More train tales from Ted (Part One)

On the train ride to New York, October 2 around 6:00 p.m.
I had to scramble to turn on my computer, because I just discovered that I’m sitting behind royalty—or at least, a queen of enormous proportions. Apparently, a stylist for some huge agency is sitting behind me, holding court before two college kids. The girl he’s talking to is enormously fascinated, so he spends the evening regaling her in a high-pitched drone with tales of...


Paris Hilton
“Oh, she is like, so spoiled! I mean, she has, like, more freckles than you can ever believe. They once bought out the entire salon for three hours—I mean, we take in, like, $90,000 a day, and there is no WAY they paid anything close to what they should have paid for the money we lost! And her entourage—her mother, her best friend, her publicist, came in HOURS before she did, just to scope everything else. I think she was in for, maybe half an hour, at most.”


Jessica Simpson
“She is SO short! SO short! She's just SOOOOOO short! And I was like, because you can tell I’m, like, a big mouth, so I was like, like, like “Jessica, are you packed?” And she said, “Well, I just did the Today show,” and I was like, “But honey, it is six o’clock in the morning!"


Shayna Steele
Who’s Shayna Steele? “She’s like, a best friend of mine. A big Broadway horse.” Did they do a Broadway musical version of National Velvet?


More Paris Hilton
“She can’t sing. I’m sorry, she just can’t! And I had to listen to her song, when she bought out my salon, which, did I mention, takes in $90,000 a day? But have you heard Nicole Ritchie song?” No, and I haven't seen her eat, either...at this point, I’m starting to think that someone in this train has a bit of an obsession with Paris Hilton...


“The Girls next Door”
I want to be best friends with the girls next door. Aren’t the just fabulous? I'd love to get them in my $90,000 a day salon. I like, so want to be Bridget’s girlfriend, you know? Isn’t she the BEST? Isn’t she?” Oh, I tell you, that girl is just FAB-ulous!”


Some nameless tramp (we'll call her Ramalita)
She's not famous, but of note, my designer parrot opted to spend the final half of the train ride squawking about some former friend of his that apparently the girl he was talking to also knew, too. “You know, she borrowed $500 from me and never paid me back? Oh yeah, it was when she got hooked on drugs, and was kicked out of her house by her parents. Then, of course, she got knocked up and had her wedding at a white trash chapel. She’ll probably kill the baby with all that alcohol and cocaine. But you know, I guess I’d be nice if I saw her again. I’d say, “Hey! Sorry you got knocked up, sweetie!”

After the first half an hour, I found myself missing the Russians, very badly, with their stories of psychiatrists and killer rats. Actually, it might be fun to see my mysterious faceless, yet very shrill stylist encounter a pack of killer rats on the streets of Moscow...talk about makeovers...

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Tales of Traveling Ted (Part Two)

***


A view of the world's smallest hotel room. At least, I thought so...
Evening, October 2, 2006

The photo at the top of this entry is one of the clown car hotel room that I stayed in at the Carlton. The room was so small that I was unable to place all my toiletries on the sink in the bathroom. However, as Corb pointed out later on, I was given the CEO suite during my last adventure, so I really can’t complain. And I have to admit, it was all very snug, and I enjoyed curling up to a good book at midnight (Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell), listening to the sounds of people moving around outside my door, and on the streets.

The train ride home was miserable. Boarding the Acella took forever, and I was at the back of the line, which meant that I walked down the entire length of the train looking for an empty seat. There were empty seats here and there, but always next to someone, and I was feeling rather anti-social after a long day of acting like a smiling happy person.

I moved down the aisle, lugging a huge suitcase, with the laptop slung over my shoulder, weaving around people.

Suddenly, I heard a thud coming from behind me, and stopped.

I turned around, and looked down at the man who had been walking behind me, a small, diminutive gentleman who looked as though he might sell Charmin. Only, he wasn’t walking behind me any more. He was spread out across my suitcase.

“Terribly sorry,” he said, rising from the suitcase. “I tripped.”

A few minutes later, I heard another crash, turned around, and there he was again. Spread out across my suitcase.

When I reached the last train cart, I turned around, realizing with frustration that I was not going to find two empty seats. The falling Charmin man was at the front of the cart, bent over, going through his suitcase. He was pulling out a large bottle of red wine.

Aha! That explains everything thing.

I ended up sitting in the lunch cart for the entire ride. The whole thing reminded me of Corb, who once observed that whenever I’m forced into a large social setting, I will deliberately do anything I can to avoid contact with people. I will skirt around the edges, or jack-knife quickly, straight through the crowd. Anything to avoid interaction.

It’s a terrible trait for a writer to have, frankly.

***

At the end of the train ride, I knew that I had a few minutes to spare before Corb picked me up, and I only had one thing on my mind: going to the bathroom, and fast!

However, as soon as I entered the bathroom at the train station, I realized that I had a problem: the urinals were all used, and the only thing available was a tiny stall in the corner. But how in the hell was I going to be able to fit myself in there, with all my luggage?

I pushed the door open, and moved my computer bag next to the toilet, making sure that it didn't touch the toilet in any way shape or form. I'm not as much as a germaphobe as Corb, not by a long shot, but there are things even I won't allow. After that was set, I started to move the suitcase forward. It barely fit through the door. I had to turn it around and pull it through, then move it at an angle in order to close the door and allow myself room to do my business.

It was only once I was done with my business that I realized what I had done.

The large suitcase was stuck between my bony knees, firmly placed right up against the bathroom door.

I had built myself a bathroom trap.

I felt as though I had been dropped into an episode of I Love Lucy. There I was, stuck inside the bathroom stall. Should I call for help? Should I call Corb on the cell phone?

I decided to go it alone. It would have been way too embarrassing to call for help from this position. Besides, that might have come across as an invitation. Instead of, "Can you spare a square," I could have said something like, "Can you save my ass?"

It took me--literally--about five minutes to move that suitcase around, inches at a time, so I could get it in a position where I could lift it up and place it on the toilet. Once I had it there, I was able to swing the bathroom door back and walk out, and then push the suitcase through the stall's door.

I made my way out of the train station. There was Corb, waiting for me in my RAV-4, parked at the sidewalk. Did I have stories for him!