What a Long, Strange Trip, Part II

In our last episode, after a nerve-wracking flight into Islip, Long Island, ye olde drowned rat had sunk a couple of Bass Ales at sweet Molly Malone's (now permanently closed, I'm sad to report) and boarded the ferry to Fire Island with a contingent of intrepid Dark Shadows fans. When we arrived at our semi-rustic lodgings, both Ms. Massie (whose journey, I learned, had been scarcely less taxing than mine) and I collapsed for long afternoon naps. In fact, if I recall, I think several of us decided to crash for a while, as the severe storms had done a pretty good number on everyone's nerves, and it was good to finally relax. Fortunately, for the next two days, the weather ceased to be a complicating factor, and spending time among some good friends served as much-needed tonic. There were no cars in our particular corner of Fire Island, so we either walked or rode bicycles to whatever areas we saw fit to explore. I believe it was on our second evening there, I remember we had to hoof it quite some distance to find vittles, at a restaurant whose name I can't recall but that I quite enjoyed. At the time, I was working on the opening chapters of Dark Shadows: The Labyrinth of Souls, and I read the first chapter to an enthusiastic crowd — which was actually a motivating reason for finishing the novel even when it appeared that an official release by either HarperCollins or Tor was not destined to happen.

For those couple of days, I thought perhaps I had left the bizarro realm behind me, but on that last day on the island, I discovered it had been but a brief respite.

On Sunday, I bid my companions adieu, for I had to return to work the following day. It was particularly sad for me because the group was planning to visit Dark Shadows actor Louis Edmonds at his nearby home. Fortunately, I had met him once before he passed away in 2001, but I have always regretted not being able to spend time with him on that particular trip. Anyway, as planned, my fellow Air Warrior staffer "Mojo" Wayne met me at the ferry station early that afternoon, and we decided that Molly Malone's would make a fine destination for lunch and drinks before heading to the airport. As it turned out, Molly Malone's was equally appealing to both the church crowd and the seafaring set. Before we knew it, battalions of patrons in their Sunday best, accompanied by raucous children, descended on our positions. Mojo said he knew a place close to the airport, so off we went to escape the onslaught of Christian soldiers.

Little did I know that Mojo's favorite spot was a strip club. Now, I am far, far from prudish, but I have never derived much pleasure from such adult venues. We settled ourselves in a relatively secluded corner, and I was enjoying a well-made gin and tonic when he stood up and hollered, "Famous writer here! A famous horror writer!" So much for traveling incognito. A couple of attractive young ladies rushed over to check out my credentials, and when they learned I had written a Dark Shadows novel, they were both ecstatic. Longtime fans, apparently, and how nice! I ended up grabbing a couple of copies of the book from my (finally dried out) suitcase and donating them to the cause here, for which I was offered all kinds of favors, and which I all kinds of refused because, well, Mrs. Death. (I was still married to her in those days.) Anyway, after all this, Mojo drove me on to Islip Airport, where I anticipated, finally, an uneventful flight home.

My flight had been canceled.

Well, the attendant said, there wasn't another flight to PHL until late that evening, and I wouldn't be able to make a connection to Greensboro till the following day. However, if I wanted to catch a direct flight home, they could put me in a limo, free of charge, to LaGuardia, an hour or so away, which was due to depart in about three hours. I settled on taking the limo ride to LaGuardia and the direct flight, so off we went. The driver was courteous enough, though a big fan of Rudy Giuliani, who turned out to be the sole subject of a very one-sided conversation. Now, for whatever reason, after leaving the strip club, I had kept a copy of Dreams of the Dark in my hand and stuck my plane ticket between its pages. When we arrived at LaGuardia, the driver dropped me off at the terminal, I grabbed my suitcase, and headed toward the entrance. The limo pulled away.

Then I realized I had left my book — and my plane ticket — in the car's back seat.

In a burst of panic, I took off running after the limo, hoping the driver would see me in his rear-view mirror. No such luck! By now, the police officers manning the terminal entrance came hauling ass my way, yelling at me to get the hell out of the road.

