WEEKLY WHINE
23:33 UTC: It is our weekly editorial meeting. We are trying to decide what next week’s Whine will be about. Nathan wants to do the thing about the astronaut who drove from Houston to Orlando with a rubber hose. Reg wants to talk about the crisis in Italian football.
23:38 UTC: They’re still at an impasse.
23:40 UTC: I start thinking about those beer commercials:
“I wanna watch bass fishing!”
“But the baseball game’s on!”
“Let’s watch both!”
23:41 UTC: I interrupt, “Let’s do both!”
“What?” Reg asks.
“Simple,” I explain. “We go to Orlando to see what Lisa Nowak thinks about the Italian football crisis.”
“That’s great,” Reg replies. “Have it on my desk by Saturday.”
Dammit.
01:50 UTC: I barge into Reg’s office and shout, “What do you mean you’re not getting me a flight?”
He says, “I want you to drive there.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Why not?” he asks. “It’s only 36 hours on Mapquest.”
“That’s assuming a diaper?”
“Assume whatever you need to assume.”
I answer, “Can I also assume that we could just call her?”
Reg says, “What would be the fun in that? This way, you get a great story to tell your grandchildren, and who knows? Maybe you’ll also make a friend for life.”
“Where?” I ask. “A motel in Las Cruces, NM?”
He says, “Whoa! What do you have against motels in Las Cruces, NM?”
17:48 UTC: I pull out of the rental car lot and drive toward the 405. I’m fresh off a decent night of sleep after successfully convincing Reg to let me turn in the article on Sunday so that I can take three days to get there.
18:35 UTC: I pass through Pomona.
19:54 UTC: I arrive in Indio and stop for lunch. This will probably be my last chance for In-n-Out before I return to California.
20:14 UTC: As I’m about to leave Indio, I notice on my map that there is an Arizona town called “Why”. I decide that in future, I should take a “Cities Named After Questions” tour, with the second stop Truth or Consequences, NM.
23:45 UTC: I am cruising through Phoenix, AZ. There is a billboard for Fry’s Supermarket.
00:40 UTC: My telephone rings, and it’s Reg.
“Hey. How’s it going?” he asks.
“Pretty good. I’m coming up on Tucson.”
“Okay.”
“Hey, let me ask you something. When did Fry’s get into the supermarket business?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I noticed there are Fry’s Supermarkets in Phoenix.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right. They have those there.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? Why not?”
That kind of answers that.
02:52 UTC: I stop for dinner in Separ, NM, USA. It is a diner called Bytmi’s.
“Hi there, hon,” my waitress says. “My name’s Noma. What can I get you?”
“What’s good?”
She seems stumped.
02:56 UTC: Noma says, “Well, the tuna... no, wait. The guy who usually makes that was arrested yesterday.”
03:10 UTC: I am served spaghetti. The meatballs, I am assured, are created from actual meat.
06:13 UTC: I find a Super 8 motel in Hacienda Heights, TX, USA, just east of El Paso.
When I tell the guy that I’m staying one night, he asks, “So are you driving cross country, or something?”
“Yeah, why? Is that the only reason people stay here?”
He says, “That’s not the reason I stay here.”
“So then why do you stay here?”
He seems stumped.
16:33 UTC: It’s a beautiful morning in Hacienda Heights. I check out and go to a restaurant across the street. It is called, for no apparent reason, Breakfast Yes.
16:42 UTC: I am served hash browns and a Denver omelet. It’s pretty good, though I find myself wondering what exactly is so Denver about a Denver omelet. Shortly thereafter, I find myself wishing I had Wikipedia.
17:00 UTC: I set out for Texas Day. I am currently just outside El Paso, and when I go to sleep tonight, I will be just outside Houston.
17:28 UTC: A billboard advertises something in Van Horn. “Route 90 Exit; Only 86 Miles”, it announces.
19:44 UTC: I stop in Fort Stockton, TX, USA for lunch. One exit has a sign proclaiming that there is a Sonic, a McDonald’s, and a Hardee’s. But when I get off the 10, the Hardee’s has burned down, and we all know McDonald’s doesn’t have actual food anyway. So, by elimination, I go to the Sonic.
22:27 UTC: The residents of Roosevelt, TX, USA will no doubt have their lives enhanced by the experience of me driving down the 10 with my windows down, singing “Sweee-eeeet surrender is all that I have to give”.
00:33 UTC: I stop for dinner in Kirby, TX, USA, east of San Antonio. There is a restaurant just off the 35 that proclaims “Best Ribs in Bexar County”. I only hope that such proclamation does not refer to the proprietor.
00:36 UTC: I get a look at the bartender and conclude that it refers to him.
My waiter, Wayne, asks me what I want.
“What’s good?” I ask him.
