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What I can only surmise the person who posted the sign “Help Put the CLE in CLEan” in the bathrooms at Cleveland Hopkins Airport wants me to do exactly. (CLE being an abbreviation for either Cleveland or Cleveland Hopkins Airport)
Award a sweetheart deal to my brother-in-law as the exclusive cleaning service for CLE.
Spend all season cleaning the bathroom only to have Michael Jordan, John Elway and the Florida Marlins show up at the last minute and smear feces on the walls.
Allocate millions and millions of scarce public dollars to develop a PR campaign touting the cleanliness of CLE's bathrooms, but do no actual cleaning.
After I flush the toilet, squirt lighter fluid in the bowl and set it on fire.
Upon finishing the last meeting of two days worth, I was in the mood to celebrate. Hurrying out the door, I made the mistake of asking the moronic hayseeds I was there to school if they could recommend a good restaurant.
“If you like Mexican, there’s Pedro’s up the road,” came the reply.
Indeed I do like Mexican. Pork tamales, black beans and chorizo, and a flight of top-shelf tequila sounded like an excellent way to celebrate my imminent departure from Wisconsin. Pedro’s it was.
In fact, the thought of leaving the great cheese state was so exhilarating that I sort of forgot I was still there. Mexican food in Milwaukee? In hindsight, probably not the smartest choice I made this trip. Of course, like any bad decision or bad relationship, when you look back it is always a bit startling to see the flashing lights and warning sirens that you inexplicably missed the first time around.
Entering Pedro’s, my first impression was that the place was too brightly lit. Not bright as in a light and airy mood, but bright as in they got a great deal on 120 watt bulbs that “fell off” a Sam’s Club delivery truck. Even with plate glass windows covering two of the four exterior walls, the sickly luminescence gave you the feel of an underground interrogation room. Still, I was tired and hungry, and reasoned that the food must be good because they wouldn’t dare serve shitty Mexican under such searing and unforgiving lights.
A disaffected hostess asked, “How many?” and replied, “Follow me” without every making eye contact. On the way to my table, I noticed a row of games and vending machines in the lobby. This is never a good sign. The presence of video games usually means that the restaurant is desperately trying to supplement its dying food business by catering to children and squeezing them for every quarter. Not only will the food likely be bad, it will also be smeared and caked into every crevice of your booth, the flooring, the window panes and the ceiling tiles, not to mention the curious presence of nomadic Cheerios which aren’t anywhere on the fucking menu.
The restaurant was nearly empty, save for a large table of twenty-something girls that had clearly been exploiting the “Half-Price Margaritas on Thursday” special and a couple of behemoths whose measure of restaurant food quality was entirely a function of the quantity served. I was beginning to suspect the worst and considering flight, but then I was promptly greeted with a basket of tortilla chips.
(To me, tortilla chips are as enjoyable as a lazy, expressive cliché that is on crack, is on steroids, is from Hell, and that makes you throw up in your mouth a little. I’ll eat tortilla chips until my back hurts, and then lay down on a hard surface until I fish out every last crumb. Me likey, is what I’m trying to say.)
Crunching away on fistfuls of chips, I looked over and noticed a neon sign that said, “El Patio,” which, after asking, I learned is Spanish for “The Patio.” It filled me with rage, and I immediately hated Pedro and anyone that had ever patronized his excessively incandescent establishment. Had I seen this sign when I first entered, I would have punched the hostess in her unaffected face (she wouldn’t have seen it coming). As it was, though, there were tortilla chips to eat. However, I decided that if the menu was titled “El Menu” or the restrooms labeled “El Restroom,” I would vow to execute Pedro’s every living relation.
Just then the waiter approached. He was middle-aged and appeared to be of Latin descent. This gave me some hope. I mean, Mexicans in Milwaukee must be rare, and if I had found the restaurant where they work, well it must be some kind of endorsement, right? He asked if he could get me something to drink.
“What beers do you have on tap?”
“Oh,” he replied without an accent, “mostly the usual stuff.”
All at once the retorts blistered through my mind.
“That’s helpful. You, sir, are an excellent waiter!”
“Sounds good, I’ll take it.”
