. We said we wanted name recognition, cross-over appeal, a tireless fund raiser. We wanted to think big picture. I can’t think of a bigger picture than God, can you?
PAT:
Doesn’t get any bigger.
CHRISTINA:
But you can’t. It’s impossible. Your VP can’t be. I mean, everyone will think. I can’t even say the word…. Mitch? Some help here.
MITCH:
I spent months vetting just three candidates. Do you know how long it’s going take me to vet God? Where am I going to find a birth certificate? … I can’t believe I just said that.
GOVERNOR:
No vetting required. God — I might remind y’all — is perfect in every way.
MITCH:
The VP must be an American citizen. It’s in the Constitution.
GOVERNOR:
If my opponent wants to claim that God is not an American, I say bring it on.
CHRISTINA:
You can’t pick God as your VP! You can’t. You can’t. You can’t.
GOVERNOR:
That’s our new campaign slogan. Write this down, Pat: “God is my VP.” Can you see it? “God is my VP” on millions of bumper stickers, billboards, t-shirts, coffee mugs.
PAT:
Don’t forget sky writing and stone tablets.
GOVERNOR:
I like it.
CHRISTINA:
Wait a minute. There is the problem of appearances.
GOVERNOR:
What problem is that?
CHRISTINA:
How do you expect God to appear next to you at rallies? Or on television?
MITCH:
No one’s even sure what God looks like.
CHRISTINA:
That’s right. How can we make posters, campaign buttons, mailers?
PAT:
Michelangelo painted God on the Sistine Chapel.
GOVERNOR:
Good thinking, Pat. See if we can get the rights to the painting.
CHRISTINA:
Isn’t there a commandment against showing pictures of God? You know, graven images and all that?
GOVERNOR:
We can let the lawyers work that out. But y’all may have a point about appearances.
MITCH:
This is insane.
GOVERNOR:
Remember, God is always present. He doesn’t have to be seen. His presence can be felt.
(Mitch sits and stews.)
CHRISTINA:
What about interviews?
PAT:
I believe God’s views are already well known.
CHRISTINA:
(To Pat)
Stay out of this, weasel breath.
GOVERNOR:
(To Pat)
What were you saying about interviews?
PAT:
Interviews might be redundant.
GOVERNOR:
Good call. That’s our position: no interviews. God will not be available for interviews.
CHRISTINA:
What about his policy positions? I don’t think they’re current or specific enough.
GOVERNOR:
Not specific? The Bible’s full of specifics.
PAT:
You can’t get more specific than Leviticus.
CHRISTINA:
What are God’s positions on… Interstate commerce, oil drilling, financial regulations?
GOVERNOR:
Have you forgotten about Jesus and the Money Changers? “My house shall be called the house of prayer; but ye have made it a den of thieves.” Matthew chapter twenty-one, verses twelve and thirteen.
CHRISTINA:
What about. I don’t know… Immigration?
GOVERNOR:
We’ll remind them of the exodus of the Israelites from Egypt.
PAT:
Not sure we want to go there, sir.
GOVERNOR:
Why’s that?
PAT:
You might recall the Israelites returned and reclaimed their land. Don’t think we want to give our amigos to the south any ideas.
GOVERNOR:
Ah, good point.
CHRISTINA:
Mitch, feel free to jump in here any time.
GOVERNOR:
My running mate’s positions — and my positions — will be based on the Ten Commandments. Chapter and verse. Couldn’t be any simpler or clearer.
CHRISTINA:
How do you propose the other side debates God?
GOVERNOR:
We can hire an actor who sounds like God, a James Earl Jonesy voice. He can stand off-stage and quote from the Bible. Plenty of good material in the Good Book.
PAT:
Morgan Freeman’s played God at least once.
GOVERNOR:
There you go. See if we can lock him up under contract.
CHRISTINA:
What will the other side say?
GOVERNOR:
What can they say? If they criticize our ticket, we’ll accuse them of blasphemy. And if we run too far behind in the polls, well, our VP can smite down the opponent’s plane with a bolt of lightning. ZAP. CRASH. Game over. We win.
CHRISTINA:
(Mortified)
Are you recommending assassination as a strategy for winning the election?
GOVERNOR:
Of course not. I was just kidding, Chrissy. [he looks to the ceiling] You knew I was kidding, right?
(Mitch stands and walks over to the Governor.)
MITCH:
I say this with all sincerity, sir. As someone who worked on your last two campaigns and who has spent fourteen months working twelve-hour days riding in buses and sleeping in filthy hotel rooms and eating crappy food, almost all of it deep-fried. I did all that to help secure the delegates needed for you to become the party’s presidential nominee. So, what I’m about to say I say with the utmost respect, as an American citizen and as a husband and father who has only seen his family three times in the last year … YOU ARE OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND!!!
GOVERNOR:
No need to use that kind of language, son. Starting today, this campaign will have a Swear Jar. From now on, it’s a dollar for every naughty word. And there will be no taking of the Lord’s name in vain. Is that understood?
(Mitch hands the Governor a five-dollar bill.)
GOVERNOR: (CONT’D)
What’s the five dollars for?
(Mitch turns away from the Governor and hurls one bundle of the vetting papers off the table.)
MITCH:
Shit.
(Mitch hurls the second bundle.)
MITCH: (CONT’D)
Shit.
(He pushes the final bundle off.)
MITCH: (CONT’D)
Shit-Shit-Shit!
GOVERNOR:
In the morning, after y’all had a chance to sleep on it, you’ll find I made the right call. At some point, you will come to realize the sheer brilliance of this move. God will make the perfect running mate. I promise you. People will be talking about this for years.
CHRISTINA:
You got that right.
GOVERNOR:
We’ll be making history.
CHRISTINA:
Psychiatric history.
(Mitch takes two dollars out of the desk, SLAPS the money down. He walks over to the Governor and first points at him and then at Pat}.
MITCH:
Fuck You! … Fuck You!
(Mitch turns to Chrissy and points at her.)
