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22 December 2023
After five whole minutes on the ground in sunny Orlando, I had one sobering fact to deal with: There are no alligators in Florida. I was on my first vacation in over two years, my first ever to the Sunshine State, and, damnit, I wanted to see some gigantic reptiles. They should have been on every street corner, basking in the sun, laying on the benches, fetching my bags, serving me drinks, eating small children. I had been deceived, and someone had to pay.
Where were they? I do not claim to be a man of the world by any stretch. But if movies had taught me anything, there are two things in Florida: alligators and dirty, disgusting swamps full of toothless, be-mulleted white men living in shacks whose only means of transportation is a flat boat with a giant fan on the back. I saw none of this. Florida knew I was coming, and hid all the good stuff. The alligators sensed my presence, my overeagerness to delight in their presence, and hid in someone's closet. Giant vacuum cleaners had been brought from their storage places underground, and sucked the swamps dry. The toothless swamp men had been given haircuts, decent dentures, and traded in their swamp skiffs for overpriced taxi vans. They became Haitian and Dominican, and had names like "Ferdinando Cruz Alvarez Jimenez", and their only desire was to listen to bad sports radio as they transported me to my hotel to meet my friends.
My arrival at the Universal Radisson, known simply as "The Twin Towers", was greeted with great rejoicing and celebration by my friends, who had already been there for a few days. It wasn't so much rejoicing and celebration, as it was sleeping and lying about in a dark, cave-like room with red-eyed hangovers. Flynn, one of my best friends since the age of 13, rolled over, shook his fist, and muttered a weak, "Marshall!" This has been his customary greeting for as long as I can remember, and this was his saddest showing to date. He managed to prop himself up on his elbows. On the other bed was Flynn's co-worker, Eric, and Eric's old college friend, Steve, who flew in from Philly. I could tell they were excited to see me by the way their eyes never opened, and by the way they pulled blankets over their grimacing faces. I would not accept this. Undeterred by the lack of enthusiasm, I made a vow to begin my vacation as soon as possible. "Yeah! I'm on vacation!" I announced as I threw down my suitcase.
I mentioned earlier that there were no swamps in Florida, but I lied. There was a swamp, and it was in my ass. I had come to Florida directly from a half-day of work, and had wisely decided on wearing khakis and a black, button-down shirt, which I had been in for approximately 14 hours. For those of you unaccustomed to Floridian weather, black is definitely the best color to wear during your time there. Its amazing ability to retain and absorb heat makes it the ideal choice for pasty, Irish white boys who sweat in 50-degree weather.
Strangely, I was not worried about the wet, gamy smell emanating from my person, but, rather, was tremendously concerned about the state of the Jack Daniel's in my suitcase. I had watched in horror earlier in the day as the baggage checker at Pittsburgh International threw my suitcase through the x-ray device with such alarming velocity that others in a 40-foot radius had turned to see what the commotion was. At the time, I had shrugged it off. It was so airport cliché! How cute! I made some smarmy comment about how glad I was that I didn't pack my fine China, while the bag checker at the other end smiled apologetically. I was on vacation, and such things did not concern me.
Now, looking down at my mangled suitcase, I feared the worst. Both of the zippers had been broken from the top, leaving me no viable way to check on my belongings. The metal stand, which at one time had enabled me to position my suitcase in the upright position with the utmost of confidence, was now bent outward at an impossible 37-degree angle. The x-ray incident was not an isolated one-- it merely portended the horrific punishment that my poor Pierre Cardin would be forced to endure in the coming hours.
