by Tom Papa
Remember when we all went to the beach and lay in the sand until the sun baked every last drop of water off the skin of our healthy young bodies before we got lost on the long walk home in the growing dark?
And while the girls came and went, and all the classes were passed, and we found jobs to earn just enough to quit, we always had the house to come home to.
At least for a while.
I wish we had the ability to see in the moment what our memories will tell us in the future. That this house, at this time, was more important than we could have known. It’s hard when you outgrow something you love. It’s even harder when you lose the people who came with it.
After graduation you had such definitive plans, and they were really starting to happen. You were on your way to becoming a chef on Martha’s Vineyard. I still see you tearing lettuce into that large wooden bowl when we were making dinner. I see you laughing at me when I couldn’t chop the vegetables the right way and threw away the herbs by mistake. I see you seasoning and stirring the jambalaya with a newfound confidence.
I would give anything to go back. Back before I received that horrible phone call when they told me I’d never see you again.
Let’s go back.
Not for all of it. Just give me the end of that one night.
The night I came home late from rehearsal at school. It was cold out. The house was so dark and quiet. You were the only one still awake, sitting quietly in the lamplight, in your spot on the couch, reading Kafka.
I sat next to you with my boots up on the table, the cold still sticking to my jeans. We smoked a little, trying not to wake the others, but then I made you laugh. It was a strong, hearty laugh that overtook us and caused us to lose control. Knowing that we should have been quieter only made us laugh harder. We were breathless and we just couldn’t stop. We didn’t want to stop. And really we didn’t have to. Not on that night. This was our place. This was our time. And no one could stop us.
Not yet.
HAVE YOU EVER ENJOYED DINNER IN A GAS STATION FOOD MART MUCH MORE THAN A MEAL IN AN EXPENSIVE FIVE-STAR RESTAURANT? I HAVE …
7-ELEVEN HEAVEN
Do you doubt that we are living in an amazing time? Do you feel like all the good things have come and gone? Well, maybe you’re focusing on the wrong things. Take a break from worrying about the big, seemingly unsolvable problems and rejoice in the little things. Like the fact that you live in a world filled with 7-Elevens.
There was a time, not too long ago, that if you had a hankering for some eats, you had to get on your horse and ride into hostile territory. You’d load up your gun, shoot something, skin it, dry it, and hope it didn’t give you worms. But now there are stores all around the country crammed with everything you could ever need or want, just waiting for your arrival like delicious outposts on the modern-day prairie.
The 7-Eleven is your friend. It isn’t here to con you, it’s here to satisfy you. Keep your fancy three-hour dinners and your white linen tablecloths. There are no waiters here.
There aren’t even tables. Who needs a table when everything you buy in a 7-Eleven can be eaten while standing up?
This isn’t the time to worry about finding real food. You want healthy, real food? Go to a farmers market. You want to eat off the land? Go to Idaho and hang around a potato farm. But if you want guaranteed, instant gratification that will smack you right in the mouth, head to 7-Eleven.
Everything here is perfectly processed. They aren’t leaving anything to chance. This is a collection of “food-like” items that have all been engineered to bring you the exact right amount of sugar, fat, and salt to make your head explode like a shaken Dr Pepper.
And 7-Eleven doesn’t mess around with the B-list of the snack world, either. These are the snack all-stars; these aisles are filled with Doritos, Fritos, and seven types of Pringles. They’ve got all the gum you could ever chew. You say you’re looking for candy? How about Butterfinger, York Peppermint Pattie, Milky Way, and Snickers? And every new experimental version of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups you could ever want to try. If a new type of Oreo comes out, they have it on the shelves before it leaves the factory. I never even knew there were that many types of beef jerky. I think the Slim Jim people created their company just so they could hang out with the people at 7-Eleven. It may say 7-Eleven on the sign, but inside this is the Cooperstown of snacks.