“and… and … Fuck You, too!!!”
(Mitch pulls out a crumbled dollar and throws it on the desk. He sits, dejected. Everyone stares at him. The Governor turns and looks at the others.)
GOVERNOR:
What do you say we go out there and put the fear of God in my opponent?
(They exit. After a beat, Christina returns.)
CHRISTINA:
Get your ass out here. I’m not doing this alone.
MITCH:
Give me a sec, would ya? I want to call my wife.
CHRISTINA:
You better not leave me hanging.
(Christina exits. Mitch places a cell phone call.)
MITCH:
Congressman Bradley? Mitch Green here. Are you still looking for someone to manage your campaign? I could start right away.
END OF PLAY
After the fifteenth duet of “On the Road Again,” Chet turned off the CD player without saying anything. Lonnie missed the cue and kept singing solo, until his voice trailed off and the van became silent, except for the normal grunts and groans of the van’s arthritic shock absorbers. The two friends stared silently at the road ahead.
A couple of miles later, Lonnie, who was never sold on the concept of silence being golden, started a new conversation thread.
“I’ve been thinking about belly-buttons,” said Lonnie, grasping the topic out of air and totally out of context, apropos of nothing, as they say. Chet didn’t bite. Lonnie continued. “I mean, whales are mammals, like we are, right? So, do they have belly buttons? If so, how big are they? You know, the belly-buttons. What about elephants? Big belly-buttons, I’m guessing. Huge. Ever wonder if their belly-buttons are innies or outies?”
“Lonnie, shut your pie-hole,” said Chet. “Can you give me at least five minutes of silence? Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking. I beg you. Five minutes, man. That’s all. How hard is that?”
“Okay,” answered Lonnie, sheepishly. Under his breath, he added, “Jesus, don’t have a cow.”
Chet thought about past regrets. As a struggling photojournalist, he could barely make rent. Sure, he covered the usual run of weddings and bar mitzvahs and senior class photos but those were sporadic and paid little, when they paid anything at all. But all that changed once he teamed up with Ivan Fort and began taking photos, real and fake, for The National Hearsay. His photos helped to feed the country’s unquenchable fascination with celebrities and scandals. In the early years, it was fun and wildly profitable. At some point, he couldn’t recall exactly when, Ivan began paying him to take secret yet indiscreet photos of the rich and famous committing unsavory and sometimes illegal acts. Parties thrown by The National Hearsay were legendary and everyone who was anyone wanted to attend.
With an interminable supply of potential victims, Ivan Fort would then blackmail the unlucky celebrity, creating an off-the-books revenue stream by playing both sides of the catch-and-kill business. Ivan didn’t want what happened in Vegas to stay in Vegas. What was the point of that? More importantly, where was the money or power? Instead, he threatened to take what happened in Vegas and make sure it went public and global. Once Chet realized Ivan was more interested in extortion than publishing an entertaining tabloid for the masses, he quit. The magazine still used the occasional photo by Chet but only because its editor had final say on the images purchased and Ivan no longer cared about the day-to-day operation of the magazine. Chet had left ten voicemail messages for Ivan, letting him know he’d be in Las Vegas and asking if they could meet. Chet wanted to heal old wounds, if possible, and was still waiting to hear back. He was also still waiting for money Ivan owed him for published photos. If he had to choose between healing or money, he would gladly take the money.
While Chet engaged in deep thoughts, Lonnie cracked his knuckles and rolled down his window. He put his right hand out, pushing it against the force of the wind, as if arm wrestling Mother Nature. Lonnie would grab a handful of air, then lower his arm and let it go, a process he mindlessly kept repeating. He understood why dogs always looked so happy when they stuck their head out of the window of a moving car. He thought about trying it out for himself, but was afraid of falling out of the car at a high speed. Falling and hitting the ground wasn’t his main concern; working as a movie and TV extra, he had plenty of time to watch professional stunt performers and knew how to survive a fall with a good roll. What really worried Lonnie about falling out of their moving car is what it would do to Chet, who seemed on eggshells lately. All that was missing was a Do Not Disturb sign around Chet’s neck, so Lonnie waited and kept his head inside the car.
Chet broke the silence with, “Did I ever tell you about my early years as a celebrity journalist, when I was just starting out?”
“Like the time you got punched in the gut by Peter Dinklage’s stunt double. And the time Lindsay Lohan’s father shot at you with a flare gun and hit the craft services tent instead and all the junk food went up in smoke. Wish I could have seen that. All those fried Ding Dongs must have been really something. Somebody should have put that shot in a movie.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. Those are just stories. You know, what they call anecdotes. I’m talking about history. I got my start around the same time as Ivan Fort started The National Hearsay. In fact, my photos helped build that damn magazine, for better or worse.”
“Ivan Fort. Every time I say it, I want to laugh. Ivan Fort. Is he a little Fort. No, he’s a big Fort,” said Lonnie. “Did you just Fort, Ivan?”
“What are you, ten?”
“You’re right. Sorry. I mean I’m totally impressed you know Ivan Fort and all that, as in personally know him, like friends. That’s awesome, man.”
Chet nodded. “Yep. He owes me.”
Lonnie chuckled. “What’d you do to make him owe you, save his life or something? Throw yourself in front of one of his ex-wives and her team of lawyers?”
“Nothing like that. He owes me for photos of mine he used over the years, not just the magazine photos. Other pictures. Secret ones. And I plan to collect.”
“How ya gonna do that?”
“Not sure yet. I’ll figure it out when the time comes.”
Chet and Lonnie stood in the registration line at the front desk of the Rio Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas. Lonnie fidgeted as they waited in the longish line, the desired marketing result of very cheap hotel rates.
“How long you think this will take?” asked Lonnie.
“It’ll take whatever it takes. It is what it is,” answered Chet.
Lonnie thought about it for a second and then blurted out a typical Lonnie response.
“It are what it are.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know,” said Lonnie. “It just came out. Maybe it’s my new catch phrase. We could put it on a t-shirt and add it to our merch. What do you think?”
