American Thighs (17 page)

Understandably, I think, Rhonda and I never grew tired of this performance nor did any of our friends ever tire of hearing about it. Indeed, not too long ago, I had an e-mail from our old friend Paul Canzoneri asking me did I remember when my daddy used to jump on motel room beds—and it was well over forty years ago that it happened and Daddy's been dead for the last twenty-six. Every man has his Legacy.

Yes, well, moving on. Lots of your higher-class mo-tels back then had “Magic Fingers” on the beds. You put a quarter in the little box on the nightstand and the bed would commence to throb and vibrate so intensely it would rattle your fillings and make your nose itch. This would go on for about ten or fifteen minutes and then it would be time for another quarter. I cannot imagine how these ever fell out of favor and I think the fine folks in the hospitality industry would do well to consider staging a comeback.

Suffice it to say, Rhon and I were totally enamored of the Magic Fingers and we would require Daddy to supply us with piles of quarters to feed our insatiable desire for the shaking
beds. These things were closely akin to the electric pony rides that were, at the time, stationed outside every grocery store in America. There was really no “ride” to it at all. The fake pony would simply quiver a bit and perhaps move an inch or so forward and back—hardly the thrill of a lifetime—and yet we were all driven quite insane by the manic desire to mount up that was enkindled in our young breasts at the very sight of them, and if our mothers EVER wanted to get home before botulism began growing in the bags of provisions, she was well advised to just cough up the damn nickel and wait the forty-five seconds while we rode the stupid pony.

The pony rides, as it turned out, were just a gateway drug for our generation. As so often happens, Rhon and I had had our pony-lust gratified so many times, we were hooked, and so naturally, as we grew older, we could no longer be satisfied with a little pony ride. (Also, we could no longer fit on them, but that's beside the point.) We graduated to the Magic Fingers bed and, of course—just like marijuana costs more than Mad Dog 20/20 and heroin costs more than hash—our habit went from a nickel every week to ten days, depending on how often Mama had to go to the store, to maybe fifty to seventy-five cents A NIGHT if we were in a room that had a Magic Fingers. I'm sure there's a Wayward Youth parable in here somewhere since, not speaking for Rhonda, I can however testify to the amount of money I was personally, in later years, to spend on vibrators. I'm just sayin'…

Anyway, one night we had arrived at our Holiday Inn for the night and had pleaded and cajoled our ration of quarters from Daddy, dropped one in the slot and stretched out, prepared to be at least shook and rattled if not necessarily rolled. Nothing happened. We put in another quarter—same zero result. We put in one more quarter and gave the box a resounding whack—which has always been the universally accepted and employed first-choice method for repairing any unresponsive mechanical device—it STILL did not work AND it now had three of our quarters.

Daddy was summoned. He, of course, had to personally put one more quarter in and give it his own man-sized whack just to be sure it was, in fact, not functioning properly. Satisfied that the unit was not only NOT going to perform, it was also NOT going to give back what had grown now to be a full dollar's investment, Daddy called the front desk and the manager promised to send someone up to attend to the matter promptly—which he did.

Our erstwhile bellboy returned to our room and gave the box a most serious looking-at. He stopped just short of stroking his nonexistent goatee and uttering a pensive “Hmmmmm,” but I'm sure he thought of it. Instead, he picked up yet another one of OUR quarters and, before we could stop him, plunked it into the comatose machine and gave it his own authoritative whack, which produced exactly the same result that all previous coins and whackage had wrought. He then DID say, “Hmmmm,” al
though with no accompanying chin-stroke, turned on his heel, and headed for the door, pausing only to speak those time-honored words that, in any language on earth, actually mean “You've seen the last of me, suckers” but nonetheless sound like “I'll be right back.”

As we heard his footsteps moving languorously down the elevated walkway in front of our second-floor poolside room, the lack of any discernible urgency in that sound assured us that the bellboy would not be swiftly returning, if indeed, he ever did so at all. This did not sit well with the occupants of room 212, but only one of those occupants got an evil eye-gleam and headed for the car, chortling to himself, as he strode and then drove happily away.

He returned to the room a short time later carrying two things: one of them was a screwdriver. Instructing us to close the drapes, wait outside, and knock if anyone approached, the fiend set about his work. A few minutes later, he called us inside and told us, with a wicked cackle, to watch and say nothing. He called the front desk again and told the manager that we were still waiting for our Magic Fingers to be repaired and indicated that our patience was wearing thinner all the time.