This is about tearing open a package and stuffing your face. Sure, you may be able to find an apple somewhere in the back under some coffee lids, but even that will be wrapped in plastic because they don’t want you to miss out on the wonderful feeling of unwrapping something. That small but potent feeling of anticipation that feels like there might be a gift inside.
The fruit people should take note. If you want us to enjoy an apple or a pear, make it look like something special. Wrap it up like a bag of Doritos, with cool labels and exciting new flavors. Apples are boring, but if you tell me I’ve got to try a bag of new Cool Ranch Apples, or Nacho Cheese Apples, I’ll tear that sucker wide open.
Do you understand how lucky we are to live in a world that has a Slurpee machine? The Slurpee machine. What special type of heaven is that? A giant machine constantly churning up frozen soda concoctions just for you. What a world! While you’re out there toiling away at your job, working out, worrying about not working out, the Slurpee machine is hard at work. The Slurpee machine doesn’t take vacations. The Slurpee machine doesn’t call in sick. The Slurpee machine has a job to do and it does it well. Who else will do that for you? Your friends will let you down. Your family will gossip about you. But the Slurpee machine has got your back.
Are you low on cash? Are you eyeing up that three-dollar hot dog but you have only two? No problem. Come on up to the register and get yourself a scratch-off game. Who else gives you a chance to win more money to get more snacks? Not those stuffed shirts at Nordstrom. Scratch away at the Vegas Slots game and you may be walking out with two hot dogs, a Little Trees Air Freshener, and some Big League Chew. The 7-Eleven wants you to win. Not just today but for the rest of your life.
Maybe you’re having so much fun that you don’t want to leave. I understand. Don’t. You feel like loitering? This place was built for loitering. Loiter in your car and flip through your new copy of MAD magazine. Or better yet, sit on the hood of your car like those cool kids in The Outsiders. They were total loiterers. And they smoked cigarettes.
I’ve never been a smoker, but if I were, 7-Eleven would be the cool friend who slipped me some smokes. They love tobacco there. They’ve got a giant wall of cigarettes, cheap cigars, and pouches of chewing tobacco. Get yourself a giant soda and a can of chew.
Down the soda and spit your runny tobacco juice into the empty cup. Now ye’re living. If you’re really cool, you’ll sit on the curb out front with the rest of the cool kids.
I know you’re a little frightened of them when you make a late-night milk run, but don’t be shy, maybe you’ll make some friends. There are a lot of interesting people who sit on the curb out front of the 7-Eleven. Do they have drug problems? Maybe. Will they steal your wallet if you look the other way? Sure. But they all have a story to tell, and while that story may be filled with lies and spittle, you know one thing: it won’t be boring.
And how about the guy who works at the 7-Eleven? Are you craving a real sense of community? Do you miss the days of going to a store and knowing, without a doubt, that you will see a familiar face? Then head to 7-Eleven. That guy is always there. And he always has been. Like the caretaker at the Overlook Hotel in The Shining, he’s always been the shopkeeper there. Zoom in on a black-and-white shot from the day it opened and there he is, standing in front of a wall of cigarettes with a smile on his face.
I’m telling you, this is a great time to be alive. Despite the troubles in the world, it’s nice to know that there’s a place waiting to give you a quick American fix. Just waiting to satisfy your childhood desire for a sleeve of Nutter Butter or a Charms Blow Pop.
> And you don’t have to tell anyone you’re going or share any of the stuff you bought. This is just for you. No one has to know that you stopped in for a Chipwich on your way to their lame dinner party. You don’t have to tell anyone that you have a secret stash of Chex Mix in your glove box. The only person who knows is the guy behind the register and he won’t say a word.
SAFE TRAVELS
You probably don’t travel as much as I do, so let me take the time to give you some tips on how to fight off crippling depression, when you’re away from your family, that can lead to overeating, drug and alcohol problems, and watching too many Nicolas Cage movies.