I imagined hundreds of angry, disgruntled US Airways employees-- men and women who knew they would surely lose their jobs in the coming months as their industry continued to shrink-- re-enacting the finer moments of Wrestlemania XIII on my baggage. There would be amazing tag-team matches fought against my poor, outmanned suitcase. It would be held up, defenseless, by a toothless baggage checker (no relation to toothless swamp man), while one of his cohorts leapt from a pile of other peoples' decimated suitcases, and gave my luggage the Heart Attack. Elbow after elbow would be dropped directly onto my bag. The Camel Clutch would be sternly administered to the upright stand, but no referee would interfere with the punishment. Other baggage handlers would throw in steel chairs, old road signs, and wooden canes, which would be mercilessly beaten across the length of the case. The Heavyweight Bag Beating Champion of the World would be assigned to accompany my bag on the plane; his only mission would be to jump up and down on it for the duration of the flight.
After securing a twist tie and rigging it MacGuyver-style to the broken zipper latch, I set to the task of winching open my poor, beaten suitcase. With great trepidation, I peeked into the contents within. At first, it appeared that the outer shell had absorbed the brunt of the baggage checkers' wrath. I gingerly probed through my clothes, and removed the bottle of Jack. Still semi-full! Wait a minute,.. semi-full? Shit! I flipped the bottle upside down, and held it over my open palm. Caramel liquid dripped steadily into my hand. Shit! Like any good vacationing alcoholic, I lapped at my hand so none of the precious liquid would go to waste. Shit, straight whiskey is horrible! My clothes! I dove back into my suitcase, rummaging for the surrounding garments. I pulled out a pair of khaki shorts I had planned on wearing for the evening. They were wet and smelled like a hobo's ass. Shit! I quickly moved to the next pair. Ditto. All of my clothes from immediately below the bottle were soaked in whiskey.
By this point, the guys were up and milling about, preparing themselves for another evening of drunken debauchery. I figured I would end up smelling like whiskey in the end anyway, so I put on the sopping wet shorts. I knew the heat would dry them anyway, and they couldn't smell worse than what I arrived in. I needed one more thing before I would officially be ready for the evening, and that was a good mixer for what was left of my Jack. While Steve showered, Flynn, Eric, and I set off for the hotel snack shop in search of Coca-Cola. Nothing could have prepared us for the wonders that lied ahead.
Flynn and Eric, now fully-awake and game for anything, led me back through the labyrinth of the 10th floor to our waiting elevator. In addition to the whiskey and Coke I would soon be imbibing, I decided a fresh package of cigarettes would also be in order. Ah, smoking and drinking in your hotel room-- is there anything finer?
"Um, we have a non-smoking room," Flynn informed me. I temporarily went off my nut. Flynn, the one who arranged our accommodations had let me down, and I was inconsolable with grief. No smoking in the room? A travesty! I wasn't about to pay fifteen whole dollars a night and not have a cigarette whenever I damn well pleased! Someone must be punished! "Yeah, they just passed a smoking law down here. It went into effect July 1st."
Wrong, wrong, wrong. As it turns out, Florida had indeed passed a law. Any establishment that earns 20% of its income from food was now required to prohibit smoking indoors. What happened to our country? I mean, first it happened in California; but I expected that kind of Nazi progressive liberalism from that particular tree-huggin', granola-eatin' lot. Then, New York City pulled the same nonsense. I assumed the world would end. But, hey, they're pretty progressive there, too, I suppose. Now, Florida? My God. I'm supposed to indulge in as many vices as I can live with on vacation! To top that all off, the law extended to bars. Bars are dens of sin and iniquity! To remove smoking from drinking is like taking Siegfried away from Roy. No, no, no. It's my body! I'll do what I want! Fucking Commies!
I was busy mulling over this unfortunate turn of events while waiting for the elevator to arrive when I noticed that something else was terribly wrong. I heard the shrill sound of teenyboppers giggling all around me. The din was maddening-- it was coming from the walls, the rooms around me, and directly in front of me.
"Yeah. There's a cheerleading convention this weekend," Flynn muttered. He was a defeated man, already well-aware of this fact. "And they're all, like, 12." Oh Jesus, no.
"Yeah. That's right. 12."