“‘It are what it are’ don’t make sense,” said Chet. “Besides, it’s grammatically incorrect. Even I know that. Only a loser would wear something like that on a shirt.”
“Chill, man. It was only an idea.”
Lonnie looked around nervously, as if in quick need of a urinal. But it wasn’t waste elimination management that had captured his attention. He was itching to gamble. Chet sensed what Lonnie wanted and pulled a five-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to him. “I know you can’t wait. Go play a slot, and I’ll check us in.”
“Thanks, man,” said Lonnie, as he took the money and turned to leave.
“Hey, don’t go too far. I don’t want to have to hunt you down.”
“Not a problem,” said Lonnie. He took the money and disappeared down an aisle of colorful slot machines, instantly merging into a jungle of overly perfumed lady gamblers, cigarette smoke, and relentless noise. His heart raced. The sounds. The smells. He loved it all. Inside of his own body he imagined he drooled, if that were possible, like a kid with a sweet-tooth gazing through a candy store window. On either side of him were several attractive options, all asking for his money, machines crying “feed me” based on popular TV shows, including Wheel of Fortune and Friends, Elvis, The Simpsons, slot machine displays of sexy women and circus acts and exotic wildlife and manly sports themes – every visual come-hither-look imaginable.
Lonnie wasn’t so easily distracted because he knew exactly what he wanted and was willing to hold out until he found it. As a long-time fan of televised professional poker games, many of which take place in this very city, he had his eyes set on a poker machine. He knew he didn’t have the cash to buy-in to a real poker game and play with the likes of Justin Bonomo and Daniel Negreanu or the two Phils, Ivey and Hellmuth, but he thought a slot machine might represent an entertaining substitute and maybe provide the grub stake he needed to eventually win big. A little acorn, a mighty oak, and all that. Besides, he knew how to play poker and felt he had an innate knack for reading tells.
To Lonnie’s disbelief, it seemed the slot machine world had moved beyond the basics of poker and was now all-in on crazy, flashing, video cartoony machines that made more noise than sense, everything from Cleopatra to sharks, and none of the slots had anything to do with poker. It took several minutes to find what he was looking for, and when he did Lonnie didn’t hesitate. He put his five-dollar bill in a .25 cent poker machine, pressed the Deal button, and watched the electronic cards shuffle.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t really pushed the Deal button. Instead, he had pressed the Maximum Bet button which was inconveniently—but intentionally—placed next to the Deal button. Before he could sit on the swivel stool and get comfortable, he had lost all but five quarters worth of his investment. “What the hell?” said Lonnie, as he slapped the side of the slot machine in anger. He immediately cashed out and took his credit slip of a buck and a quarter with him.
In a lonely nook, Lonnie finally found a slot machine more to his liking and settled in to play. Seconds later, Lonnie waved to a cocktail waitress who carried a tray of drinks at the other end of the slot machine aisle.
“Yo. Can I get a drink here? Gin and tonic?” shouted an upbeat Lonnie. “Not for free you can’t,” the cocktail waitress snapped and walked away without waiting for his reply.
Lonnie didn’t see Chet approach.
“I thought I told you to stick close by?” said a furious Chet.
“I did.”
“Yeah, right. I just walked a frigging marathon to find you. Come on-come on-come on. Cash out and let’s go. We’re all checked in.”
“Can’t leave yet, man,” said Lonnie. “I’m winning. Never quit a winner. You taught me that. And I’m already like three-hundred up.”
“No shit? Three hundred?” said Chet, impressed. He leaned over Lonnie’s shoulder to get a good look at the machine. “Wait a minute. You’re playing a penny machine!”
“Yeah, so?”
“You realize three hundred credits is three dollars. I gave you a five. You’re not up, man, you’re like down two dollars.”
“Can we stick around for my free drink. I ordered a gin and tonic from the waitress and don’t want to miss it” said Lonnie.
“Nobody playing a penny machine is getting a free drink in any casino in this town,” said Chet. “Look at it from her perspective. What were you gonna tip her, a nickel?”
“I’m thirsty.”
“You want a drink? Okay, let me show you how to get a free drink in a casino. Pay close attention. I should start charging you for all these life lessons.”
They walked through the casino until they found a change booth, where Chet exchanged $100 dollars for ten $10 playing chips. He grabbed a half-empty tall cocktail glass that sat abandoned next to a slot machine and led Lonnie to the craps table. At the table, Chet edged closer to the action, rolling the chips in one hand and someone else’s drink in another. When a cocktail waitress served drinks to the players around the table, Chet handed her the glass he was holding and asked for a gin and tonic refill. As if an afterthought, he asked her to bring one for his friend as well and she nodded.
Mission accomplished.
Chet and Lonnie, drinks in hand, walked back to the change booth, where Chet exchanged his temporary player chips for his original cash.
“What do you say? Let’s go get cleaned up and then hit the Strip,” asked Chet. “We can bring the gear and take some shots. This town is a walking photo album.”
Lonnie downed the rest of his drink. “We ain’t left yet?”
They went to their room, cleaned up, and grabbed their camera gear. Both put on tropical shirts, colorful but cheesy Tommy Bahama knock-offs purchased at a flea market in San Jose. Just as Lonnie opened the door for them to leave, Chet’s cellphone ringtone went off and the two men re-entered the room. Lonnie plopped on his bed, slightly annoyed at the disruption, and listened while Chet opened the call.
“Photomajek. Chet Grimes speaking.”
All Lonnie could hear was Chet’s side of the conversation. “Yes.” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. “There are two of us. Me and my business partner.” Pause. “Awesome. Sounds fantastic. We’ll be there. Please give my best regards to Ivan. And again, thanks for the great news!”
Chet shut down his phone and turned to Lonnie. “We have a private appointment with no less than Mr. Ivan Fort Esquire tomorrow.” They high-fived each other.
“Whoo-Hoo!” said Lonnie, then asked. “What time?”