The reason travel is stressful is because it’s a nonstop process of decision making. What time do we leave? Where’s the hotel? How do you turn this lamp on? Is that a bug or a hair? So you have to do your best to cut down on these decisions if at all possible.
The start to your trip, the car to the airport, is a perfect example. I can’t go to bed at night worrying about waking up in the early morning and trying to find a ride. I’m not wandering out in the dark looking for a cab or hoping that an Uber driver decided to get up early or, worse, is still driving because the cocaine wouldn’t let him get to sleep yet.
You have to arrange the ride way in advance with a car service that probably costs an extra seventy-five dollars, but it’s worth it. I’m not stressed, I’m not worried, and I’m not in danger. I can find a way to make another seventy-five dollars. I’ll have a harder time making my flight if it takes an hour to find a cab that eventually drives off the side of a bridge.
I set the appointment, I give them my credit card, and explain that the 5:00 A.M. pickup that I just arranged really means 4:55 A.M. That’s key. The car waits for me. I don’t wait for the car. Waiting for anything is just more time to worry. Ever wait for a date to show up? It’s misery. You worry if they lied to you, if they like you at all, or that maybe you’re so ugly that no one will want to go out with you ever again.
No waiting! This is the same reason why we’re not taking one of those airport shuttles that picks up fifty other people. If you don’t have a job or any sense of urgency in your life, and you’re looking for new friends, go ahead and enjoy the van. If you have any sense of urgency at all, never get in a van of any kind. Not the one to and from the airport hotel, not the one at the car rental counter, and definitely not one driven by a circus clown. No vans!
And they have to send a normal sedan. I can’t worry about what kind of car they’ll be driving. I’m about to fly in the sky in a machine filled with jet fuel. I really don’t need to risk my life on the way to the airport in a broken-down Honda Civic from the 1980s.
The final straw was when I called one of those shady car services in New York in the beginning of my career. There I was, waiting on the sidewalk with my luggage, when a gigantic station wagon from the 1970s pulled up. At first I thought it must be a mistake. Why would a thirty-year-old monstrosity used to cart families around before they knew how to make minivans be taking me to the airport? But it was not a mistake. It was a stupid, enormous, gas-guzzling machine that was so old, the paneling was peeling off the sides. It no longer had a tailpipe, so the exhaust just billowed from holes throughout the entire undercarriage, which made it look like a ghost vehicle appearing out of a scary, foggy night.
The spooky driver, who was on the border of asphyxiation, had a long beard and big yellow eyes. He gripped the steering wheel with his skeleton hands, staring straight ahead as if he were there to drive me to the underworld rather than JFK.
It’s a good idea not to accept rides from frightening men who may or may not already be dead. They have no incentive to drive safely. It’s like expecting a ghost to brush his teeth. What’s the point?
After surviving this death ride, I promised myself that from then on I would always use a proper car service. It didn’t matter that I was poor and on my way to make a hundred dollars for a weekend of shows and the car service cost twice that. I was safe. I was on time. And I wasn’t worried.
And the same goes for hotels.
A good way to stave off depression and suicidal thoughts is to try and stay in places that are at least as nice as where you live.
Checking into a fleabag hotel that’s worse than where you normally sleep isn’t a vacation, it’s a punishment. Your bed at home isn’t filled with strange curly hairs and bedbugs, so why would you pay for a place that is?
It doesn’t always work out. Even if you try your best, sometimes you’re in a weird spot with limited options. A town where you’re lucky if they have a traffic light, let alone a three-star hotel. Like the weird cactus town I was stuck in outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico.
If it’s a nice hotel, even a solid chain hotel, they welcome you with a smile and try to quickly and efficiently take care of the paperwork and get you to your room. What you don’t want is someone who peeks out from the office as if he weren’t expecting anyone and greets you by saying, “Hold your horses, just let me put my pants on.”