Our elevator arrived, and it was packed with spunky little chippies wearing tight shirts and short skirts. On a normal day, the elevator should have held five or six people comfortably. There were easily a dozen cheerleaders in our car. The three of us did our best to squeeze in and avert our eyes from the prepubescent madness all around us:
"I'll bite your nipple if you say that one more time! Tee-hee!"
The other girl repeated whatever she had just said, and her nipple is pinched through her tight, little shirt.
Must avert eyes. Must not stare like a lecherous, old pervert.
"Doesn't this shirt make my boobs look bigger? Tee-hee!"
Oh my God. It did make her boobs look bigger. No,.. must not look. Ah, but they're so pert and round. She is looking right at me. She wants me to compliment her. No, must not look. She'll be legal soon, I'll bet. Oh God oh God oh God.
We make it two whole floors before we stop. More cheerleaders pile in. They are from Brazil, as is evident by their country's flag emblazoned on their shirts. They are speaking their native dialect, but their sentences all end in "tee-hee" as well. They also flourish their budding breasts with reckless abandon, taking delight in the red faces of the three, dirty old men who are looking straight forward like racehorses with blinders on. We are all trying to endure this. We are focused on our goal. I am sweating now; there is no air in the hallways or the elevator. We stop on nearly every floor, cheerleaders exiting and entering, all giggling, all bursting into womanhood, all in overly tight clothes.
These girls did not exist when I was 12 or 15. When I was that age, girls wore baggy Skidz pants and unflattering, oversized t-shirts. They were sexless, and did not show their cleavage to strangers and anonymous passersby. They did not dress like they had been sexually active from the age of five. They did not extend their breasts to me like pairs of sweet, delicious Cornish game hens, begging me to dine. It is all Brittany's fault. I blame the Aguilera girl. No, I blame Madonna. It's her damn fault. The first two just wanted to pay homage, but took it too far and made it worse for us all. I made a silent prayer, begging the good Lord to never bless me with a daughter of my own. If He, in His infinite wisdom, chose to do so, I would surely force my girls to wear potato sacks and garbage bags until they were old enough to leave my house. I would inflect the voice of my own father and give them the "not as long as you're in my house" speech.
We hit the ground floor, broken, embarrassed beyond belief. They were everywhere-- the pool, the lounge, the lobby, the hot tub.
"I feel dirty," said Eric. We all felt dirty. An unspoken wave of silent agreement passed over us. We acknowledged what we had long feared-- we were now dirty old men. "So very dirty," he said as we pressed onward.
We parted the sea of cheerleaders and rounded the corner to the gift shop. As we approached, I noted the neon sign hanging in the window. It read: SNACKS / SOUVENIRS / SUNDRIES.
"Sweet. They have sundries," I said.
"What the fuck are sundries?" Eric asked.
I was nonplussed. Here I had been boning up on my vocab for years like a sucker with the help of Reader's Digest, but had no clue what sundries were. "You know,.. sundries." I did not know. I used the ancient first grade technique of breaking a word down into its components. Sun. Dries. What does the sun dry? Raisins! Apricots! Cranberries! The store would surely be full of dried fruits. Or not.
The gift shop looked much like any other gift shop in the land, full of tacky oddities to commemorate one's vacation. There were no dried fruits to be seen-- merely overpriced sodas, gifts, t-shirts and postcards. We moved immediately to the back of the store, which seemed to house the better quality merchandise. There was entire shelf of dolphin memorabilia, all happily jumping from tranquil, ceramic waters over items like dinner plates and desk clocks. One particular piece caught Eric's attention. It was plaque with three dolphins leaping from dark, stormy water. The sky behind them was black, and lightning bolts split the sky. Powerful emotions were evoked. It had Franklin Mint written all over it. I imagined the type of person to buy this would also be the kind to buy "Great Beards of the West" salt and pepper shakers, or knives with paintings of buxom women on the hilts representing the Seven Deadly Sins. "This is great. I like this one, with the flying and the magic. It's super. Very majestic and powerful."
