One movie that I enjoy and that has been a "semi-favorite" for a few years now is Planes, Trains, and Automobiles starring Steve Martin and John Candy. If you haven't seen it before – or if it has been several years since your last viewing – then a brief summary is in order.
The premise of the movie is about two complete strangers – again, Steve Martin and John Candy – on the way home for Thanksgiving. They meet on an airplane and, through a very strange series of event, end up getting stuck traveling together on – you guessed it – various trains and automobiles in an effort to get home. These guys are complete opposites. Steve Martin plays the more obnoxious and uptight businessman while John Candy is a sloppy, greasy shower-ring salesman who talks too much and tells very boring stories. When Martin's character first meets Candy's character, he obviously cannot stand him. He realizes Candy caused him to miss several taxis on the way to the airport and cannot believe the ineptitude of Candy's story telling abilities. Throughout the movie, however, Martin begins to appreciate who Candy is in spite of Candy's vastly annoying habits and personality traits.
For all intents and purposes, Candy's character reminds me of my friend Mike Cobb. Mike also is a sloppy, greasy person. He tells boring stories and has a strange personality. I can't understand about 45% of the things he does. The longer I know him, though, and the more time I spend with him, the less those strange personality quirks annoy me. In a strange phenomenon, which can be explained only by the existence and strange sense of humor of God Himself, I've reached the point in my life where I actually enjoy spending time with Mike Cobb. So much so that I sometimes go against my better judgment and invite him to eat lunch with me.
It was a late night sometime in the fall of 2001 when I decided I would never eat another meal with Mike Cobb again. We were both sophomores at Nicholls. I was living on campus and trying to avoid the cafeteria. Mike was a commuter who stayed on campus late for meetings of the various organizations he was involved in. I was hungry. So was Mike. We both have a preference for Chinese buffets. I go for the imperial chicken. Mike goes for the gumbo. Thus went the evening. Several plates full.
On the way back to campus, I told Mike a joke. Now, I cannot remember the joke at this time in my life. Again, it was many years ago and, if my current attempts at jokes are any indicator, was probably not very funny. Mike, however, began to laugh. Only, he did not cease laughing when the appropriate time would have been, but continued laughing for several minutes. As I drove mile after mile, laugh after strange, annoying laugh came out. It was never a rib-splitting laugh, just a continuous, fifteen minute long chuckle. And then – it – happened. Laughs were not the only thing coming out of Mike's mouth. My brand new (to me) truck was no longer filled with bad jokes and foolish laugher, but was filled with half-way digested gumbo and, quickly following, chunks of imperial chicken. My joke caused Mike to throw-up in my truck. Mike's throw-up, splattering off my windshield and onto my shirt, caused me to throw-up. My puke cause Mike to puke some more. And on, and on until we both regretted obeying the "All-You-Can-Eat" mantra.
All that to set the stage for eight years later. Eight years of avoiding eating lunch, dinner, breakfast, brunch, or even snack-time with Mike Cobb. Eight years of trying to ensure I would tell him no jokes. Eight years of avoiding direct eye-contact. I even once considered a name change and moving to a new state. On January 3, 2009, however, I decided the wait was long enough. I figured redemption had come. Surely, in eight years, Michael Cobb had changed. Surely, he could not be the same person who puked in my car. Surely, everyone changes.
Surely, I was wrong.
Unfortunately, I was also hungry. Molly was out of town visiting her sisters and I was not about to learn how to cook, nor was I going to lower myself and eat a sandwich or some other trivial piece of garbage. I was in the mood for Chinese food. And, for some strange, odd reason, I felt the necessity to call Mike Cobb.
Now, better judgment did at this point try to talk me out of it. Various arguments from "save your money" to "watch what you eat" all played themselves out in my head. I even had Antione stick his head out of the closet mumbling something about refusing to get me a clean shirt or a towel, but it was too late. The number had already been dialed and the other line ringing.
Ring.
Eight years have gone by …
Ring.
I'm very hungry …
Ring.
I mean, what's the worse that could happen …
"Hello?"
Oh crap … can I hang up before it's too late?