Daddy could tell from the manager's tone that a good-sized fire would soon be lit under the slackass of a certain bellboy, and sure enough, in just a minute, there was a knock on the door. The bellboy had arrived with his own screwdriver and the threat of termination almost visibly hanging above his head. He
set to work disassembling the Magic Fingers bedside box and Daddy could scarcely contain his gleeful self as the young man, tongue pressed between tight lips, feverishly fumbled with the screws.

At last all the stubborn screws were wrenched from their slots and the cover of the box came away. It would be hard to say which expression was worth more: the one on the face of the beleaguered bellboy who had just taken the cover off a recalcitrant Magic Fingers box and unbelievably and inexplicably discovered a large white fully intact hen egg sitting on top of a buck twenty-five's worth of quarters—or the face of the man who had just unbelievably and inexplicably PUT it there. I'd have to say both them faces were worth a whole lot more quarters' worth than that little box would hold.

I
know some folks who are as old or even older than I am who not only still have a lust for wandering but are still eager to indulge it. We don't hang out much. It is not an age-related development for me, however, that, aside from the fact that I am your basic homebody—no, I take that back—I am not the BASIC model at all—I am the superdeluxe KING-sized homebody—I don't want to go anywhere, ever, for any reason. I don't care what they got there, I don't want to see it. I want to be AT home, preferably on my back porch or out on the lake, ALL the time and I am not exaggerating—at all. I WILL go to church but only because Lelon Thompson sings like an angel and so does Baby Jan—it's worth the hour's drive to hear them. And Keith Tonkel does always manage to have the Word I was especially needing to hear that day, so fine, I don't mind listening to his preaching, scattered in amongst the singing.

And well, of course, I WILL go to the grocery store, but only because I love to cook and I love to eat even more than that. I actually enjoy going to get the groceries—it's putting them away that I despise. But anyway, church and groceries are really about the only two reasons for leaving my house that don't make me terminally crabby.

Please note that this is merely local travel, and I view and avoid even this as if it were plague-ridden. From that, it can be extrapolated that out-of-town travel sends me figuratively into orbit—since literal orbit would be waaaay too far from home.

At one time, I regarded the prospect of long car trips with the same enthusiasm I would feel for long prison sentences. It is therefore astounding to me that some person or persons unknown have somehow contrived to make driving twelve thousand (understand me: twelve THOUSAND) miles in a big giant RV with my husband and two (TWO) semilarge to enormous dogs seem like a DREAM COME TRUE when compared with even one short hop on an airplane to anywhere. You may as well just start hopping—as in up and down on the ground—and work your way to your destination—it'll be quicker and less stressful in the long run.

On my last two book tours, I did, in fact, travel by the aforementioned big giant RV—with the aforementioned spouse and canines—for the aforementioned twelve thousand actual road miles. The signing dates at the various bookstores around the country required our appearance in a different city every day
for about forty days. At first thought, this seems like a delightful cross-country excursion with one's favorite beings, doesn't it?

And it would be, except for the fact that, when one is on a book tour, one must appear at the assorted stores when THEY want you and can fit you into THEIR schedule, and unfortunately, no matter who one is, one will not be the only one of one's ilk out there on a book tour and so one will inevitably run into scheduling conflicts and find one's self plunged into what is known in literary circles as “Book Tour Hell.” And yes, that IS redundant.

While I cannot say that I have ever met an author who does not LOVE meeting and greeting his or her book-buying public—I have also never met one who does not visibly cringe at the words “book tour.” This is because, while the events themselves are nothing but a pure de-light—what one has to go through to GET TO the events makes running barefoot through the various compartments of hell seem like park romping by comparison and one would willingly sign up for the run instead if one only knew how—and, of course, could be convinced that it would somehow sell a book.

When we first got word that my esteemed publishers, Mr. Simon and Mr. Schuster, would be sending me out and about the country via land-based travel in lieu of, shudder, flying both thither and yon, I, for one, was ecstatic. However, my enthusiasm for the prospect was pitifully pallid compared to the back-flipping display put on by my husband/business manager/
Cutest Boy in the World, Kyle Jennings—because, you see, HE was to be the Designated Driver of the Big-Ass Bus that, we were told, was approximately forty-three feet long and twelve and a half feet high. Two words:
Wet. Dream.