I was uncertain what to say about this, so I just laughed. Eric, as I would soon discover, is a master of regurgitating movie lines verbatim, and applying them in unusual circumstances to fit a particular moment. This line, which would become our weekend mantra for all things spectacular, was lifted from Old School. Andy Dick, who had a small part in the film as a gay, in-home sex therapist, mentioned that the reason he liked Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon was because of "all the flying and the magic."
As we continued our quest to determine what the hell a sundry was, we spotted one dolphin related piece that was far removed from the rest of his gift shop pod. Staring at us from a dilapidated cardboard box in the far corner was Flippy the Dolphin™. The cartoon of Flippy™ on the box showed what one expects when they see a fun-loving dolphin-- a tranquil sea mammal with a bluish-gray hue to his skin, jumping through a hoop to the delight of children everywhere. As we looked below, we saw easily the most terrifying creature ever to plague the seas. He was a plastic, low quality, Japanese monstrosity; the kind you would find in discount flea market bins and shady back alley toy stores. His eyes were wide-open, a massive white space with a tiny black dot in the center, a look of maniac fury, as if someone had just snuck up on him and forced a plunger handle into his unsuspecting blowhole. His gaping mouth was lined in red (blood?) and a full array of razor-sharp barracuda teeth. A mottled, black-green coat of cheap paint lined his skin, which was presumably also the color of his evil, tormented dolphin soul. Flippy's™ tagline, found on the box's header, was something of an enigma, a bit of poorly translated nonsense that none of us could fathom: BEEP ME AND I SPLASH.
This was the most terrifying aspect of all. Would anyone be fooled? Would anyone believe Flippy™ had a pager so small children could request a gentle splashing at any time?
No. One look at him said otherwise. The wonderful illustration, full of the flying and the magic, was merely there to entrap and ensnare the hearts of innocents so that Flippy™ could drink and bathe in their blood. He would lull you into a false sense of comfort, then leap from the depths, latch onto your face, and suck the marrow from your eye sockets. Children would scream as their face was eaten in one, blood-soaked bite. No, "Beep me and I splash" really meant "Touch me and I'll eat your innards."
We turned away from the gruesome sight, and were greeted by a shelf full of more benign fare. Monkeys! Yes, the famous Florida monkey, known throughout the world as the kindest and most gentle primate. It far outshines and is better known than its other Florida brethren, the alligator and the dolphin. Yes, monkeys are everywhere in Florida, but they are in hiding with the alligators and swamps and toothless skiff driving rednecks. The shelf contained the classic "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil" chimpanzees in various varieties. They came as separate pieces, all with their little monkey privates covered in a tasteful monkey fig leaf. The monkeys did not wish to scare children like mean, ol' Flippy™. They did not want to show off their naughty monkey parts like the nasty, spunky, young cheerleaders all around us. They just wanted to have fun. Some were stacked totem pole-style, and I knew then and there that my souvenir shopping was over.
We all grabbed our respective beverages, Flynn adding a box of chocolate covered somethings, and headed for the counter. I suggested we grab something for Steve, who we hoped would be ready to go upon our return.
"Where are the sundries located, sir?" asked Eric. The man behind the counter was unamused, probably because three twenty-something jackasses had just made fun of his entire store for 15 minutes. He promptly charged us $2.50 for each soda, and sent us on our merry way.
"Yeah, I'm on vacation," I cried.
"Yeah, we have sundries," Flynn yelled.
"Yeah, we just paid too much for drinks," said Eric.
When we arrived back at room 1025, Steve was ready to go. We promptly handed him his overpriced Pepsi.
"We brought you sundries," Eric added.
"What the hell are sundries?" Steve asked.
"You know,.. sundries," Flynn offered.
A man of few words, Steve shrugged and accepted his drink. I poured myself a Jack and Pepsi, and downed it while we gathered our belongings for an evening at City Walk, a popular nightspot with ten or so megaclubs located at the entrance of Universal Studios and Islands of Adventure.