"Hello, is this Josh?"
Shoot! He still has my number in his caller ID!!!
"Josh, buddy you there?"
"Hi, Mike."
"Josh! How are you, buddy? It's been forever since I've spoken to you! Happy New Year!"
"Hi, Mike. I'm doing well. Happy New Year to you, too."
"Wow! To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"
"Well, I … uh …"
"Don't do it!" shouted Antione.
"Mike," I gulped, "would you care to eat lunch with me today?"
I heard the closet door close and turned to see Antione had vanished as quickly as he appeared.
"I'd be honored! Where would you care to dine? Chinese?"
A cold sweat began dripping down my forehead.
"Yes, I was thinking Chinese."
"Dynasty buffet, Panda Panda, Mr. Kim's, Bo Bo's, or Dragon Garden?"
"Er … how about China Gardens?"
"Wow seriously? I thought you swore we could never eat there again?
"Well, I did … but I figured this time, I would let you drive and I'd be the passenger!"
"Ha! Sure. I'll be there to pick you up in say, twenty minutes?"
"That would be wonderful."
Well, that was that. I was in for the long haul now. There was no turning back. It would be me, and Mike, and an unsuspecting buffet of various meats, carbohydrates, sauces, and gumbo. And me. And Mike.
The mixed feelings were beginning to sink in, but I did my best to shake them off. I was going to have a good time with an old friend. We were going to catch up on our post-college lives. And, this time, there was absolutely no chance of puke in my truck. If Mike was going to let it fly, then it would be in his own car. His 1979 beige Buick Roadmaster. The 1979 beige Buick Roadmaster which soon pulled into my driveway and then, ten minutes later, into China Gardens.
And the same 1979 beige Buick Roadmaster that I watched in disbelief pull out of the Chinese buffet about five minutes after that.
It happened fairly quickly. We were seated, ordered our drinks, and stood up to begin piling on the food. As I grabbed my plate and walked away from the table, I heard Mike answer his cell phone and saw a face of strange disbelief as I watched from the meat-bar. As I put fried rice on my plate, I saw Mike stand up and walk towards the entrance. As I sat back down at the table and began to chew my food, I saw him sit in the car. As I pulled the second plate of food to my mouth, smoke began to drift out of the exhaust pipe. And as I took a sip of my artificially sweetened, non-brew tea, the car pulled out of the driveway and into traffic.
Confused, I leaned back and observed my surroundings. Besides a gooey-eyed couple at the corner booth, and the 400lb. man eating by himself two tables over, I was the only patron in the restaurant. There were four servers, a host, and what looked to be two bus-boys on duty. Mike's cherry-cola and specialty ordered seven dollar gumbo sat in front of me. Next to that was a hand-written note scribbled on a piece of crumbled up napkin reading, "Family emergency. Be back soon."
I forked a shrimp and brought it to my mouth. I tried to ponder the set of circumstances I was in, but couldn't quite get my mind wrapped around it. Mike had left the restaurant. He would surely return, I assumed. He probably wouldn't be long at all. I ate another shrimp and glanced at the guy sitting two tables over. The poor sap had two plates of food in front of him. He was putting down some artificial crab in cheese sauce and fried rice. I watched him eat for a few minutes until it must have been obvious I was staring at him. I then looked up at the gooey-eyed couple at the back of the room. They weren't eating much and would just wink at each other every now and then. Their smiles were about the goofiest thing I had witnessed all day. And that included the fourteen hundred dollar sound system Mike Cobb had in his car to play his Super Nintendo music soundtrack. The fourteen hundred dollar sound system in the 1979 beige Buick Roadmaster. The 1979 beige Buick Roadmaster that pulled out of the Chinese restaurant's parking lot about ten minutes earlier. I looked back at my plate of greasy meat and rice. I slowly mixed them together and then took another bite.
"Where is other guy?" I heard a voice say.
I looked up and saw the same Asian waitress who had taken our drink orders seventeen minutes earlier.
"Oh … he's in the restroom," I said.
"We no have public restroom."