“Not sure,” answered Chet. “That was his personal secretary. She said to be there at 8 a.m. when the building opens. Said his schedule is packed but they’ll fit us in somewhere. Here’s the kicker: she said her boss was looking forward to this moment.”
“Whoo-Hoo! Whoo-Hoo! Whoo-Hoo,” repeated Lonnie, as he danced around the room. He shadow-boxed and then gave an enthusiastic karate kick that smashed a table lamp, which broke into jagged pieces like a jigsaw puzzle. They both stared at it.
“Shit, Lonnie, who the hell do you think you are, Metallica?” said Chet. “You’re gonna have to pay for that.”
“Sorry, man. Guess I’m wound up. Being in Vegas and all.”
“You think? We need to get you to the Strip before you rip the TV off the wall and throw that sucker in the pool. You’re no Keith Moon.”
“Who?”
When they finally got to the Strip, it was night time and just as awesome as Lonnie had always imagined. Flashing lights, camera, action. The street was like an international petri dish of tourists gone wild. Chet and Lonnie took photo after photo of staggering, intoxicated, screaming adults who came from sedate places, such as Iowa, and who worked in boring professions, such as actuaries, and then totally went ape-shit in the desert. Every hour the two friends captured the impressive Bellagio water fountain show; in-between taking photos, they kept busy playing the role of tourist. They rode the roller-coaster at New York-New York. They laughed at the tacky Elvis impersonators; Lonnie called them “amateurs,” the lowest species in his personal animal kingdom. Chet won $75 on roulette and cashed out. Lonnie was $100 up on a quarter machine but eventually lost it all. They ended their evening at the famous Carnival World Buffet at the Rio and ate everything from shrimp cocktails to pot stickers to tamales; they ingested so much food, in fact, that the expression “bust a gut” became a likely possibility.
They were back in their hotel room by two and sleeping in their clothes on top of their respective beds. Before leaving for their night on the town, Chet had the foresight to set a wake-up call for 6 a.m., which came, as it always does in such situations, much sooner than later.
Chet knocked the ringing phone off the hook, shouted obscenities at no one in particular, and with only one-eye open and reporting for duty, took a much-needed shower. The water on his body felt recuperative, and he emerged from the bathroom a new man. He felt reborn. He went over to the snoring Lonnie and shook him several times until he woke up.
Thirty minutes later, Lonnie emerged from the bathroom fully dressed and ready to go. Chet shook his head in disapproval. “You are not going to meet Ivan Fort looking like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know. That stupid thing you do with your shirt. You’re wearing it inside out again.”
“It’s my juju.”
“I don’t care if it’s your first cousin.”
Lonnie stood his ground. “Letting the inside of my shirts get a chance to see the outside world always brings me good luck.”
“Karma doesn’t work like that.”
“I told you before, Chet,” said Lonnie, pushing back forcefully and in his dead-serious voice. He was not messing around this time. “It’s my juju, it’s not karma. It’s juju.”
“It’s stupid, is what it is.”
“You want me to go without a shirt? Fine. Okay. Sure. I’d be glad to walk topless into The National Hearsay. Hell, I might even go there bottomless.” Lonnie was confident his in-the-buff bluff would work.
“All right. You win. Let’s hope nobody will notice it’s inside out. Just don’t stand too close to anyone. You got that?”
Chet pulled the van into a handicap parking spot near the front entrance. Lonnie opened the glove compartment, removed their fake handicap parking permit, and hung it around the rearview mirror. They entered the glass doors into the light-filled atrium with the sparkling Chihuly glass sculpture hanging precariously from the ceiling, as if the sword of Damocles had been put back together with a thousand shiny pieces of colored glass. The lobby walls were plastered with framed past issues of The National Hearsay, a salute to the insatiable gullibility of Homo Sapiens Sapiens.
Lonnie turned to Chet and said, “Man, there are some great stories here.”
“Hmm,” replied Chet
“Check out these headlines: Severed Head Runs for Congress and Wins!… Bigfoot Captured Wearing Fishnet Stockings … Man Gives Birth to His Own Brother. Wow. Incredible news stories. Although I’m not so sure about that last one.”
Lonnie read another headline aloud: “French Chef Dies in Umami Explosion.” He thought about it for a second and asked, “What’s an umami?”
“How the hell would I know. I only provided pictures. I never paid attention to the words,” answered Chet, without stopping to look at the framed tabloid cover.
As they walked down the hand-made Italian tiles that led to the security desk, Lonnie’s mouth said it all: he was slack-jawed with wonder. The security guard raised a hand and halted their progress. He said they couldn’t proceed without a badge. Chet said they had an appointment with Mr. Fort and would only be there for an hour or so. The guard asked the purpose of their visit and said they would need to wear guest pass badges. He told them he’d have to check with the receptionist to see if they really had an appointment. Before Chet could answer, he heard a voice call out, “Chet. Hey, is that you, Chet? Long time, no see, man.”
Chet turned to see Stan Robinson, a graphic artist and old acquaintance from his days freelancing for the tabloid. Stan walked toward them. Chet introduced Stan to Lonnie and the two former co-workers chatted about old times. Two minutes in, the security guard interrupted the conversation and asked Stan if he knew the two men? Stan vouched for Chet and the guard said that was good enough for him. He handed them each a temporary guest pass badge and had them sign the guest log. Just like that, they were in the house. Stan said he had to run off to a meeting and, in parting, told Chet they should get together for coffee or a happy hour drink some time, a reunion both men knew was unlikely.
Chet announced their arrival to the bubbly receptionist, who looked like a teenager in her short skirt outfit and ponytail, which was kept in place by a pink scrunchy. He told himself it looked like Ivan still had a thing for young girls.
“Chet and Lonnie from Photomajek here to see Mr. Fort,” said Chet. “We have an appointment.”
She smiled at them. “Good morning, gentlemen. I hope you’re having a good day. Let me check Mr. Fort’s appointments calendar.” She typed on her computer, checked out the screen, then delivered the bad news. “I don’t see an appointment for you.”