CLICK HERE TO READ PART TWO
Where were they? I do not claim to be a man of the world by any stretch. But if movies had taught me anything, there are two things in Florida: alligators and dirty, disgusting swamps full of toothless, be-mulleted white men living in shacks whose only means of transportation is a flat boat with a giant fan on the back. I saw none of this. Florida knew I was coming, and hid all the good stuff. The alligators sensed my presence, my overeagerness to delight in their presence, and hid in someone's closet. Giant vacuum cleaners had been brought from their storage places underground, and sucked the swamps dry. The toothless swamp men had been given haircuts, decent dentures, and traded in their swamp skiffs for overpriced taxi vans. They became Haitian and Dominican, and had names like "Ferdinando Cruz Alvarez Jimenez", and their only desire was to listen to bad sports radio as they transported me to my hotel to meet my friends.
My arrival at the Universal Radisson, known simply as "The Twin Towers", was greeted with great rejoicing and celebration by my friends, who had already been there for a few days. It wasn't so much rejoicing and celebration, as it was sleeping and lying about in a dark, cave-like room with red-eyed hangovers. Flynn, one of my best friends since the age of 13, rolled over, shook his fist, and muttered a weak, "Marshall!" This has been his customary greeting for as long as I can remember, and this was his saddest showing to date. He managed to prop himself up on his elbows. On the other bed was Flynn's co-worker, Eric, and Eric's old college friend, Steve, who flew in from Philly. I could tell they were excited to see me by the way their eyes never opened, and by the way they pulled blankets over their grimacing faces. I would not accept this. Undeterred by the lack of enthusiasm, I made a vow to begin my vacation as soon as possible. "Yeah! I'm on vacation!" I announced as I threw down my suitcase.
I mentioned earlier that there were no swamps in Florida, but I lied. There was a swamp, and it was in my ass. I had come to Florida directly from a half-day of work, and had wisely decided on wearing khakis and a black, button-down shirt, which I had been in for approximately 14 hours. For those of you unaccustomed to Floridian weather, black is definitely the best color to wear during your time there. Its amazing ability to retain and absorb heat makes it the ideal choice for pasty, Irish white boys who sweat in 50-degree weather.
Strangely, I was not worried about the wet, gamy smell emanating from my person, but, rather, was tremendously concerned about the state of the Jack Daniel's in my suitcase. I had watched in horror earlier in the day as the baggage checker at Pittsburgh International threw my suitcase through the x-ray device with such alarming velocity that others in a 40-foot radius had turned to see what the commotion was. At the time, I had shrugged it off. It was so airport cliché! How cute! I made some smarmy comment about how glad I was that I didn't pack my fine China, while the bag checker at the other end smiled apologetically. I was on vacation, and such things did not concern me.
Now, looking down at my mangled suitcase, I feared the worst. Both of the zippers had been broken from the top, leaving me no viable way to check on my belongings. The metal stand, which at one time had enabled me to position my suitcase in the upright position with the utmost of confidence, was now bent outward at an impossible 37-degree angle. The x-ray incident was not an isolated one-- it merely portended the horrific punishment that my poor Pierre Cardin would be forced to endure in the coming hours.
I imagined hundreds of angry, disgruntled US Airways employees-- men and women who knew they would surely lose their jobs in the coming months as their industry continued to shrink-- re-enacting the finer moments of Wrestlemania XIII on my baggage. There would be amazing tag-team matches fought against my poor, outmanned suitcase. It would be held up, defenseless, by a toothless baggage checker (no relation to toothless swamp man), while one of his cohorts leapt from a pile of other peoples' decimated suitcases, and gave my luggage the Heart Attack. Elbow after elbow would be dropped directly onto my bag. The Camel Clutch would be sternly administered to the upright stand, but no referee would interfere with the punishment. Other baggage handlers would throw in steel chairs, old road signs, and wooden canes, which would be mercilessly beaten across the length of the case. The Heavyweight Bag Beating Champion of the World would be assigned to accompany my bag on the plane; his only mission would be to jump up and down on it for the duration of the flight.