"Um, then you may want to check out by the dumpster. All I know is he said he had to …"
"He order this special lobster. Gus bring it out now?"
"Uh … sure. He should only be a few minutes."
"Okay, Gus bring lobster now."
The woman wondered off and a short Hispanic guy brought a lobster out about two minutes later. It was still steaming.
"I didn't know you guys had lobster on the menu here," I said to the guy.
"Typically we don't, he replied. "Mr. Cobb comes here regular. He called it in."
"Interesting. It looks good."
"Tastes like stale garbage."
"I don't think I want to even try to imagine that flavor."
"Have you eaten the fried rice?"
"Yes…"
"Then it shouldn't be too hard," he said, then walked away.
It had now been about twenty-five minutes since Mike had left. I still had only taken a few bites of food. The guy two tables down was working on plate six. The kids in the back were now holding hands.
"I check by dumpster. He no there. You lie?" The woman was back.
"No, I … I'm not sure where he is."
"I get manager."
"No, please. He will be back shortly."
She stormed off. My plate was about half eaten. Mike's gumbo was cold and his lobster was also beginning to cool. Big boy started plate seven. Gooey-eyes were whispering and giggling. Another group walked into the place. It was five kids and their grandparents. I cleared my plate and then took a few bites of Mike's gumbo. By now I was starting to get hungry, and I didn't want it to completely go to waste.
Forty-five minutes. Certainly, Mike would be back soon. I looked up from the bowl of gumbo and saw the woman returning.
"You want fortune cookie?" she asked.
"Yeah, sure."
"Where friend?"
"I'm not sure."
"Manager said you need stop lie. Or leave."
"But, I don't know. He should be back soon."
"He gone one hour. You pay for gumbo."
"Sure, I ate it."
"You pay lobster."
"But I didn't order lobster."
"You owe $57.63."
I sighed and handed her my debit card. She walked off towards the cash register. I grabbed the lobster and began to pick it apart. I had never eaten lobster before, so I wasn't exactly sure how to go about it. Unfortunately, this particular lobster did indeed taste very much like stale trash.
Several minutes later the woman was back.
"Credit card rejected."
It was then I remember that I had only gotten a new debit card the day before. I had not yet activated it, but had already taken the old one out of my wallet. To activate the card, I needed to either call an 1800 number or make an ATM transaction with it.
"Any chance I can run to an ATM?"
"Friend disappear. Now you want leave? No! You pay $57.63."
The restaurant closed at 10pm. About fifteen minutes prior to closing, Mike Cobb walked back in and profusely apologized to me. I had spent the last several hours at my "new job" washing dishes and cleaning out stale trash in the back. He asked the manager if he could pay for his meal, but the manager said it had already been taken care of. The manager did, however, feel bad that Mike didn't get to eat any of his meal after hearing about the family emergency, so he had another lobster boiled up and a pot of gumbo made for Mike to bring home – no charge since he was such a frequent customer.
"Josh, I really am sorry," Mike said when we got back to the 1979 beige Buick Roadmaster. "My mom's favorite plant was starting to wilt. It was given to her by our gardener who passed away six years ago. There is a garden shop in Alexandria that specializes in the type of soil needed to keep the plant fresh and vibrant. Needless to say, Mom called me soon after I arrived and asked me to run and pick some up."
"Alexandria is five hours away from here."
"I know! I made great time, didn't I?"
"You said you would be right back."
"No!" snorted Mike, "I said I would be back soon! I'd say it was very soon considering all I had to go through."
At the very end of Plane, Trains, and Automobiles, the viewer discovers that all the while, though it appeared John Candy was renting a car and buying train tickets to get Steve Marin home, he was, in fact, using Steve Martin's credit card the entire time. Martin, however, feels for Candy and, as he understands Candy's situation, forgives him and invites him to his home for Thanksgiving.
It will be another eight years and then some before I even consider inviting Mike Cobb into my home for Thanksgiving. I've always thought Plane, Trains, and Automobiles was a very foolish movie, anyhow. I much rather The Godfather with Al Pacino. Now there is a man who knows how to handle the things that are bothering him.