"My ticket's in that limo!" I shouted back.

Another limo was just pulling out, and an officer yelled, "Grab that one!"

Sure enough, as the limo pulled by me, I flagged the driver down and, while the car was still moving, flung myself into the back seat.

I pointed ahead, to the vehicle I had so recently quitted. "Follow that car!"

The driver, a cordial young fellow indeed, nodded politely and said, "Hold on, sir!"

The G force was terrible! What felt like a ton of bricks smashed me into the backseat as the limo rocketed after our quarry. I could see that, not far ahead, the road divided — the right lane led to the expressway, the left lane circled back around the airport. Naturally, my former limo was heading for the expressway.

In his rearview mirror, my driver must have noticed my consternation, for he said in a placating tone, "No worries, sir."

Next thing I know, we're pulling up beside my old limo, and the driver is honking his horn. My former driver noticed us, and I rolled down my window. "MY TICKET IS IN THE BACK SEAT!" I cried.

The driver looked around, noticed my book with the ticket inside, and in one smooth motion, reached back, grabbed the book, and flung it out the window toward me. The book flew in and smacked me in the head. "THANK YOU!" I hollered, and the exceptionally dexterous fellow gave me a big thumbs' up. Then he disappeared in the direction of the expressway, and I had my ticket in hand.

Quite unperturbed, my driver carried me back to the terminal at a far more reasonable speed, and when he dropped me off at the doors, I gave him a $20 bill for going around that circle, which back then was probably a damned good tip for such a quick round trip.

In the end, I caught my flight back to Greensboro, this time sans inordinate turbulence, on time, with dry clothes, and at least some of my wits intact. When I got home and Mrs. Death asked me how my trip had gone, I told her it was fine, if a bit unusual. I wasn't sure she would believe the whole story. I wasn't sure I believed the whole story.

But that's what happened. And I suddenly have a craving for Bass Ale. Anyone care to join me?

What a Long, Strange Trip, Part I

Back in May 2000, not long after Dark Shadows: Dreams of the Dark was released, I accepted to an invitation to attend a gathering of Dark Shadows fans at Fire Island, NY. I anticipated it being an entertaining weekend spent in the company of some nice folks with a similar fondness for certain supernatural soap operas. I was delighted to find that Ms. Elizabeth Massie, my co-writer on the novel, would also be attending. The part about about hanging out with some nice folks proved true enough, but what I did not expect was a surreal, often disconcerting experience that began the moment I left home and ended only when my plane touched down safely back in Greensboro two days later.

At the time, I was the head game op on AOL's Air Warrior flight simulator, and it so happened that one of the other staffers with whom I'd gotten to be friends lived in that area of New York. We decided that, on the last day of my trip, he would pick me up at the Fire Island Ferry Station, we'd have a few drinks somewhere, and then he'd take me to the airport. A little bonus to look forward to before my return home.

My plane departed Greensboro on a cold, drizzly Friday morning, bound for Islip, Long Island, by way of Philadelphia. The flight out was normal enough, though the turbulence was considerable. It was when I arrived at PHL to make my connection that things really went south. By now, the drizzle had become a relentless deluge, and my flight to Islip was on a tiny commuter aircraft that resembled a shoebox to which someone had glued wings as an afterthought. However, instead of at the main terminal, the airplane was parked on the tarmac at the farthest reaches of the airport. To get there, we few passengers had to take a bus. Our baggage followed in an open trolley, my canvas suitcase fully exposed to the driving rain. Oy! Once the plane was airborne, some coffee seemed just the ticket, so I acquired a cup from the flight attendant. I had barely taken a sip — hot! — when we hit the first serious turbulence. Fortunately, the seat next to me was empty, and I held my cup out over that seat to keep the scalding coffee from sloshing all over me.