After securing a twist tie and rigging it MacGuyver-style to the broken zipper latch, I set to the task of winching open my poor, beaten suitcase. With great trepidation, I peeked into the contents within. At first, it appeared that the outer shell had absorbed the brunt of the baggage checkers' wrath. I gingerly probed through my clothes, and removed the bottle of Jack. Still semi-full! Wait a minute,.. semi-full? Shit! I flipped the bottle upside down, and held it over my open palm. Caramel liquid dripped steadily into my hand. Shit! Like any good vacationing alcoholic, I lapped at my hand so none of the precious liquid would go to waste. Shit, straight whiskey is horrible! My clothes! I dove back into my suitcase, rummaging for the surrounding garments. I pulled out a pair of khaki shorts I had planned on wearing for the evening. They were wet and smelled like a hobo's ass. Shit! I quickly moved to the next pair. Ditto. All of my clothes from immediately below the bottle were soaked in whiskey.
By this point, the guys were up and milling about, preparing themselves for another evening of drunken debauchery. I figured I would end up smelling like whiskey in the end anyway, so I put on the sopping wet shorts. I knew the heat would dry them anyway, and they couldn't smell worse than what I arrived in. I needed one more thing before I would officially be ready for the evening, and that was a good mixer for what was left of my Jack. While Steve showered, Flynn, Eric, and I set off for the hotel snack shop in search of Coca-Cola. Nothing could have prepared us for the wonders that lied ahead.
Flynn and Eric, now fully-awake and game for anything, led me back through the labyrinth of the 10th floor to our waiting elevator. In addition to the whiskey and Coke I would soon be imbibing, I decided a fresh package of cigarettes would also be in order. Ah, smoking and drinking in your hotel room-- is there anything finer?
"Um, we have a non-smoking room," Flynn informed me. I temporarily went off my nut. Flynn, the one who arranged our accommodations had let me down, and I was inconsolable with grief. No smoking in the room? A travesty! I wasn't about to pay fifteen whole dollars a night and not have a cigarette whenever I damn well pleased! Someone must be punished! "Yeah, they just passed a smoking law down here. It went into effect July 1st."
Wrong, wrong, wrong. As it turns out, Florida had indeed passed a law. Any establishment that earns 20% of its income from food was now required to prohibit smoking indoors. What happened to our country? I mean, first it happened in California; but I expected that kind of Nazi progressive liberalism from that particular tree-huggin', granola-eatin' lot. Then, New York City pulled the same nonsense. I assumed the world would end. But, hey, they're pretty progressive there, too, I suppose. Now, Florida? My God. I'm supposed to indulge in as many vices as I can live with on vacation! To top that all off, the law extended to bars. Bars are dens of sin and iniquity! To remove smoking from drinking is like taking Siegfried away from Roy. No, no, no. It's my body! I'll do what I want! Fucking Commies!
I was busy mulling over this unfortunate turn of events while waiting for the elevator to arrive when I noticed that something else was terribly wrong. I heard the shrill sound of teenyboppers giggling all around me. The din was maddening-- it was coming from the walls, the rooms around me, and directly in front of me.
"Yeah. There's a cheerleading convention this weekend," Flynn muttered. He was a defeated man, already well-aware of this fact. "And they're all, like, 12." Oh Jesus, no.
"Yeah. That's right. 12."
Our elevator arrived, and it was packed with spunky little chippies wearing tight shirts and short skirts. On a normal day, the elevator should have held five or six people comfortably. There were easily a dozen cheerleaders in our car. The three of us did our best to squeeze in and avert our eyes from the prepubescent madness all around us:
"I'll bite your nipple if you say that one more time! Tee-hee!"