Lonnie looked over at Chet and frowned.
“Wait,” the receptionist added. “Yes. Looks like I have special instructions. Mr. Fort would like you gentlemen to take a seat in the lobby and wait for him.”
Chet nodded. “Any idea how long?”
“Well, Mr. Fort is a very, very busy man, as you know.”
“We’ll wait.”
Lonnie noticed a small bowl of candies on the counter next to a stash of Fort Media business cards. “Are these for free?” he asked. The receptionist smiled. “Help yourself.” To Lonnie, those are two magical words. He grabbed a handful of candy, along with several business cards.
“Really?” Chet looked at him and asked.
“Come on. She said I could take them.”
The receptionist suddenly looked uneasy. “I can’t guarantee when Mr. Fort will be free to see you. It might be a long wait.”
“It is what it is,” said Chet, immediately wishing he would have said something else. He winced, waiting for the pain. He didn’t have to wait long.
“It are what it are,” Lonnie said, with a wide smile.
The cute receptionist giggled and said, “Hey, that’s funny. I’ve never heard that one before. Thought I’d heard them all.”
“Yep. He’s an original,” quipped Chet. “His brain has a mind of its own.”
“Would either of you gentlemen like coffee? There’s a self-serve espresso machine in the corner and donuts. Help yourself.”
“Thank you kindly, ma-am,” said Lonnie, who felt he was already developing a rapport with the cute receptionist. But having missed breakfast, his stomach won out over his heart.
Chet and Lonnie walked toward the coffee machine.
“Sir?” asked the receptionist.
Chet turned and said “Yes?”
“Not you. The other gentleman.”
Lonnie turned and beamed, “Yes, ma-am?”
“Uh, hmm. I’m not sure, sir, but I think your shirt is inside out.”
“It is.”
“Oh. In that case, the rest room is around the corner, if you want to change,” she suggested.
“I’m wearing it inside out on purpose,” bragged Lonnie. “I feel sorry that the insides of my shirts never get to see anything, so sometimes I wear ‘em inside out. I like to give the other side of my shirt a chance to see the world.”
Chet folded his arms and smirked. He waited for the woman to laugh out loud at crazy Lonnie.
“Oh, that’s so sweet,” she said and smiled. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so sweet. You’re funny and sweet. Some girl’s gonna be very lucky to hook up with you.”
Now it was Lonnie’s turn to smirk, and he did.
At the car wash, Chet and Lonnie sat inside their vehicle like two kids on a low-budget amusement park ride, oohing and aahing as the large soapy brushes slapped the van. To the two men, it was an orgiastic display that only served to remind them of their current unplanned and undesired celibacy. When the van emerged a cleaner and brighter shade of pale, Chet pulled the vehicle off to the side near the do-it-yourself vacuum cleaners. The men jumped out to inspect the results. After a couple of deep breaths, they frowned, shook their heads, got back in the van and drove through the car wash a second time.
“Want to go again?” asked Lonnie, as they emerged from their second pass.
“No,” said Chet. “The smell will probably go away once we get on the highway.”
“I wouldn’t want to be behind us.”
“You won’t. Unless I leave you at the side of the road.”
“Ha, ha,” said Lonnie. “Pull up to that Dollar Store over there. I need to get some things.”
Chet drove the van across the strip mall parking lot to the Dollar Store, as requested. Lonnie left the van and entered the store.
While waiting for Lonnie, Chet beat the steering wheel to the sound of music that played only in his mind. Suddenly, he remembered his CDs and opened the glove compartment. He withdrew his favorite traveling album: The Very Best of Willie. It featured more than just songs by Willie Nelson, even though that would be enough, as far as Chet was concerned. For bonus points, the album included songs with Waylon Jennings, Merle Haggard, Dolly Parton, Leon Russell. Some of the all-time greats from the 1980s. And what memorable songs, too. Heartbreak Hotel, Always on My Mind, Pancho and Lefty. The one about babies growing up to be cowboys. Chet never left home without that CD.
Lonnie opened the passenger door and climbed in. He was wearing five Black Ice car air fresheners around his neck.
“Jesus, Lonnie. Are you retarded?”
“I can’t get the smell off my body.”
“You think hanging those things around your neck gonna make a difference?” asked Chet.
“Can’t hurt,” defended Lonnie. “Besides, the smell’s not on your skin. It’s on mine, and I can’t get away from it. It’s not like I can remove my skin and throw it in the washing machine.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“You want an air freshener?”
“No. What else did you get?” asked Chet.
“Munchies for the trip. Beef jerky, chips, pretzels, candy. Some extra sunglasses,” said Lonnie. “You ask me, Dollar Store’s the best place to buy sunglasses. You lose ‘em or sit on ‘em or whatever and you’re only out a buck.”
“Maybe you should go to work for Consumer Reports,” snarked Chet.
“What’s that?” asked Lonnie.
“A joke. Never mind. Let’s roll,” said Chet, flipping down his own Ray-Ban Original Aviator knock-offs he had purchased last year for five dollars at a flea market.
As they pulled out of the strip mall, Chet popped Willie in the CD player and started it. He didn’t get far into the album, however, and was still two songs away from the best road trip song of all time, “On the Road Again,” when Lonnie turned off the CD player.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Lonnie.
“Oh, here we go. You’ve been thinking,” answered Chet.
“Do you have to be Irish to sleep in a Murphy Bed?”
“Of course not.”
“Right. I knew that. But it made me think. What if we made beds to fit a country?”
“You mean a Murphy Bed would be like the national bed of Ireland or something?”
“No,” said Lonnie. “I mean a regular bed. But modified to fit the country. You know, different beds for China, India, Spain, Russia. Only the biggest countries. The smaller ones like Cuba wouldn’t be worth the effort.”
“Okay, genius, how would a bed be Irish?” asked Chet.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s lumpy. Maybe we make the mattress out of mashed potatoes or something. I mean who doesn’t like mashed potatoes, right? Or we could fill it with those good luck four-leaf clovers. I imagine they’d make the mattress smell nice. Not to mention bring good luck in the sack. If you know what I mean.”
