Rod's Alter Ego

I'll tell you what's worse than being forced to pay for what you don't want, single ply toilet paper. Airport maintenance stuffs the rolls in those stainless dispensers so frickin' tight that all you get is one sheet when what you really need is a fistful. Far worse than the progressive income tax in my opinion, much worse. Earlier in the trip, at check in on the Anchorage to Seattle leg, lucky me was selected for special screening. This because the Alaska ticket agent had keenly spotted that my driver's license was expired. For a moment there I didn't think they were going to let me board. Who knows if this will be a problem on the return trip. Damn, I hope not, it's one helluva drive to Alaska from Houston. Oh, wait, I wouldn't be able to rent a car with an expired license! Does Greyhound serve Anchorage?

By the way, what do people mean Bush hasn't created any jobs? For every TSA monkey probing you with a wand there are eleven standing idly by gawking like perverts. At my special screening the wand kept beeping near my crotch. The goon asked me, "Got anything metal in there?" "In where," I asked cockily? Uh oh, this guy has the sense of humor of a nun in a brothel. "Sir, please undo the snap on your pants." I promptly complied, and, being the exhibitionist that I am, I went a little further than he expected and not only undid the snap, but unzipped my fly as well, and then started to pull my pants down. "Whoa! Whoa! ...sir, please, that's enough... yes, yes that will be fine, right there...that's all I need to see." He stepped closer and once again waved the wand near my crotch. Still it beeped. He's frustrated. I let out a laugh. "Must be the snap on your jeans," he mumbled. "Must be," I winked back.

Other than that the flight to Seattle was uneventful. I slept some of the way, and read a short story by Christopher Buckely (son of the erudite William F Buckley) in the latest issue of the Atlantic Monthly. He's supposedly a good friend of P J O'Rourke, who's got a pithy essay in there as well about the Howard Dean debacle. Check out the books these guys write, especially Thank You For Smoking by Buckley. Funny stuff.

My Continental flight to Houston was overbooked. A lot of people jumped at the agent's invitation to give up their seats for $200 and perks on a future Continental flight. I thought screw that -- going to Houston is like going to the dentist, you want to get it over with, and fast. The equipment was a 737 model "pinch-ass." One of the flight attendants was an elderly man with shiny silver hair and a severe case of Rosacea. Another was an elderly woman with Chiclet-white teeth wearing at least a half a tube of crimson lipstick. She was sporting a blonde bouffant hairdo that looked like she had just come from the jet way -- "hair brought to you by GE Turbofan." Accordingly, I named her "Bouffant Barbara." The other attendant was relatively young, short but sweet, with jet black hair and a lusciously inviting dark complexion that I wanted to believe disguised deep mystery. Her smile could crash ships on rocks. Just as I stepped off the gangway and onto the plane she was lifting the PA phone to make an announcement to the passengers. She paused briefly and I took the opportunity to flirt. "Calling home," I asked with a smile. She played along, "Yup, I'm calling my mother, do you want to speak with her?" "No," I said, "I don't know her, but already I dig her daughter." That earned me an expected blush and extra perks the rest of the flight. I shuffled past first class and down the aisle finally folding myself into seat 10C.

We took off on time and before long the flip-down screens above the seats emerged and the movie previews began. Three and a half hours to Houston and a Kathryn Zeta Jones movie, could have been worse I thought. But there was something wrong; the previews were jerky, starting and stopping, and then the screens themselves started acting flaky -- up, down, up, down, etc.. Kind of comical actually, but I wasn't paying much attention. Rosacea man got on the PA and promised us a quick fix. By that time the Starbucks Macchiato I got in Seattle was ready for departure so I made my way aft to find the head. While waiting in line, the attendant with the siren smile rubs against me as she squeezes by and says, "One of the bathrooms is broken." I tell her, "Must be on the same circuit as the video, huh?" I could tell she really dug my humor. The problem in the bathroom was that the faucet in the sink wouldn't shut off. Roseacea man, having failed to fix the video problem, appeared suddenly and dropped to his knees outside the bathroom door -- "I'll fix it," he said. Sure you will, I thought, sure you will. Sure enough, about thirty minutes later he's back on the PA announcing that the faucet is fixed. At that very instant (I'm not making this up) the flip-down screens reappeared. The movie began again and played flawlessly for the remainder of the flight. Then the guy sitting next to me offers to buy our whole row a drink with a bunch of Continental vouchers he wanted to burn. In short order siren smile appeared perkily with our drinks. In order to serve the guy in the window seat she leaned over me in a most generous way that I didn't mind at all. Sweet.