This was one of those places. It was hard to tell where his nose hair ended and his mustache began. He had to blow the dust off the credit card machine because apparently I was the only customer who wasn’t paying in cash and was checking in under his real name.
Another weird sign is any hotel that still uses a metal key. It could be a quaint touch in an adorable boutique hotel. In a motel in Albuquerque it’s a sign that you might be stabbed in your sleep.
The white curtains in my room were yellowed from cigarette smoke. Cigarette smoke that in most places is illegal but here seemed to be encouraged based on the multiple ashtrays they provided.
The heating/air conditioning unit was one of those attached to the wall that pretends to have multiple settings but really has only two: loud and louder. There was an old ice bucket, with two glasses alongside it, topped with white paper lids, as if that’s all that would be needed to stop the Ebola virus in its tracks.
Why do they even have ice buckets anymore? It’s a relic from another time, when people didn’t have home refrigeration. Guests would check in, unpack their traveling cocktail kit, and mix up a couple of gin fizzes with all the free ice they could scoop up. The only reason to use an ice bucket in this place is if the drug dealer in the next room gets angry and beats you and you need something to keep the swelling down.
The artwork on the walls was a bad Georgia O’Keeffe knockoff that removed all the subtlety of the floral innuendo and just looked like a giant red vagina with an eye in the center that was leering at me from across the room.
The noise truly is the real killer in these dumps. For some reason these places always sound like they’re under construction or more likely under repair, as they try and clean the blood off the carpets and spackle over the bullet holes.
I could hear everything through these paper-thin walls, as if the owner tried to get away with the cheapest material he could find. I bet if the city let him, he would have separated the rooms with used shower curtains.
The housekeeper in the next room must have been blind. She was vacuuming the room as if the only way she could find the edge of the carpet was by slamming the vacuum into the wall. Bam, bam, bam! The only thing that stopped it was when I heard hangers crashing around, which could have only meant that she had gotten stuck in the closet.
When she was done I quickly missed her because her vacuuming was the only thing drowning out the coughing seemingly coming from every other room.
Is it me or does there seem to be a coughing epidemic in this country? It used to be normal to hear a cough or two, but these days whole planes full of people are hacking and honking away. People are coughing like geese all over the place, and no one covers their mouths. There was a guy next to me at the car wash recently who was coughing like he was trying to bring up his insides and shoot them straight across the room.
The hotel marketing people never think to advertise the thickness of the walls, but that would be the best thing they could d
o. “Stay with us—you won’t hear a burp, fart, or cough that you didn’t make yourself.”
The moments in hotels like this, sitting on the end of the saggy bed, listening to drug deals and belches, are the moments where I think that every choice I’ve made in my life has been wrong.
I had one of these moments in London, Canada. I was looking hopelessly out the window and wondering where it all went wrong. It was in a small western city in the middle of the winter and I was feeling as low as I ever had in my adult life. I looked out the window and thought to myself, “Whatever I’ve done that has led me to this place, at this time, was a horrible mistake.”
The internet wasn’t working, so I called down to the front desk. They quickly sent a bellman with keys to a new room two floors above. As we rode in the elevator, he told me that I was lucky because everything from the tenth floor up had been newly renovated. He opened the door and there was new bedding, clean carpets, and a bigger bathroom. Everything was new: the TV, the phone, and the internet hummed along at supersonic speed.
After he left I looked out the window at the very same view I’d had two floors below and thought to myself, “Whatever I’ve done that has led me to this place, at this time, was really worth it.”
So treat yourself. Travel doesn’t have to be difficult; as a matter of fact, it can be a lot of fun. When you were a kid being dragged along on trips, you had to beg for ice cream or to swim in the hotel pool. Well, now you can do any of these things anytime you want. You’re the boss, the parent, and the travel agent. So get yourself a bucket of KFC, sit on the bed, and watch whatever is playing on HBO. Or better yet, order a movie—order two movies—throw in a room service ice-cream sundae, and enjoy the trip.