“Don’t quit your day job, Lonnie.”
“This is my day job. Working with you and thinking up the next big thing. That’s my day job.”
“Right. And as part of your day job, you can start by checking Google maps. Let me know how long it’s gonna take us to get to Las Vegas.”
“Vegas?” asked the confused Lonnie. “I thought we were going to Roswell.”
“We are. We don’t have to be there for a couple of days. They’re giving out the award the night before the big Fourth of July parade. So, first we’re going to stop by The National Hearsay and pick up a check. Fort still owes us for those Kardashian photos,” said Chet. “He stiffed us on those Lindsay Lohan in rehab photo series we did, too. I checked our outstanding invoices and he still owes us for nine photos. With all his money and he stiffs the little guys. What a prick.”
“What about the ones we faked about the Kardashians having a naked croquet party with the Trumps in Bel Air?” asked Lonnie.
“No.”
“The ones we faked about the Kardashian sisters going topless and worshipping a Tiki God while roasting a whole pig on Thanksgiving?”
“No. Those fake photos didn’t fool anyone. Those were for third-rate publications in Eastern Europe and Asia,” said Chet. “I’m talking about the real photos.”
“Oh. Yeah, right,” said Lonnie. “I forgot about the real Kardashian photos. Those were a bitch to take. I almost got myself killed, which is why I don’t like thinking of them. Thanks for reminding me, bro.”
“You didn’t almost get yourself killed,” said Chet. “The hedges broke your fall.”
“Yeah, well, that’s easy for you to say. You weren’t the one rolling off a roof full of Spanish tiles with nothing to grab onto. I could have died. Next time you want a shot like that, use a drone.”
“How long a drive to Vegas?”
Lonnie stared at his smartphone and answered, without looking up.
“Take I-70 South and follow the signs to I-15 North. Should take us about four hours.”
“How about we drive in silence for a bit,” suggested Chet.
“Okay,” said Lonnie. “But—”
“No buts. Silence is golden,” said Chet.
“Okay.”
Five minutes later, Lonnie was struck with another brilliant idea that he knew was better than gold. “You know what the worst thing about going to a funeral is?” he asked.
Chet didn’t look at Lonnie or even answer. Instead, he put the Willie Nelson CD back in the player and turned up the volume. This time he fast-forwarded through the album and started with “On the Road Again.” He joined in with Willie and sang the words as loud as he could. After a minute, Lonnie started singing.
And thus began a most heinously bodacious road trip.
Both Chet and Lonnie sat inside the van wearing N95 respirator masks, since what remained of their Bigfoot costume still rested on the roof above, ripening in the early morning L.A. sun. Lonnie said something to Chet, who couldn’t understand him and shouted back at Lonnie, who shouted something garbled back. Finally, Chet removed his mask and asked Lonnie what he wanted. Lonnie pulled his mask off and asked how come they were still driving around with stinky Bigfoot on the roof? Chet told Lonnie not worry because they’ll take care of it next. First things first, and they needed to load up for their trip to Roswell. They both put their masks back on and exited the van.
Lonnie pulled open the garage door to their rented 10 x 10-foot storage unit, which they referred to as their Props Department because it was fully provisioned with masks, wigs, fake backdrops, and the like, including a hodge-podge of video cameras, recorders, and lights, most of which still worked. The storage unit included full-size mannequins of several VIPs and celebrities, featuring the usual tabloid suspects of Donald Trump, Melania Trump, Elvis, Richard Nixon, Marilyn Monroe, Bill and Hillary Clinton. Chet’s motto was that society was fickle, and you never knew when an out-of-favor celebrity would become a hot property again. As a result, once Chet invested in a mask or a costume, he kept it. There was no use in trying to reinvent Elvis or Marilyn or Count Dracula. What would be the point? And, perhaps more importantly, why spend the money?
They removed their respirator masks and went to work. Lonnie grabbed an extraterrestrial costume, a bald and high forehead number, and its accompanying body suit, which was fish-belly white and hairless. He carried out several of their most popular costumes and hung them on the closet rack inside the van, including a cheap Bigfoot outfit that was clearly not as convincing as the one on the van’s roof. Quality stood out, even in their industry.
“When you’re done picking up the props, let’s get our gear,” said Chet. “We can get some shoots in along the way. Better to be safe than sorry. Grab the extra Canons and Nikons, would you.”
“Which lens?”
“All of them, especially the telephoto.”
Lonnie loaded the equipment in the van, under Chet’s watchful eye. “Where’s my telephoto?” asked Chet, after his partner was done.
“Uh, I couldn’t find it,” said Lonnie.
“Well, go back in there and find it. I asked you to put it away the last time. Did you put it away?”
“I did. I put the telephoto lens away. I swear.”
“That sucker’s expensive and worth every penny,” said Chet. “I used it to capture Gwyneth Paltrow at Shake Shack chowing down on a double-cheeseburger with bacon. For your sake, you better hope we find it.”
“I’ll find it. I’ll find it. Just get off my case, you know,” replied a defensive Lonnie, who couldn’t recall where he put the lens and felt a knot form in his stomach. It seemed he was always misplacing things, even when he didn’t realize that’s what he was doing.
“For future reference and just to be clear, you’re not just to put stuff away when I ask you to,” said Chet. “The idea is to put stuff away where it belongs. Got it? Check over by the lights and cables.”
Lonnie checked through the clutter of lighting equipment and stumbled several times before finding the telephoto lens. “Found it,” he shouted, then turned to face Chet. He held the long ultra-telephoto zoom lens positioned at his groin.
“Hey, Chet, check this out. What do you think of my woody, huh,” said Lonnie.
“It wasn’t funny the first ten times you did it and it’s still not funny. Quit horsing around.”
“Hey, what about the merch?” asked Lonnie. “Let’s take it with us to Roswell. Dude, I can sell it there and pick up some extra cash.” Chet shrugged a why-not.