The other girl repeated whatever she had just said, and her nipple is pinched through her tight, little shirt.
Must avert eyes. Must not stare like a lecherous, old pervert.
"Doesn't this shirt make my boobs look bigger? Tee-hee!"
Oh my God. It did make her boobs look bigger. No,.. must not look. Ah, but they're so pert and round. She is looking right at me. She wants me to compliment her. No, must not look. She'll be legal soon, I'll bet. Oh God oh God oh God.
We make it two whole floors before we stop. More cheerleaders pile in. They are from Brazil, as is evident by their country's flag emblazoned on their shirts. They are speaking their native dialect, but their sentences all end in "tee-hee" as well. They also flourish their budding breasts with reckless abandon, taking delight in the red faces of the three, dirty old men who are looking straight forward like racehorses with blinders on. We are all trying to endure this. We are focused on our goal. I am sweating now; there is no air in the hallways or the elevator. We stop on nearly every floor, cheerleaders exiting and entering, all giggling, all bursting into womanhood, all in overly tight clothes.
These girls did not exist when I was 12 or 15. When I was that age, girls wore baggy Skidz pants and unflattering, oversized t-shirts. They were sexless, and did not show their cleavage to strangers and anonymous passersby. They did not dress like they had been sexually active from the age of five. They did not extend their breasts to me like pairs of sweet, delicious Cornish game hens, begging me to dine. It is all Brittany's fault. I blame the Aguilera girl. No, I blame Madonna. It's her damn fault. The first two just wanted to pay homage, but took it too far and made it worse for us all. I made a silent prayer, begging the good Lord to never bless me with a daughter of my own. If He, in His infinite wisdom, chose to do so, I would surely force my girls to wear potato sacks and garbage bags until they were old enough to leave my house. I would inflect the voice of my own father and give them the "not as long as you're in my house" speech.
We hit the ground floor, broken, embarrassed beyond belief. They were everywhere-- the pool, the lounge, the lobby, the hot tub.
"I feel dirty," said Eric. We all felt dirty. An unspoken wave of silent agreement passed over us. We acknowledged what we had long feared-- we were now dirty old men. "So very dirty," he said as we pressed onward.
We parted the sea of cheerleaders and rounded the corner to the gift shop. As we approached, I noted the neon sign hanging in the window. It read: SNACKS / SOUVENIRS / SUNDRIES.
"Sweet. They have sundries," I said.
"What the fuck are sundries?" Eric asked.
I was nonplussed. Here I had been boning up on my vocab for years like a sucker with the help of Reader's Digest, but had no clue what sundries were. "You know,.. sundries." I did not know. I used the ancient first grade technique of breaking a word down into its components. Sun. Dries. What does the sun dry? Raisins! Apricots! Cranberries! The store would surely be full of dried fruits. Or not.
The gift shop looked much like any other gift shop in the land, full of tacky oddities to commemorate one's vacation. There were no dried fruits to be seen-- merely overpriced sodas, gifts, t-shirts and postcards. We moved immediately to the back of the store, which seemed to house the better quality merchandise. There was entire shelf of dolphin memorabilia, all happily jumping from tranquil, ceramic waters over items like dinner plates and desk clocks. One particular piece caught Eric's attention. It was plaque with three dolphins leaping from dark, stormy water. The sky behind them was black, and lightning bolts split the sky. Powerful emotions were evoked. It had Franklin Mint written all over it. I imagined the type of person to buy this would also be the kind to buy "Great Beards of the West" salt and pepper shakers, or knives with paintings of buxom women on the hilts representing the Seven Deadly Sins. "This is great. I like this one, with the flying and the magic. It's super. Very majestic and powerful."
I was uncertain what to say about this, so I just laughed. Eric, as I would soon discover, is a master of regurgitating movie lines verbatim, and applying them in unusual circumstances to fit a particular moment. This line, which would become our weekend mantra for all things spectacular, was lifted from Old School. Andy Dick, who had a small part in the film as a gay, in-home sex therapist, mentioned that the reason he liked Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon was because of "all the flying and the magic."