He says, “Well, the Long Rack is what I like, but a little lady like yourself probably wouldn’t care for quite that much. You might want to go for the Short Rack, but personally I think that’s going to be a little small for you. We do have some combo plates that you might want. They have a Short Rack plus one of some whole nother items to go with it, and when I have that, I really like the barbecued lasagna, but the battered shrimp is really nice too, and I like to have that every once in a while, you know. If you ain’t in the mood for ribs, the Chinese chicken salad is really good, and I like to have that when I ain’t in the mood for ribs, although I have to wonder how you got here if you ain’t in the mood for ribs. Are you in the mood for some ribs? You seem like you’re in the mood for some ribs. Want me to put you down for some ribs?”
I should really stop asking that question.
00:50 UTC: Wayne delivers my Short Rack and lasagna.
00:53 UTC: I decide that there’s a reason people in Texas put barbecue sauce in lasagna and people in California don’t.
01:10 UTC: Wayne brings me the bill and asks me, “So are you driving across the country?”
“I am.”
“Which direction?”
“East.”
“Well, if you’re going to Florida, can you try to find out what the hell is up with that crazy astronaut lady?”
“If there was a simple answer to that question,” I tell Wayne, “pretty much every news show would have nothing to talk about.”
03:35 UTC: I stop at a Microtel Inn in Pasadena, TX, USA, southeast of Houston. The guy at the desk says nothing memorable.
03:56 UTC: I enter the sports bar across the street. The Bulls and Kings are playing.
03:59 UTC: A voice behind me asks, “Did the Pistons win?”
I say, “I don’t know. I just got here.”
The girl is skinny, almost Kate Moss skinny. She is wearing a plaid skirt and a shirt that reads In Orbit. She orders a glass of pink lemonade.
“God, I’ve had a crazy couple of days,” she tells me. “Just about every news channel’s been calling me.”
“Really?” I ask. “What did you do?”
“Nothing newsworthy,” she says. “Just get babysat once, like ten years ago, by Navy Captain Lisa Nowak.”
“Really?” I ask. “I’m on my way to interview her.”
“You know, she’s in Orlando, not here.”
“Yeah, I know that. I’ll be in Orlando by this time tomorrow.”
“So you get there and interview her?”
“That’s right.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah, just like that.”
The girl shakes her head. “No, not just like that. You know how hard it’s going to be to find her? Everybody wants to talk to her. You need someone with an in.”
“Do I?”
“And lucky for you I’m available.”
I say to her, “Wait, you want to come with me?”
“I was going to go visit her anyway. Now I have someone to take me.”
She doesn’t immediately seem like some sort of con artist, but I say, “First prove to me that you know her.”
“Easy.” She produces her mobile telephone and presses some buttons. I hear a couple of rings and then, “This is Captain Lisa. I’m currently unavailable or in microgravity. Give me your message, and I will return it as soon as I can.”
The girl says, “Yeah, hi. Amber Lynn here. I got someone to interview you Saturday. We’ll come get you.”
“Amber Lynn”? I think. Sounds like a generic stripper name.
She hangs up and looks pointedly at me.
I say, “How do I even know that was her?”
Amber Lynn sighs and pulls her wallet out of her purse. “Here’s us, when I was seven. When I was eleven. When I was fourteen. And last year.”
The younger person in all the pictures looks like Amber Lynn, and the older person looks like Lisa Nowak.
“Okay, fine,” I say. “Meet me in front of the motel across the street tomorrow morning at eleven.”
04:33 UTC: Back in the motel room, I am on the telephone with Reg. He says, “Amber Lynn Velt is her name?”
“Right.”
“I’m on it.”
“On what exactly?” I ask Reg.
“I’m doing a background check on her, of course. You said you’d meet her in the morning?”
“Yeah. Eleven CST.”
“Okay. If I find out she’s a fraud, I’ll call you by then, and you leave treadmarks out of there.”
16:10 UTC: I wake up to find a message on my mobile. “Amber Lynn Velt is clean,” Reg’s voice says. “She does in fact know Lisa Nowak. They were last seen together last April.”
16:25 UTC: I check out and go to a diner for breakfast. I have pancakes and scrambled eggs.
16:55 UTC: I pull up in front of the motel and see Amber Lynn waiting. She has a backpack over one shoulder, and her black hair is much shorter than I remember it from last night.
“Let’s get moving,” she says. “Like Sarah McLachlan?”
19:34 UTC: After a morning spent arguing over what may have happened to Anna Nicole Smith, we stop in Lafayette, LA, USA for lunch. I ask Amber Lynn what she wants.
“Look,” she says, pointing. “There’s a Quizno’s at the next exit.”
19:40 UTC: Turkey bacon guacamole.
20:03 UTC: I ask Amber Lynn, “So how old are you?”
We are back on the 10 after a successful lunch. We will be taking the 12 to the north of Lake Pontchartrain rather than the 10 through New Orleans, LA, USA. Not that there’s anything wrong with New Orleans.
“Seventeen,” Amber Lynn says.
“What?!” I shriek. “You mean I’ve transported a minor across state lines?”
“Relax,” she says. “I’ve got it all under control.”
“Got what under control? My arrest warrant?”
“No, no. My guardian knows. She’s cool with it.”
“Your guardian?”
“Yeah. My guardian is the chief magistrate in Helwood County. I can get away with anything there. And I mean anything.”