They carried the last remaining boxes of their Homies versus Zombies merch to the van: hats, mugs, t-shirts, some fake zombie heads, and a large poster mounted on foam core used to promote the movie.
Chet surveyed the van’s inventory one last time before closing the storage unit. “We have enough equipment here to shoot the zombie apocalypse. Shit, I almost forgot. We need pepper spray.”
He reentered the storage unit, opened a cabinet, and pulled four small containers of the spray, and added them to the bag.
“Can pepper spray stop a zombie?” asked Lonnie.
“You were in a zombie movie. You tell me.”
“No. You got to cut off the head.”
“That’s right,” said Chet. “The pepper spray is in case any crazy shit happens with a redneck. We’ll be staying in cowboy country and need to take extra precautions. Man, I love their music, but I hate their attitude.”
“What attitude?”
“They think their privacy is sacred. That’s why they prefer all that home on the open range shit and hate having neighbors.”
“Idiots,” added Lonnie. “That’s unAmerican.”
“You got that right, but look at it this way. All that my-privacy-is-sacred nonsense is good for business. If people didn’t want to invade someone else’s privacy, nobody would buy our photos,” said Chet, as he pulled out of the storage area and reentered traffic, screeching and leaving quick-get-away tire marks. It was all for dramatic effect and a false sense of urgency, because they had a long drive ahead of them to reach Roswell, and would need to make a few stops along the way. Second things second: they had to dispose of stinky Sasquatch.
Chet pulled the white van up to the large dumpster behind Pet Smart. He and Lonnie jumped out, untied the Bigfoot costume from the roof, and tossed it in the dumpster.
“That was my favorite Bigfoot costume, man; it was custom-made in Tijuana. Cost me $500. Shame to have to get rid of it. Thanks for ruining Bigfoot, Lonnie, thanks a lot,” said Chet, shaking his head in disgust.
“What? Don’t blame me, man. You’re the one that told me to walk next to that skunk.”
Chet chuckled, as he thought of something else. “Someone sees that thing in there, he’s going to think it came from the pet store and died,” he said, always one to appreciate a good prank.
“Good riddance,” said Lonnie. He saluted the costume by extending a middle finger from both hands.
The men jumped back inside the van and sped away.
“Where to next?” asked Lonnie.
“Fedex. I need to overnight our alien photo entry to Roswell. The deadline for entries is tomorrow.”
“You sending them a photo of moi?”
“Of course,” said Chet, chuckling. “You’re my favorite Martian.”
Chet drove to a Fedex store and parked in the handicap spot in front. He grabbed a sealed manila envelope and turned to Lonnie. “Stay in the van. This will only take a minute.”
A minute was a very subjective concept, as it turned out, and after ten minutes Chet found himself still in line, waiting to overnight the photo. He sniffed and without looking knew that Lonnie had entered the store and stood by his side.
“Could you buy me some postage stamps? I’d like to send my mom postcards from Roswell. She’ll really like that,” said Lonnie.
Someone in line said, “Who let the skunk in?” Two people entered the store, took one whiff, and walked back out.
“I told you to stay in the car,” Chet said to Lonnie without looking at him.
The clerk in the well-pressed Fedex uniform behind the counter pointed a finger at Lonnie. “You. Out of here. Now.” Lonnie looked at Chet for confirmation, who nodded.
Chet thought charging $25 for sending an envelope was outrageous and told the clerk so, as he paid the money and then returned to the van.
“You get my stamps?” asked Lonnie.
Chet handed him a small packet of Forever stamps. “Happy?”
“Cool. Thanks, man. Okay, now where?”
“Car wash,” said Chet. “The one on Victory Boulevard. Maybe you should ride on the roof when we go through it.”
“Not. Funny.”
During his lunch break at The Gravity Works, Arthur sat at his usual small table in the employee lounge. He washed down the last bit of lunch with a personalized glass of water, his own home blend of filtered aqua bolstered with antiviral and antioxidant properties. Now finished with lunch, Arthur stood to leave, just as Michael joined him.
“Hey, short-timer,” said Michael. He placed his lunch on the table and sat across from Arthur.
“Next stop, Roswell, New Mexico. Planet Earth,” said an unusually upbeat Arthur. He sat back down.
“I bet the family’s excited.”
“Beyond belief. They’re home packing right now, and I plan to leave work in a few minutes and join them,” said Arthur. He stood, smiled broadly, and gave a thumbs-up sign. “I’d say wish us luck but I doubt we’ll need any.”
“If I know you, preparation has already met opportunity.”
“You got that right. I’m totally prepared for any contingency. I created a spreadsheet, with various scenarios, and have a good handle on what to expect,” said Arthur. “We’re on the first shuttle out to the Spaceport in the morning, and I didn’t want to wait until the last minute. I’ve been packed and ready to go for three days.”
“You must be excited. I’ve never known you to leave work so early,” said Michael.
“How often does one get a chance to take his family to another planet?” said Arthur, on his way out of the cafeteria.
“Did you already get your shots?” asked Michael.
Arthur stopped and turned to look at Michael. “Wait. Shots. What shots?”
“Vaccine injections to protect you and your family from polio, rabies, malaria, zika virus, dengue fever, chicken pox, mumps, meningitis, schistosomiasis, measles, yellow fever, shingles, typhoid, and two types of hepatitis. At least those are the shots I recall we had to take,” said Michael. “That was two years ago, so they might have more. To be on the safe side, check with your Small Universe agent.”
“Nobody said anything to me about vaccinations,” said a rattled Arthur, as he returned and sat down across from Michael.
“They may wait and give you the shots at the Spaceport. It would be more efficient that way. Besides, they will need to customize your vaccines depending upon where you will be spending most of your time on the planet,” said Michael. “When we took our Earth tour, we opted for the global package, which meant we had to get vaccinated for a multitude of diseases. Thirty-seven countries in ten days. Never again. By the time our tour was over, it was all a blur. Fortunately, we bought picture cards from everywhere we went. Next time, we’re picking one location and staying put. We’d rather really get to know a place than jump around like a nervous tick.”
