Does That Fish Come With Chips?
By Rich Bruso
February 2007


As you may or may not recall from last month's installment of our epic saga, our intrepid heroes (played semi-ably by Rich and Doug) had, through a combination of perseverance, luck, police, and ill-advised logic, managed to travel a grand total of 90 miles in a mere seven hours, averaging a stellar pace that would make most species of turtle blush. And now we pick up with their story.

So, there we were, heading towards the sunset, just me, Doug, and Neil Gaiman, the famous British author. Okay, Neil wasn't really there, but via the marvel of Books on CD he was reading a collection of his short stories. This is a superb way to travel, aside from one minor annoyance: Aquarium face. Turns out that when you're off in a fantasy world listening to a book your face takes on a slack-jawed, vaguely fish-like appearance. It's quite a shock to accidentally catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror in this state.

But, fish face aside, the rest of the trip through Arizona passed uneventfully. We even made it through Phoenix traffic with a minimum of helpful gesturing from fellow motorists. A quick pass through the bustling metropolis known as Quartzsite and California was on the horizon. With the gas gauge at 1/4 we decided to fill the tank. And that's when we ran smack-dab into complete insanity.

Yes, gas is slightly more expensive in California. At the time, it was about 12 cents a gallon lower on the Arizona side of the border. As a result, the last station before crossing the border was packed. No, packed isn't quite the word for it. It doesn't quite convey the sheer density of the traffic. Eighteen wheelers were illegally passing the quarter mile line of stopped traffic that was backed up almost to the off-ramp. And each and every single one of those cars was idling, burning gallons of gas in an attempt to save a buck or two off a tank of gas.

Fortunately, we managed to get the truck and trailer turned around and breezed across the California border, where we had our pick of empty gas stations to fulfill our gasoline needs. We picked the cheaper of the two, which might have been a mistake.

Okay, I realize that things break. With time and use, any mechanical device will, eventually, break down. And if, say, the toilet in the men's room doesn't work, a perfectly acceptable alternative is the women's room. But when that toilet breaks, you should really consider getting a plumber in.

Instead, this gas station opted for a complex sign explaining, step-by-step, how to get this particular toilet to flush. At one point in the process, the handle actually had to be pushed back into the tank a little then wiggled until you felt something catch. Needless to say the last dozen or so users of this restroom hadn't made the attempt to work it, and there was at least one person who really, really should have. It had been a long time since I had smelled something quite that gut-wrenchingly foul, but fortunately it would be fewer than 24 hours until I smelled something worse.

Anyway, after the baffling ordeal in the restroom, everything should have gone smoothly. A quick light check to ensure the trailer hasn't acted up again and we'd be off. Unfortunately, the sole brake light decided to burn out. And, for some strange reason, half a dozen police officers picked that convenience store for their coffee break. So, with an appreciative and, above all, law-enforcement-themed audience looking on, I replaced the one brake light bulb. In fact, I picked up a spare bulb, under the assumption that brake light burnout would be an ongoing theme of the trip. It was.

So, semi-legal again, we headed off at 55 miles an hour, California's idea of a funny joke to play on trucks towing trailers. A quick dodge around the Eastern fringes of Los Angeles and we were in the hills, heading north on highway 99, which is when I notice that the comforting pool of light in my rearview wasn't there anymore. That was the pool of light indicating the license plate on the trailer was still lit. So, at that point I was towing a trailer with no running lights, no license plate light, and only one working brake light. Scratch that last one, too, as a rough patch of highway apparently shook the bulb loose.

This is why we decided to crash in Bakersfield. We pulled in, got a room, and dragged ourselves over to Denny's. A little food, some sleep, and a short drive and we'd be checking out my new car! Little did I realize that this particular Denny's was haunted by a group of teenaged boys trying hard to set the World's Record for inane chatter.

"Hey, do they have fish and chips here?"

"So, who's on my tab?"

"Not me."

"I have my dad's card."

"Excuse me miss, but does the fish come with chips?"

"You're on his tab, you Homo sapiens."

"Nuh uh, you're a Homo sapiens!"

"Am not!"

"You see, chips are fries, so if the fish comes with fries, it is fish and chips."

"You're a Homo sapiens"

…and on and on and on. Fortunately, even the longest meal has to come to an end eventually. Doug offered to take care of the bill, as I had been slowly sinking in the booth for the past twenty minutes. Without consulting my body, my brain had decided it was time for lights out. So, there I was staring off into the distance while Doug tried, via various complicated hand gestures from the lobby area, to get the idea across that, perhaps, I should begin to consider the merits of, perhaps, getting up and leaving the restaurant. I assume we made it back to the hotel as that's where I woke up the next morning.

Next month: Our intrepid heroes in a life-or-death struggle with misleading tow truck advertisements.


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