“Great. My usual is Young’s Double Chocolate Stout garnished with a hooker’s severed finger. It’s usually hard to find, but thankfully not here at Pedro’s!”
Fortunately my brain did the math before my mouth opened, and I figured there was another basket of chips with my name on it if I played my cards right.
“Hmm,” I squeaked out, “Do you have any dark beer?”
“Yes, we do. It’s…um…um…”
“Modelo Negro?” I helped, offering the most obvious choice.
“That’s the one!”
Knowing I probably wouldn’t get another chance, I ordered two with a glass, barely stopping myself short of requesting a clean one, if that was even possible. As he turned, I quickly stopped him.
“I’m ready to order, too, if that’s OK.”
“You bet,” he replied. If nothing else, and so far there was nothing else, the guy seemed cheery.
“I’m torn between the fish tacos and the pork tamales. Which would you recommend?”
“I would say the burrito platter. It is the most food.”
“Um, yeah. I’m not really interested in the most food. But say, what about the fish tacos?”
He shook his head. “Not so good,”
“Okey dokey. What about…hmm…the pork tamales?”
“It’s not very popular.”
“Right, but is it good. Do you like them?”
“Yes, they are good, but the burrito platter is more popular.”
“Gotcha. I think I have the tamales then.”
“With mild sauce?” he recommended.
Jesus. Clearly it was time for my good if mildly brain-damaged Mexican friend to learn that I was no novice white boy from Milwaukee who confuses Taco Bell as food and needs a thorough explanation of the mole sauce and instruction on how to pronounce it correctly. I am a well-traveled man of the world, tolerant and well-versed in all things and damn near kin to his south-of-the-border culture. A bold statement was needed.
“No, no,” I protested too much. “I like it spicy. Gimme your hottest sauce. ”
“It’s very hot. Are you sure?”
“Ha ha! Of course,” I laughed, and dismissed his concern with a wave of my hand.
Eventually my food arrived. As it turned out, my insecure need to impress ethnic waiters (and damn near everyone else for that matter) paid off this time. The tamales were total crap. Fortunately, one effective way to maneuver though an awful meal is to devastate your taste buds with pepper sauce.
A few hours later, as my white-knuckles were firmed latched onto handicap-assistance bar mounted on the wall next to my hotel room commode, I began to wonder if my waiter wasn’t actually Mexican at all, but rather Aztec. A direct descendent of Montezuma, I suspect.
P.S. Most of this post was written as I sat waiting for my bill to arrive.
Subconscious, Inc
100 Cerebellum Avenue
Skullsville, ID 00001
Oliver Ben, Esq.
Ben, Dover & Taket, LLC
123 Hereitcomes Avenue
Cleveland, OH 44107
Dear Subconscious,
We are writing to inform you that our firm is issuing a Breach of Contract against your company and will be seeking damages on behalf of our client, Crunchy Blue Commando (CLIENT). The details of our breach claim follow:
1. In its contracted duty as purveyor of dreams, Subconscious has continuously proved incapable of updating and maintaining accurate records regarding Client. As a result, Subconscious has consistently failed to recognize that the Client is no longer in college, nor has he been for the past twenty years.
2. Subconscious’s ineptitude in this specified duty continues to result inaccurate and inappropriate dreams in which Client has a college class which he has not attended all year, and the final exam that day.
3. As a result of said dreams, Client has suffered a lack of sleep, has been forced to increase laundering of sweat-stained sheets, and has developed a generally cranky demeanor.
4. While recognizing that Subconscious does have some contractual leeway in offering dreams of a historical nature, it is both inexplicable and gratuitous that these collegiate dreams are always negative. Even though they are accurate in relation to the Client’s Introduction to Sociology course taken during his freshman year (and really, that stuff is just common sense, so why bother going to class), it is as if Subconscious refuses to recognize any of the good times Client had during college (i.e., the drinking, the drugs, the fabricated stories of getting laid). We consider this malicious intent.