And just in time too. WHOMP! Big air pocket! The plane dropped a hundred feet or more, my stomach rushed to my throat, and the full contents of that coffee cup splashed onto the empty seat beside me. Beverage service was immediately terminated, and for the next 45 minutes, we bounced along in the air, my head every now and then striking the overhead compartment when we hit a particularly rough stretch. It was the landing, though, that almost put me off flying, for as we made our descent, the little aircraft began to sway mercilessly back and forth, occasionally so sharply that, through the windows, I found myself looking straight down at the earth. Soon enough, treetops were rushing past at high speed, and then — WHAM! — the left tire touched down on the runway. WHAM! The right tire touched down. Finally — BAM! THUD! — the nose wheel came down, and my head hit the back of the seat in front of me hard enough to send stars dancing across my field of vision. People around me were screaming, and I mean screaming, and this disturbed me far more than the pain of impact. But outside the window, I could see that we were rolling along on level ground, gradually slowing down. The worst, it would seem, was over.

Indeed, I had survived more or less unscathed, but when my suitcase and I were reunited, it appeared to have been salvaged from some the wreckage of the Titanic. Inside it, everything — and I mean everything — was soaked through and through. Where I was going, I didn't anticipate finding a handy retailer to replace anything that had been ruined, but my spirits were far less dampened than my belongings. I caught a ride with a friendly limo driver who carried me to the Bayshore-Fire Island Ferry Station, now under merely cloudy skies. However, immediately upon our arrival, the bottom fell out again, a blinding torrent, and I really wasn't sure where I had to go to meet my party. Oddly, the parking lot was deserted. The driver and I appeared to be the only human beings at the ferry station. He offered to wait with me until Ms. Massie and the others arrived, but I saw in the distance a tavern called Molly Malone's, and it appeared to be open, so I asked the driver to drop me there that I might enjoy a drink while waiting for the Dark Shadows contingent. He obliged, but in the fifty feet between the limo and the establishment's front door, I ended up so drenched I might as well have leaped into Great South Bay. With my waterlogged suitcase in hand, I staggered into the tavern, immediately to encounter a young hostess who, upon taking in my appearance, gave an involuntary snicker and said, "Sir, you need a drink."

I quite agreed, and she led me past a crowded bar, where a group of clearly drunken, burly seafaring types were belting out "Sweet Molly Malone" at the top of their collective lungs. I think it was at this moment that I realized I had become an active participant in some ongoing, surreal scenario, and there was nothing for it but to go along for the ride and see where it led me. I ordered a Bass Ale and then another before I saw, through a rain-splashed window, the arrival of a vehicle from which, blessedly, Ms. Massie and several other familiar figures emerged. For some time afterward, whenever it rained, I found myself craving Bass Ale, and now upon reflection, it seems a tradition worth revisiting.

As I made my way out of Molly Malone's, the rain stopped, and I met Ms. Massie, Mr. Bob Issel, and a few other acquaintances from a previous Dark Shadows festival. We boarded the ferry, and, for the moment, it appeared that things might actually settle down and allow for a pleasant, mellow weekend at a cozy summer house on the island.

I only hoped I had some place to hang my soaked clothes and that they might dry out quickly.

Part II follows.

Manhattan Mayhem

An early morning moon over Lake Anna, VA, viewed from 25,000 ft.

It's been a long while since I've spent some quality time with the young 'un, so early Friday morning, long before dawn reared its sleepy head, it was off to the Greensboro airport to catch a plane for New York City (via Washington-Dulles). A couple of relatively brief hops later, I was on the ground at La Guardia, where I soon met Allison, though not without a wee bit of confusion. Note to kid: passengers on United Airlines usually disembark at the United Terminal. We cabbed it back to her Manhattan apartment, where she introduced me to my grandcat, Sutton, and promptly put on some episodes of Dexter, a show I've never seen, and made me watch them. Sometime later, I discovered I was completely hooked. For the rest of the long weekend, Dexter was playing constantly anytime we were not out and about. Then the nefarious child got me playing Angry Birds on her iPad, and it was at that point we began to fear there would be no leaving the apartment for several days.

