Mr. Cellophane

In a location adjacent to a place in a city of some significance, what comes out of my head is plastered on the walls of this blog.

Thursday, July 11, 2013

7:54pm, Pacific Time

Some flight. Took a hour to get off the ground. No internet access. Food of questionable origin. The in-flight movie...Identity Thief.

I swear, if it wasn't for the ultimate destination, I'd have been perfectly comfortable with the plane crashing into a field.

For some reason, I couldn't get a direct flight, so I transferred at LAX to San Diego.

Still, I'm here. At long last, I'm here. Hopefully, so is my friend who shall be sharing the fruits of my quote-unquote "labor".

I lug my suitcase down the hall. Hopefully, something is still open. I'm starving.

I make my way to the luggage carousel to get my suitcase, amongst about thirty others.

I glance around the airport. There's a girl standing in the crowd with the same last name as me. Well, she's holding a card with my name on it, in any event.

She walks up to me.

"Hey, Angie."


"Glad you could make it out here."

"Wasn't easy. I had to move my schedule around so much. How about you?"

"How about me what?"

"Surely you had to work pretty hard to make it out here."

I shrug my shoulders. "I guess it's gonna come out, sooner or later. I pulled a Bueller."

"Do you just not want to have a job to go back to?"

"Probably not."

"Well, at least you get to have some fun for now."

"Damn right."

I turn back to the carousel. Here comes my bag. I snatch it up.

"So, did you rent a car?"


"Did you rent a limo?"


I point at the sign.

"Oh. I just thought it'd make a cute touch. If you beat me here, you'd have done the same thing, right?"

"Absolutely not."

Angelica folds her arms. "Well, you're no fun."

"It won't really matter tomorrow, will it?"

"I guess. Comic-Con!"

Oh, what the hell? "Comic-Con!"

"Comic-Con!" A chorus of about twenty takes up the call. I won't lie: that shit's awesome.


The cab stops outside the Hilton San Diego Bayfront...a mere stone's throw away from the Convention Center.

I grab my luggage and I try to reach for Angie's--

"Don't worry, I can get it."

"You sure?"

"I've lugged this suitcase in and out of hotels and airports for five years. I think I can handle it."

"Okay. Just trying to be a gentleman."

"I've got it."



We head for the entrance.

"Thanks, though."


Room 432. Damn, this room looks nice.

I set my luggage down.

"I call the bed by the window!"

"Come on! What are you, 10?"

"Hey, don't get mad 'cause you weren't fast enough."

"Psshh! Whatever."

I flip through the television channels.

"Nothing's on." I set the remote down.

"Come on. There can't be nothing on." Angie gives it a shot. "Yeah, there's nothing on."

"Told ya. We didn't come here to watch television, anyway."




"Comic-Con!" Through the walls of the room. It's infectious. The good kind.



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