Our dogs were equally thrilled at the prospect of two whole months of 24-7 togetherness with us, the Centers of Their Universe. Plus, lots of Cracker Barrels are involved and that always means “bacon for the dogs,” so there was that added inducement for them.

What it meant to me personally was not having to unpack and repack a suitcase every single day for two months. It meant not surviving on nothing but minibar jellybeans and Pringles for sometimes days on end. It meant not having to origami my enormous frame into ever-shrinking airplane seats. No loud talkers, no screaming babies, no fucking PRETZELS. Is there a more irritating nonfood item than a pretzel? I think not. I can't think of anything that pisses me off more when I am starving than the proffer of a pretzel. But that's just me.

The most thrilling aspect to me of a nonflying book tour, though, was NO AIRPORT SECURITY. In just a few short years of existence, TSA has managed to do the impossible—they have surpassed the U.S. Postal Service in the employment of Persons Most Likely to Drive Other Persons Completely Insane.

I have, of course, the utmost respect and appreciation for the job at hand for both the post office and the transportation
security folks—but you have to admit there are a disturbingly large number of dumbo apples in both barrels.

On Queen Ellyn's most recent trek to Jackson from the hinterlands of Oregon for the execution of her yearly Parade duties, she carelessly, stupidly, made a last-minute insertion into her carry-on bag of one of the most deadly threats known to our airways. How she could do such a thing and hope to get away with it is beyond me—I mean, it's not like the rules for airline safety are new or anything—we all know them, and if we don't, it doesn't matter because there are countless signs in the security areas of all airports outlining them, and, of course, there is the TSA designated hollerer at every station to remind us.

Let us not forget for an instant the tremendous dangers these rules are designed to protect us all from and let us not for an instant let down our guards or become lax in the enforcement of these rules, lest unspeakable disaster strike needlessly.

And yet. She brazenly attempted to slide this potential weapon of mass destruction undetected through security and BOARD AN AIRCRAFT with it. The dozens of other unsuspecting and totally innocent passengers who were compliant with all the rules had no idea that this small woman who appeared to be such a nice person was actually a sneak of the lowest, most cowardly form.

She looked like all of them—regular ole Amur-kin—no suspicious head gear or non-Anglo ethnicity—it just goes to show you—profiling is wrong. Imagine my surprise when I heard this
story—this is a woman I have loved and welcomed not only into my home but aboard my very FLOAT! And yet. Here she was—attempting to subvert our NATIONAL SECURITY by concealing in her carry-on bag a fully loaded container of yogurt.

Luckily for all the other passengers with what could have been the grave misfortune of traveling on that particular day, through that particular airport—TSA was On the Job. The potential death cup was detected on the first pass through the X-ray machine and there was a great hue and cry throughout the area. “WHOSE BAG IS THIS? WHOSE BAG IS THIS?” Those in possession of firearms had their hands hovering inches above their weapons—ready to draw down on the culprit should he or she make a threatening move of any kind.

Ellyn, being slightly hard of hearing in crowded places, was not immediately aware that the jig was up on her little caper and she joined all the other passengers in looking around dazed and confused at what had set off the ire of the entire TSA staff, straining to catch sight of the villain and discern what crime against society had just been thwarted by the thankfully alert X-ray observer person.

“WHOSE BAG IS THIS WITH THE YOGURT IN IT? THERE IS A BAG HERE CONTAINING YOGURT—WHOSE BAG IS THIS? WHO DOES THIS YOGURT BELONG TO?”

Just as Ellyn realized it was her bag and her yogurt that was causing all the commotion in the bullpen, the name on the bag was deciphered by the code breaker on duty and the hunt nar
rowed. “PASSENGER ELLYN WEEKS! PASSENGER ELLYN WEEKS! WE HAVE YOUR BAG—CONTAINING YOGURT—IN THE SECURITY CHECK POINT—STEP OUT OF LINE IMMEDIATELY AND IDENTIFY YOURSELF TO THE OFFICERS! PASSENGER! ELLYN! WEEKS! COME FORWARD IMMEDIATELY—THERE IS YOGURT IN YOUR BAG!”