All this puts me in a good mood for our landing in Houston. We taxi to the gate which, distance wise, is like taxiing between the Twin Cities. Inside the terminal on the half mile walk to baggage claim I stopped at Starbucks for another espresso. I noted the airport was swarming with women, mostly Texas women -- yahoo! After five months of an Alaska winter you notice things like this, and appreciate them too. Once I fetched my bag it was off to find a shuttle to my hotel in west Houston. There's three shuttle providers at the counter but only one with no line. I figured they were all the same, so I stepped up to the agent at the "One Life To Live" shuttle service. Again, I'm not making this up. "Omni Westside? That'll be twenty four bucks, sir...leaves in twenty minutes," she said. It was more like thirty minutes but there were only three of us in the van so I figured stops would be minimal and I'd get to the hotel relatively quick. I didn't know the half of it.

The driver -- I'll call him Amad -- peeled away from the airport and screamed down the frontage road passing traffic and swerving from lane to lane as if he feared he'd be late for the second coming. Already I'm concerned about the name "One Life To Live." We sailed past the Sonic drive-in and I remembered how much I love their cherry limeades. Ahead of us the traffic light was more red than yellow but Amad throttled on through to take the on-ramp at eighty plus mph. I reached for my shoulder strap and buckled in. Amad had a fetish for the throttle, that much was clear, and having to brake seemed to annoy him. We cut off several cars as he suddenly veered three lanes over to put us on the Lloyd Benson freeway. They love their ex-politicos in Texas. The next twenty miles or so, which Amad deftly covered in about sixteen minutes, had a lot of traffic, yet it was moving along surprisingly fast. Or maybe it was just us, I wasn't sure. After a while the two other passengers turned and looked at me as if they really had just seen the second coming, this after Amad very abruptly took an off-ramp and blasted into a gas station (I think our front wheels actually left the ground on the approach) for cigarettes and fuel -- using, primarily, the transmission to come to a full stop. I shrugged my shoulders and mustered a grin but I could tell they were not reassured. As we gassed up I fixed on the establishment next store. A huge neon sign advertised: PSYCHIC READINGS. Their parking lot was modest in size, but full. Before long Amad had hopped back in the van. He appeared reborn with a full tank and a fresh pack of smokes. We peeled back on to the freeway and soon I could see the Houston skyline come into view. I opened my window a crack to let in the warm air. A deep breath and you could almost feel yourself getting high on capitalism. What a place. Then, just as suddenly as we got on the freeway we were getting off again. While waiting to turn right at the bottom of the off-ramp I took notice of the "Zone D' Erotica" store across the boulevard. It looked like a revamped A&W except for the iron bars on the windows. On the green light Amad turned hard and screamed down the boulevard at a furiously high speed. Accelerating, braking hard, darting across lanes, and racing to make lights. I frequently heard horns blare behind us but I didn't dare turn around to look. At one red light Amad slammed on the brakes so hard our baggage nearly came flying over the seat. I remember there was a Starbucks at that intersection. Their outside terrace was full with customers. I counted seven cars in line at the drive thru. It was eight thirty at night. I fantasized I was outside on the terrace with siren smile, both of us sipping Doppios without a care in the world.

A few more hard rights and lefts and suddenly we're in the parking lot at the Homestead suites. Courteously, Amad opens the side door but no one gets out. I thought that was the stop for the guy seated in front of me -- he looked like he was from India -- but he didn't move. Amad looked at him and said, "This is the Homestead suites, your stop, no?" The Indian shook his head, no. They exchange broken English for a few minutes until finally the Indian, clearly frustrated, produced his itinerary. Amad studied it a moment, basically threw it back at him, and then slammed the door on the van. Turns out the Indian was booked at the "HomeAire" suites, or something like that, evidently no where near where we presently were. Now Amad was pissed, at the dispatcher or the Indian -- or both -- I couldn't tell. We flew out of the parking lot and past the Hilton Westchase before the other passenger shouts, "You missed my hotel back there!" Amad slammed on the brakes, made a tire-squealing U-turn and flew back to the Hilton. The van barely came to a stop before the guy leaped out and wished me and the Indian good luck. Afterward, we tore out of the parking lot and headed down a dark frontage road where Amad damn near hit a scraggly dog that had run into the street to nibble road kill. I closed my eyes and began mumbling to myself, "One life to live, one life to live." After I opened my eyes again, finally, I saw it -- the sign for the Omni Westside. Evidently Amad had too because he slammed down the throttle, cut over two lanes at once and barely made the right at the intersection and into the hotel parking lot. I tipped him a buck, mumbled a thank you, and turned one last time to look at the Indian now all alone in the van. He looked frightened and worried. I thought to ask him if maybe he wanted to stay at my hotel for the night. They probably had a vacant room. He could get a good night sleep and straighten out his arrangements in the morning. But before I could even think to wave to get his attention Amad had thrown the van into drive and was speeding toward the street.