Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Boston Bob

The longest ride in the world is the one that takes you away from a leather convention and to the airport. I’m not sure if it is just the exhaustion of being “on” for several days in a row or the act of having to transition from the microcosm that is a closed convention and back into the “real world” that does it, but it all starts on that ride. I was explaining this to Alex as we pulled out of the host hotel in Boston. Worn threadbare tired, we propped ourselves up in the back of the shuttle van as it crawled its way though the thick morning commute. To the rest of the passengers we must have looked a bit like exhausted gangsters, me with one hand resting firmly on my backpack (specifically on the pocket that held the frighteningly huge wad of cash from the weekend) and the other cupping Alex’s shaved head.

Now at this point I should mention that for whatever reason, the fine people of Boston don’t seem to want you drive directly to where ever you need to be, no they seem to prefer that you sort of sneak up on your destination. Rather than cruise along the highway, this morning we were inching along a 4-lane highway that cut through a part of town what could only be described as “low rent”. Trailer parks and used car lots announcing things like “financing for anyone” or “cash for your car NOW” passed slowly by our window. It was after passing what had to be the 100th Dunkin doughnuts franchise (what is it with all them anyways?) when we saw him.

Bob in the window.

At a casual glance it was another cheap motel. A small, dingy affair located along side the road. A long, low building with a series of doors facing out into a small parking lot and a garish neon sign pointing out that rooms were available. There he stood, standing in the all glass lobby door, one hand pressed up against the frame as if he were to open it at any moment and step into the frigid morning air. Save he would not be stepping out any time soon, due to the fact that his gray sweat pants were pushed down around his knees and his other hand was busy stroking his semi erect cock as he watched the traffic go by with an air of abject boredom.

Just another morning for him?

Alex and I both caught sight of him at the same moment and turned with stunned expressions of “Did you just see what I…” thanks to the slow commute we were able to confirm what we thought we saw, repeatedly. I’m not sure if the rest of our fellow passengers also caught the show, if they did then they had the good sense to make comment.

Alex and I were all we could to not burst out into hysterical laughter.
“Daddy, why do you think he had his hand on the door like that?” asked Alex.
“Maybe he needs the blast of cold air at the last second to finish him off?” I replied
Not pausing a beat, Alex fires back, “Or maybe he hates cleaning the glass afterwards and opening the door will save him that chore?” Even tired that kid has a wicked sense of humor. “He looked so bored? You think maybe he does this every day?”
“Obviously the bagel and coffee thing in the morning is just not doing it for him anymore.”