5. Given the malicious intent, Client hereby dissolves his contract with Subconscious as sole provider of dream material effective immediately. From this point forward, all dream processing will be the sole responsibility of the testicles. Any effort on the part of Subconscious to intervene or interfere in future dream processing will result in immediate retaliation against Subconscious, including but not limited to: erasing in memory the location of car keys, latent homosexual thought implants, and brain cell massacre via Sam Adams Winter Ale
6. Client will be seeking damages for physical and emotional distress, as well as exorbitant legal fees (Thanks, by the way). In addition, Subconscious is expected to fully amend for all missed “cool dream” opportunities due to its negligence, be they wet or otherwise.
7. Finally, against our counsel, Client wishes to add the following direct statement: “Knock it the fuck off already, asshat!”
Sincerely,
Oliver Ben, Esq.
9:00AM.
If anyone ever tells you that global warming doesn’t cause grave human suffering, ask them if they’ve ever been stuck in Indianapolis for a weekend due to a freak snowstorm. Like me. This. Very. Weekend.
Now I know how all those people in New Orleans felt when the levees broke. I’m cut off from humanity, and getting more desperate by the minute. I expect to begin looting by noon and will certainly kill and rape (yes, in that order) anyone unlucky or stupid enough to cross my frantic path. And God help anyone who gets between me and the first fucking flight out of this Midwestern shithole stuffed with bacon and smothered in cheese.
9:28AM
All flights are cancelled today. The worst thing about your flight getting cancelled is that the airlines don’t automatically reserve you a seat on the very next flight. They will put you in the next available seat, but if all the flights are already full for the next two days, you’re totally screwed. They won’t bump someone else in order to help you. I guess they figure it is better to fuck a few people really hard than to fuck a lot of people lightly.
Even the adventurous are stuck. Rental car companies are denying customers the option of one-way rentals and apparently police in Ohio are ticketing anyone foolish enough to attempt to drive on the interstate. Fortunately the Mariott can board me for another night, but I’m sure I’ll get charged their special, extra-lubricant rates. Fuck it. Might as well get some exercise.
9:31AM
Of course, the hotel “fitness center” is a garage sale of mismatched, broken-down cardio equipment and single dumbbells. Total joke. Since there is nothing else to do, I’m going down to the front desk to bitch.
9:37 AM
Score! My old-manish griping was rewarded with a free day-pass to the local Bally’s fitness center. While I abhor Bally’s and everything they stand for – high-pressure sales, steroid use and spandex – at least they have free weights.
11:26 AM
Feeling much better now. On my way out of Bally’s, the nice-but-still-mullet-wearing desk guy pointed me to a good local breakfast joint. Over short stack of blueberry granola pancakes and extra bacon, I had something of an epiphany. Despite my travel savvy and uncanny ability to find or manufacture alternatives, I waste a colossal amount of time attempting to expedite my travel. In fact, on a daily basis I am completely pre-occupied with being efficient and productive, so much so that I rarely take time to enjoy anything. I just don’t have any fun anymore.
But today is beginning to feel like a reprieve. I’m stuck. There is no driveway to shovel, no walls to paint, no budget to recalculate, no demands on my attention. Why not try a little fun for a change?
Speaking of change, I don’t have any clean clothes. Hell, I only expected to be here for a day and a half, not four. Guess I’d better find a laundrymat.
12:56 PM
Fresh, warm boxers feel yummy on my frosty testicles. I noticed a Kohl’s on my way back from the laundry. Think I’ll head over there and buy a swimsuit so I can splash around in Mariott’s festive pool this afternoon.
2:14 PM
When I asked a young clerk where the men’s swimsuits were located, she said, without a hint of humor or sarcasm, that they’d probably be in the men’s department. Sensing a family history of service-industry work and mild retardation, I followed up with a stoic request for specifics. She shrugged, and then just stood there staring at me, as if waiting for me to dismiss her ignorance. I quickly obliged, as it was very uncomfortable and I was in a big hurry to mumble insults at her under my breath.
Before I go swimming, I think I’ll find a cozy corner in the lobby to work on my awful, half-baked screenplay.
8:51 PM
Nice baR in lobbby.. GOod Sam Adam’s Winter Ale! mAKes me happiness!..
8:52 PM
(yack!)
8:54 PM
I sink I shit myseff.
8:58 PM
(yack!)
9:05 PM
(zzzzz)