“Deer in the headlights” is the phrase that comes to mind as I imagine the shock and fear that must have registered on her face as she realized she had, in fact, been caught—her demonic deed uncovered and announced to the entire Sea-Tac Airport. She's an intelligent woman—to this day, I just can't imagine how she thought she would get away with it. The container CLEARLY says on all sides of the label, “EIGHT ounces.” (And it does not matter if you eat most of it so it contains only the permitted THREE—if it says eight on the outside, it's eight on the inside, according to The Holy Book of Regulations. There MUST be strict enforcement of the three-ounce rule, because you just KNOW that SOMEbody will try to get by with five or six sooner or later, although not many would be as brazen as Ellyn—going for a full EIGHT-count.)

You think you know somebody and the next thing you know, this person you've called “friend” and trusted completely in every way just destroys your faith in most of humanity like this—just because SHE thought SHE might get “hungry” waiting for her plane and thought she might “save a few bucks” by bringing HER OWN yogurt with her—EIGHT full ounces of it,
too—HIDDEN in her carry-on bag—and that would give HER the right to just thumb her little Anglo-Saxon button nose at the very fiber and foundation of our great nation—that being, of course, the rabid enforcement of inane regulations.

And I say that because when Ellyn finally did make good on her arrival at the Hilton Hotel in Jackson and she tiredly set about unpacking all her luggage—including the offending carry-on bag—imagine her surprise when she reached in to pull a mysterious object out of the bottom of the bag and what did she see in her hand when she gave it a final yank? A PAIR OF SHEARS WITH EIGHT-INCH BLADES.

She'd long forgotten what they were ever in there for—she just packed on top of them, unawares. Thank God they got so wound up over that YOGURT—she might have ended up on the airline's blacklist if they'da found them big-ass scissors.

Is That a Vibrator in Your Bag or Are You Just Glad to See Me?

Not only does one need to exercise extreme particularity when packing one's carry-on satchels, the current state of world affairs has necessitated or at least facilitated such unprecedented forays into our Private Matters that it also behooves one to reconsider one's choices in one of the Most Private of Our Matters, that being the selection of sex toys, specifically the items
one wishes to carry with one, within one's checked baggage, when one is traveling on public conveyances.

Great care and caution should be employed in this selection process on account of everybody in the TSA is gonna be looking at it and fooling with it. So THINK about what all you put in that suitcase you check through to your destination. If one is traveling to a place that has access to normal electrical outlets, then might I suggest you choose a Plug-In Guy as opposed to a Battery-Operated Boyfriend?

For one thing, it's not going to LOOK at all “lifelike” and therefore it will be a much lesser source of entertainment for the bored inspectors—this works in your favor. And it also, obviously, must actually be plugged into a wall socket in order to, well, do what it do and so no bored inspector can decide to randomly flip its switch and say, just for grins, leave it running in your suitcase, which will not only put you at risk of arriving at your destination with dead batteries—woe is you—but also offers you the stellar opportunity to be summoned over the PA system throughout the EN-tire airport and commanded to return to the baggage security scan to account for the unexplained buzzing in your luggage.

Activating battery-operated vibrators in suitcases is apparently one of the top five favorite things for TSA agents to do, it seems—even more than loosening all the caps of the liquids in your makeup bag so everything in your suitcase gets perfumed and/or moisturized—after all, they don't get to BE THERE to
SEE when you discover THAT little trick. So with the live vibrator in the bag, you can be assured of an enthusiastic crowd gathering to witness your luggage inspection.

I'm Just a Businesswoman, Why Do You Ask?

I used to like to think I was providing some welcome diversion and entertainment for our overworked TSA personnel as they dutifully inspected my carry-on bag. Passing through thirty or forty different airports in as many days will cure one of any desire to have any sort of verbal exchange with them, however, and that is precisely the situation in which I currently find myself: the novelty, as they say, has worn plumb off.

For one thing, I am always flying in and out on different airlines—meaning I will have two months' worth of ONE-WAY tickets all over the country, so I am immediately Suspect in each of the respective airports. I am “randomly selected” for a more intensive examination every single time—coincidence? Likely. Fortunately, as yet, I have not been subjected to a full-body/cavity search, but I feel it's only a matter of time.

Close inspection of my carry-on bag is mandatory at every checkpoint because the X-ray immediately spots and alerts TSA to the big-ass crown in my bag. I have no idea what it looks like on their equipment but I'm sure it looks lethal—it's the size of the sun and extremely spiky. So, we go to the designated
search area and they ask permission to open my bag and I give it—like, what choice do I have?—and they open it and they see, in person, the big-ass crown, and naturally, their simple basic human curiosity is piqued—but add to that the fact that they are gub'mint-related entities—well, they have Questions.