The Road Home, Pt. 1
After Nashville, there were no more great destinations we had in mind. The plan was to strategically hop from city to city each day, slowly but surely making our way back toward New Jersey where Fishtank was to be returned. First up was Cincinnati, Ohio.
We didn’t have much in mind for this little stop but we had a pretty damn good time anyway. We booked a great Air BnB in a nice little neighborhood and went out for dinner and drinks at a place called The Eagle Food and Beer Hall. It may have been the best food we’d eaten on our entire trip. Simply outrageous po boys and homemade mac ‘n cheese. The beers were good too. I asked for something local and the waiter came back with a two foot tall glass of some sort of dark chocolate stout. Rather decadent for a man of my sensibilities, but enjoyable just the same.
After dinner we wandered out in search of another fun spot to have a few more drinks. We stumbled upon Heaven.
Now, I’d heard of barcades before and I’d been to a bar in Baltimore that had multiple old school video game systems for patrons to play, but I never imagined it would be as amazing as 16-bit was. Every machine there was free to play for anyone with an open tab. Instead of gorging on your very soul one shiny quarter at a time, this place just lets you play to your heart’s content. It honestly blew my mind.
Gabby and I went toe-to-toe in Mortal Kombat 3 and Marvel vs. Capcom and joined forces in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and NBA Jam, then we went over to the consoles and played Guitar Hero and Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater while I watched a basketball game. If you know me at all you know that this is just about as close to nirvana as it gets.
Once it started getting late we decided we wanted to stop by some sort of convenience store to grab snacks and drinks before heading back to our spot. Gabby could only find a nearby Shell station on her GPS and so she approached the bartender to ask if he knew whether or not it had one of those cramped, dusty gas station marts.
“Yeah, they have one,” he said with odd hesitation, “but do not go there.”
“Why not?” Gabby asked.
“Because you will get robbed,” he cautioned, “don’t go there.”
This place was .5 miles away from us. We ordered an Uber and waited patiently inside the bar for its arrival. It’s strange to imagine where our night may have gone if Gabby had been just a little less inquisitive.
The following morning we set out on the road once more. Gabby grabbed the aux cord and threw on the song “I’ve Been Everywhere” by none other than our old hero Johnny Cash himself. It’s a mighty fine tune all on its own, but now it was significantly more relatable and so it hit me just right as we cruised along that old highway toward Columbus, Ohio.
I’ve been everywhere, man
Crossed the deserts bare, man
Breathed the mountain air, man
Of travel, I’ve had my share man
I’ve been everywhere
We hear you, Johnny.
The plan for Columbus was to go see a stand up comedy set from one of our childhood heroes: Steve-O.
Laugh if you want, but Mr. O and his Jackass colleagues brought both of us tremendous joy when we were growing up. They were a bunch of childish, demented, mentally ill masochists, but they were also absolute masters of the original form of comedy: people getting hurt.
Slapstick is somewhat derided now. You don’t often see anyone taking a banana crème pie to the face or a 2x4 to the back of the head in your average Hollywood production, but that doesn’t mean wacky injuries are not still absolutely hilarious in a deep, primal way. It requires no language, knowledge, or education to understand the humor in watching a guy slip on black ice with two bags full of groceries in his arms and fall on his ass. It’s just funny. It’s comedy in its purest form. That’s exactly what the Jackass crew was tuned into and I personally think it was a rare form of total genius on display.
Steve-O’s act was essentially a live multimedia Jackass presentation. He told stories that were completely insane and totally implausible and then showed us video evidence to prove they were all true. It was absolutely hilarious. Most comedians fabricate experiences for the sake of telling a joke, this dude actually walks the walk. He was masturbating while sky diving, eating shit on a mountain bike butt naked in front of unsuspecting pedestrians, lighting himself on fire in an effort to destroy his own home, and just generally creating havoc for himself and those around him in a number of absurd ways. It sounds insane, it is insane, and it’s great.
We all lined up after the show to have our pictures taken with Mr. O. He was a gracious dude.
The following morning, we were set to head out towards Steel City: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Escaping Columbus through the area surrounding the Easton Town Center, which is a sprawling behemoth of a shopping complex, was an absolutely nightmarish time. This place was created by Les Wexner, the Victoria’s Secret mega-mogul who was born and raised in Ohio. It’s a regular Vatican of consumerism and an overall terrifying place.
Once safely out of the terrible confines of that unholy super mall, we were out into Pennsylvania in no time. We were cruising along steadily, making great time, when I heard a loud bang and felt the car lurching sideways.
“What the hell was that?” I shouted.
Gabby looked out her window and turned to me, “Someone hit you.”
I pulled off on the side of the highway and not one but two cars pulled up behind me. I was trying to remain calm, but with the already-scratched side of Fishtank now probably even more damaged, I was pissed. I knew I hadn’t done anything to be even remotely at fault for this, but I also knew how these things can go. People are shady and they will lie through their teeth to escape culpability.
I got out of poor Fishtank and looked at his rear. It was dinged and scuffed and covered in what looked like soot but was more likely tire rubber. It wasn’t awful, but it was bad enough to make me feel even more angered about the situation. I walked up to the passenger’s side window with gritted teeth and clenched fists. The window rolled down.
“I’m…I’m sorry…is there damage?”
There in the driver’s seat was a young guy, maybe twenty years old with a homemade haircut. He peered at me through thick glasses that magnified the size of his eyes. At his sides were two forearm crutches, the type used by people with motor-function disabilities.
My anger faded.
God dammit. How could I possibly be mad at this poor kid? He was young and inexperienced, polite and apologetic, and clearly had some sort of impairment that hindered his ability to drive a car. Maybe he shouldn’t be out on the road, but that wasn’t my decision to make.
“Yeah…there is….” I told him, “I’m sorry, I need to call the cops and make a report. It’s a rental.”
Somehow I’m apologizing for this whole thing? Yet another cruel prank from a clearly sadistic Universe.
After a number of 9-1-1 calls that can only be described as a comedy of errors, I finally had a state trooper headed toward our location. It took him a good forty-five minutes to get there and another forty-five to suss the whole thing out. We stood out in the grass off the side of the highway talking to the guy who was in the other car. Turned out he was a youth pastor that was following the kid to a mechanic to get his car worked on. I’m not sure whether that was because the car was untrustworthy or the kid’s driving was. Your guess is as good mine.
When the cop was finally finished, he told me I may have to appear in court sometime in the next few months, which was just plain hilarious. I thanked him through gritted teeth and watched him walk away, the big, stupid, fake smile on my face the only thing standing between me and a cameo on Live PD.
I don’t even think there was a lesson to be learned in that ridiculous situation other than sometimes life is a crock and ha-ha to anyone who thinks otherwise.
After it was all blown over, we set back out for destination, Pittsburgh, which was…twenty minutes up the god damn road.