The bully and the troublemaker: Allison "Shogunmouse" and Sutton Rainey

Leave we did, however—for some geocaching. There are a few not far from her place, so we went out around the neighborhood and did a little hunting (and finding) as well as grocery shopping. Since we're both operating on a fairly tight budget, we opted do most of our dining in. The kid is not a half-bad cook and, that evening, provided us with some fabulous beer-butt chicken. Last night, we had some of her homemade buffalo wings, which completely rocked (I kicked them up a notch with some habanero sauce, of course). We also discovered at her nearby grocery store these little individually packaged Table Talk pies, which we determined are delicious beyond the bounds of reason. The chocolate eclair and blueberry varieties are especially noteworthy.

Several times over the weekend, I discovered I could not shift from this position.

Saturday evening, we lit out for midtown Manhattan, met Allison's friend Andy, and paid a visit to New Hane Sushi in Midtown East, an unassuming, very small, and absolutely wonderful little joint that made us all holler a bit. I ordered the fusion sushi plate, which was a dozen different types of sushi, all served with different sauces—every one fabulous. From there, we grabbed a few caches and then headed to the Empire State Building, for a late-night visit to the observation decks. I've been to NYC a number of times, and I'd visited the top of the World Trade Center back in 1999, but this was my first Empire State Building experience. I really, really enjoyed it, particularly the 86th floor, where you can go outdoors...and claim a virtual geocache—"The Empire Strikes Back" (GC4D7F). Your ticket to the observation deck entitles you to a free drink at the ground-floor Empire Room bar, but it was closed for a private function. Thus, Shogunmouse, Andy, and I decided to discover some nearby watering holes. We tried one called The Mason Jar, which specializes in bourbon. I opted for a dirty martini; I probably should have sampled the bourbon. From there, we found a little restaurant called The Barking Dog (where a very friendly dog named Wilson actually did attempt to get service but was permitted to sit only in the outside seating area); I have no idea how good their food is, but the bartender— whose name was Sonia, I believe—treated us more than right, and we enjoyed a number of happy concoctions.

Afterward, Andy went his way, and the child and I caught a cab back to her place. Hard to recall for sure, but I think we watched some more Dexter.

New Hane Sushi restaurant on 3rd Ave.

View north from the 86th floor of the Empire State Building


L: Andy Callander and Damned Rodan at The Barking Dog;
R: There's no cache here, but there ought to be.

Last night, it was out to the Holiday Cocktail Lounge on St. Mark's Place, where Andy regularly plays guitar and sings at open-mic night. It's a decent little dive bar in the East Village, and it was here I discovered the Fugazy Fireball, a powerful little formula of jalapeno-infused tequila, lemon juice, and pama (pomegranate liqueur). A dynamite drink, to be sure. Spicy and tangy, with a lingering pepper burn. It was also here that I succumbed to irresistible pressure from my daughter, borrowed a guitar, and belted out a song ("Love My Way," by The Psychedelic Furs, or something akin to it). Most enjoyable. During a break, I went out for a walk through the Village and soothed my caching fever.

Today, the flights back home. All smooth, except for there being no air conditioning inside La Guardia, and the heat was bad enough to give me a case of the near swoons. Unhappy Rodan!

A couple of random New York moments. Seen from the bus while heading down to Midtown: some guy walking down 2nd Avenue carrying a car door. Today in a restroom at La Guardia: a dude farted so hard it shook the whole row of stalls. Potent wind!

Finally, a strange case of synchronicity—or cats texting each other. Sutton, Allison's special needs (and thoroughly sweet) cat, has a habit of sticking his feet in his water bowl and then jumping on people. I experienced this a couple of times, and yes, you get some kind of wet. Although Frazier has been known to dip his paw in the water bowl to test the temperature, Sutton's brand of gratuitous paw-soaking has never been among my cats' bad habits. It wasn't, I should say...until I came home. This evening, Chester and Frazier have both soaked their feet and gotten me—not to mention the floors and furniture—quite damp. Yes, I've already called Allison to air my grievances, but I'm not sure any felines were listening.

I leave now to dry off. G'night.