There seem to be some implications to that statement, but I change the subject. “So may I ask what happened to your parents?”
“They’re in prison.”
“What’s that like?” I ask.
“Not ideal. But I don’t mind. They were never any good at raising kids anyway. So anyway, what do you work for? A newspaper?”
“A website.”
“Anything I’ve heard of?”
“GoobNet.”
“That’d be a no.”
02:52 UTC: We have dinner in Tallahassee, FL, USA, at a Stuckey’s.
Amber Lynn asks our waitress, Dinah, “What’s good?”
I fear the worst.
Dinah says, “The French dip sandwich. It’s great.”
“Okay, two of those then,” Amber Lynn says.
03:09 UTC: “She was right,” I say.
“You’re fucking right she was right,” Amber Lynn replies.
05:01 UTC: We are vomiting in a gas station bathroom near Alachua, FL, USA, northwest of Gainesville.
Amber Lynn says, “It didn’t taste so good that time.”
06:44 UTC: We finally arrive in Mount Dora, FL, USA, northwest of Orlando. I get us a motel room as Amber Lynn wanders around the lobby.
She suddenly asks, “Hey, is this fireplace real?“
There is a crashing sound.
“I guess not.”
06:49 UTC: The room has a single queen sized bed.
“So how do you want to do this?” Amber Lynn asks.
“I’ll take this side,” I say, sitting on the side nearest the door.
Suddenly Amber Lynn takes me by the shoulders and gives me a long, deep kiss.
I push her away and exclaim, “Whoa there, missy! Look, I don’t swing that way.”
She stops and sits on the corner of the bed. “You don’t.”
“No, I don’t. I mean, it’s fine if you do; I don’t have any problems with that. But don’t expect to do anything with me.”
“Wait, I’m getting some mixed signals here.”
I’m stumped.
“Come on!” she says. “We had the same thing for lunch and dinner! And what about this? One bed?”
“Yeah, I guess the one bed was a mistake,” I say.
“But a queen sized bed? How can I be misinterpreting that?”
“I don’t know, but you managed it.”
She flops back on the bed and moans.
I say to her, “Look, Amber Lynn, it’s okay. I don’t have a problem with you being the way you are. I just want to be friends.”
She looks up at me. “Really?”
“Really.”
She sighs. “God. I’m sorry. I just... I guess I’m still figuring out how to read people. And I’m still... you know... exploring my options.”
“Yeah. I know what it was like to be your age.”
“And you know something?”
“What’s that, Amber Lynn?”
“I’d really like to be friends with you too.”
17:00 UTC: Our alarm goes off after a very pleasant night.
No, we didn’t. We slept on opposite sides of the bed. I for one was out like a light.
17:03 UTC: Amber Lynn calls Lisa Nowak and schedules an interview at 15:00 EST.
17:40 UTC: Over breakfast, Amber Lynn asks me what sort of website GoobNet is.
I say, “We provide knowledge, support, novelty, community, and variety.”
She responds, “Well, I like novelty and variety.”
“Okay then.”
“So you’re going to ask Captain Lisa the same questions as every other reporter?”
“No,” I say. “I’m going to ask her what she thinks of the crisis in Italian football.”
“Right, I heard about that,” Amber Lynn says. “Violence and more violence?”
“Pretty much. Apparently the matches resume this weekend, but whichever stadiums aren’t up to the security standards will be closed to fans.”
“How many stadiums is that?”
“Most of them.”
19:45 UTC: We are on our way to a coffee shop in downtown Orlando, where we are to meet Lisa Nowak, when suddenly Amber Lynn’s telephone rings.
“Hello?... Yeah.... Yeah.... Okay.... Eighteen? Okay, that’s fine.” She deactivates her telephone and says, “She’s detained. She wants to meet us at 18:00.”
I ask Amber Lynn, “Okay. What do you want to do until then?”
20:01 UTC: We arrive at the location she led me to.
I look around and say, “Amber Lynn, this is a strip club.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I’m still straight.”
“You don’t like going to strip clubs?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Odd.”
Suddenly the figurative light bulb goes on over my head.
“Wait a minute. How did you get past the bouncer? You’re underage!”
“Oh, just tell the whole place, why don’t you!” Amber Lynn snaps back.
In a lower voice, I say, “Sorry. So do you have a fake ID or something?”
“Yeah. I’ve been coming to strip clubs for years now. That’s how I came up with my name.”
“Is that the name of a dancer you like, or what?”
“No,” she says. “It just sounds like a generic stripper name, doesn’t it?”
23:18 UTC: Back at the coffee shop, Amber Lynn deactivates her telephone and tells me that Lisa Nowak will be here in a few minutes.
23:29 UTC: Lisa sits down and says, “Hey, Amber Lynn.”
“Hey,” Amber Lynn says. “This is Deb Harratsch, from GoobNet.”
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” Lisa says.
“What do you think of the crisis in Italian football?”
“I don’t care one way or the other.”
“Okay then. I think we’re done here.”
Lisa gets up and leaves.
I say, “Well, at least I got a story to tell my grandchildren.”
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