“Good point. Since we’re staying mostly in Roswell and not planning any side trips, maybe we won’t even need shots,” said Arthur, reminding himself that frugality often comes with hidden benefits. He stood, fully recovered from the notion of getting inoculated, ready to exit the lounge.
“That’s wishful thinking, my friend. You’ll need them, all right,” answered Michael. “Are you afraid of a little inoculation?”
“Not me. Doris.”
“Remember, Earth is a dangerous, backward planet compared to most of the other life-supporting planets in the universe. Quite primitive, all things considered. You’ll need to stay on your guard and take plenty of precautions.”
“Could you be more specific?” asked Arthur, as he slowly sat back down.
“Your tour director will fill you in on the details.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t worry, Arthur. It’s still a great place to visit, even though I wouldn’t want to live there. And they haven’t lost any tourists yet. Or if they have lost tourists, they haven’t advertised that fact, which would be understandable because it would be very bad for business. Statistically speaking, bad news travels five times faster than good news. So, yes, why would they?”
Distracted, Arthur asks: “Why would they what?”
“Why would they advertise they lost a tourist during one of their Planet Earth tours.”
“They lost a tourist?” said a worried Arthur.
“Not that I know of. I was just using a hypothetical,” said Michael.
“Hmm.”
Arthur stood and finally left the lounge area. He rubbed his bare chin, deep in thought. Michael watched him leave, then said under his breath, “There’s always a first time.”
Back at the Fogg house, Doris was busy cleaning, in anticipation of their upcoming vacation. Now, one might think that a house could be ignored just before starting vacation, but that was not the way she viewed the situation. Mostly, though, she was nervous about their trip and cleaning kept her mind from worrying. A disappointed Danny sat and watched his mother work.
”I can’t believe Dad’s making us go there. Why can’t we go someplace really fun instead of cheap and boring?” Danny complained.
“Your father thinks it will be fun. For all of us.”
“Dad’s not a fun guy. Can’t I stay with Grandma?”
Doris wasn’t buying. “What would you do at her house? Drive her crazy? No.”
“Ray says I can stay with them.”
“Don’t even think of asking,” answered his mother.
“How about this? I could stay home and take care of the house,” said Danny, with fake enthusiasm.
“Home alone? I don’t think so.”
“Why do I have to go?” pleaded Danny.
Doris finished putting away dishes, quickly washed her hands and wiped them clean. She raised an authoritative index finger at her son.
“Because we’re a family and it’s what families do. We are all going, including you, and that’s final. We’re going to the Spaceport first thing in the morning, so make sure you’re packed and ready to go,” said Doris. After a pause, she continued, “You know your father. Once he creates a plan, he sticks to it, and absolutely will not tolerate deviations, especially tardiness. No excuses.”
“I don’t even know what to pack,” whined Danny.
“The brochure said you only need to pack for travel to and from the Spaceport. We’ll be provided Earth-friendly outfits upon arrival. That way we’ll blend in,” countered Doris.
“Well, in that case, maybe I won’t bring anything.”
“I don’t care. Just make sure you’re ready to go tomorrow morning.”
“Vacations are supposed to be fun. But not my vacation. Nope. Mine’s going to be boring. You might as well send me to prison,” said Danny.
“Don’t act so childish,” said Doris.
“I am a child.”
“Which is why you’re going with us. End of story,” said Doris.
On the way to his bedroom, Danny brushed by Sara, who entered the kitchen talking to a friend over a mobile device. She was multitasking and putting on makeup and didn’t see her mother standing there.
“I don’t know. Some dumb rock called Earth. Look, I don’t want to be seen on this planet with my family why would I want to go to another planet with them?” said Sara.
Doris tapped on Sara’s shoulder and held out her hand. Sara put her mobile device in her mother’s hand, groaned in frustration, and stormed off to her bedroom.
“Don’t forget to pack,” shouted her mother.
In bed that night, Arthur crossed his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling while Doris packed. “I don’t know what to wear on the flight tomorrow,” said Doris.
“Uh-huh,” said Arthur, still thinking about his conversation with Michael during lunch.
Doris held up three single-piece alien outfits and showed them to her husband. “I can’t decide between chrome reflector, abyss black, or sea mist green,” she said.
“Uh-huh,” Arthur replied.
“So, you think I should wear the uh-huh outfit?” she teased.
“Uh-huh.”
Doris walked over to the bed and sat.
“All right, something’s bothering you, Arthur Fogg. What is it?” she asked.
Arthur stared at his wife and waited a few seconds to answer. “I’m wondering if this vacation is such a good idea. We’ve always stayed close to home. We’ve never been off planet. You know me. Mr. Careful is my middle name and Caution is my game. It’s going to be safe, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Of course, we’ll be safe. It’s a guided tour of a small part of a small planet. It will be very localized. What could happen?”
“Only about a million things out of my control,” said Arthur.
“Don’t exaggerate. You’re a scientist, it’s unbecoming,” said Doris.
“We can’t afford any mistakes. I must be overlooking something. I should be better prepared. I must be better prepared.”
“Nonsense. You’re the most prepared person I know,” said Doris. She patted his hand gently for reassurance. “Don’t be so paranoid, dear. They run these tours all the time.”
“I guess I’m tense about tomorrow,” said Arthur.
Doris climbed into bed next to her husband and stroked his face affectionately. She kissed him. “I know what will relax you,” said Doris, as she caressed his body. “What do you say, Sailor? One for the road. For good luck.”
Arthur pushed her hand away. “Not tonight, dear. I have paranoia.”
He clapped his hands and the lights went out.
DNC theme: We the People.
RNC theme: Wee Wee the People.
BREAKING NEWS!!! Because of recent extramarital affairs involving Jerry Falwell Jr. and his wife, Liberty University will be changing its mascot name from “The Flames” to “The Pool Boys.”
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