Busted!

Okay, so here’s the deal for the last six nights: We roll into some “one horse town” off the highway, find the Motel 8, dad grabs Gary and holds him down against his little, fierce, strangely muscular will (cuz the little man’s gotta watch my every move and his micro head pops up like a periscope, which could give us up instantly), I run into the office, go on and on about “…dad and I needing a couple of clean beds…” and shed a couple tears about, “…how it’s been a long day…”, I sign in, get the key and I’m back out to the rig.

Nothing is said about the G-Unit. Our lips are sealed.

And the smuggling process begins. To beat the “$10 dollar pet fee,” we have to smuggle the little man in. This is a nightly operation. Now, Gary is never one to be predictable. We know this much: The little fucker likes to bark, and, the mere sight of “anyone else” can trigger a Mt. Vesuvius-sized outburst, capable of rattling just about anyone. Goddammit.

So we locate the room, smuggle in the contraband hound, and the “bedding down for the night” ritual proceeds.

Now, a knock at the door, or, revellers coming in from a wild night out can trigger an outburst, giving us up in the process. You just have to watch him, and make sure he’s busy with bones and chewie things and such. This way he’s got a focus to distract him.

So this morning, things are going smooth. Dad heads off after I wake up to massacre the continental breakfast offering. (SIDE NOTE: My father does serious damage to any/all continental breakfast outlays. The man loves a free meal, and does NOT miss these opportunities, for nothing.)

Dad comes back from his mission, with stacks of bagels and foam bowls of raisin bran all carefully stacked up, teetering, and fuckin’ fails to remember rule No.01 of the “Smuggling In A Gary” guide: “When entering the room, with Gary inside, check the motel hall before knocking on the door.”

The old man didn’t even think about this one. His mind was drunk with visions of spreading little jellies on crispy bread products and watered-down orange juice beverages.

When you knock on a door, or, when, someone/anyone knocks on a door, Gary freaks out and shit goes wild.

So dad’s arms are too full with freebie Sysco sustenance to use the little magnetic card, he knocks, Gary goes apeshit, I run to the door, open to let him in, and low and behold, there’s the front desk troll walking by. Fuck. We made eye contact and everything.

Not a minute later and the phone rings. Frustrated, I make dad answer it. He listens for a second, and then let’s one fly. The words that come out of his mouth are, “We’ve come all the way from Oregon and this is the first we’ve heard about this!”

So smooth. Kind of. Not really. Maybe.

Well, when we checked out, the 10 dollar fee was applied to my bill.

To the troll behind the counter in Madison, Wisconsin: “Use that 10 bucks to get a mustache wax, you sea hag.”

Gary’s not the only one to have outbursts.

- - - - -

094. “Down 94, into that big city.”

We drove down to Chicago, toured a couple neighborhoods looking at old signs and real estate prices and everything else, gawking at the traffic and intensity an wildness of the city.

Dad and I met with Jim and Bryan at Coudal Partners to talk up our top-secret project. Launching soon, really. A good chat. Excited.

We shot up to the Golden Apple on Lincoln avenue for supper. The only reason we picked this joint is due to a Podcast from This American Life where they feature the customers of the diner, over the course of 24 hours. The Golden Apple never locks their door. In fact, there isn’t a lock on it. Think about that for a second. So good.

Required listening: “24 Hours at the Golden Apple Diner.”

095. “Nice neon.”
096. “It the pies ain’t spinning, they ain’t selling.”
097. “The broken pie spinner didn’t sway us.”
098. “Another satisfied customer.”

Got on the road and squirmed out of the city, around the horn, though Gary and up the coastline up into Michigan, all the way home. Got in pretty late, in a 36 degree rainstorm.

Another great roadtrip.