As we continued our quest to determine what the hell a sundry was, we spotted one dolphin related piece that was far removed from the rest of his gift shop pod. Staring at us from a dilapidated cardboard box in the far corner was Flippy the Dolphin™. The cartoon of Flippy™ on the box showed what one expects when they see a fun-loving dolphin-- a tranquil sea mammal with a bluish-gray hue to his skin, jumping through a hoop to the delight of children everywhere. As we looked below, we saw easily the most terrifying creature ever to plague the seas. He was a plastic, low quality, Japanese monstrosity; the kind you would find in discount flea market bins and shady back alley toy stores. His eyes were wide-open, a massive white space with a tiny black dot in the center, a look of maniac fury, as if someone had just snuck up on him and forced a plunger handle into his unsuspecting blowhole. His gaping mouth was lined in red (blood?) and a full array of razor-sharp barracuda teeth. A mottled, black-green coat of cheap paint lined his skin, which was presumably also the color of his evil, tormented dolphin soul. Flippy's™ tagline, found on the box's header, was something of an enigma, a bit of poorly translated nonsense that none of us could fathom: BEEP ME AND I SPLASH.
This was the most terrifying aspect of all. Would anyone be fooled? Would anyone believe Flippy™ had a pager so small children could request a gentle splashing at any time?
No. One look at him said otherwise. The wonderful illustration, full of the flying and the magic, was merely there to entrap and ensnare the hearts of innocents so that Flippy™ could drink and bathe in their blood. He would lull you into a false sense of comfort, then leap from the depths, latch onto your face, and suck the marrow from your eye sockets. Children would scream as their face was eaten in one, blood-soaked bite. No, "Beep me and I splash" really meant "Touch me and I'll eat your innards."
We turned away from the gruesome sight, and were greeted by a shelf full of more benign fare. Monkeys! Yes, the famous Florida monkey, known throughout the world as the kindest and most gentle primate. It far outshines and is better known than its other Florida brethren, the alligator and the dolphin. Yes, monkeys are everywhere in Florida, but they are in hiding with the alligators and swamps and toothless skiff driving rednecks. The shelf contained the classic "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil" chimpanzees in various varieties. They came as separate pieces, all with their little monkey privates covered in a tasteful monkey fig leaf. The monkeys did not wish to scare children like mean, ol' Flippy™. They did not want to show off their naughty monkey parts like the nasty, spunky, young cheerleaders all around us. They just wanted to have fun. Some were stacked totem pole-style, and I knew then and there that my souvenir shopping was over.
We all grabbed our respective beverages, Flynn adding a box of chocolate covered somethings, and headed for the counter. I suggested we grab something for Steve, who we hoped would be ready to go upon our return.
"Where are the sundries located, sir?" asked Eric. The man behind the counter was unamused, probably because three twenty-something jackasses had just made fun of his entire store for 15 minutes. He promptly charged us $2.50 for each soda, and sent us on our merry way.
"Yeah, I'm on vacation," I cried.
"Yeah, we have sundries," Flynn yelled.
"Yeah, we just paid too much for drinks," said Eric.
When we arrived back at room 1025, Steve was ready to go. We promptly handed him his overpriced Pepsi.
"We brought you sundries," Eric added.
"What the hell are sundries?" Steve asked.
"You know,.. sundries," Flynn offered.
A man of few words, Steve shrugged and accepted his drink. I poured myself a Jack and Pepsi, and downed it while we gathered our belongings for an evening at City Walk, a popular nightspot with ten or so megaclubs located at the entrance of Universal Studios and Islands of Adventure.
CLICK HERE TO READ PART TWO
artid
1522
Old Image
5_12_florida.jpg
issue
vol 5 - issue 12 (aug 2003)
section
stories