Mostly rambles, few brambles
I Saw Mr. Met Get His Head Stuck In A Revolving Door
His usual hangouts are at baseball stadiums, car dealership openings, and other headroom-heavy haunts, so I was surprised when I saw Mr. Met out on Long Island, sauntering up to my hotel lobby, a pep in his step, seemingly unaware that on this particular September Saturday the Mets were twenty-four games out of relevancy. Bold, I thought, that he opted for the revolving door, his handler brazenly leading the charge, but — oh no — the compartment was too small for one adult and one anthropomorphic baseball. The motorized door kept chugged along, wedging the top of Mr. Met’s bobbling head before the machinery stalled with a sickening metallic squeal. Mr. Met kept smiling, but I could see the abject panic in those big white eyes.
I wasn’t laughing at first —wait, no, I absolutely was: my thighs were immediately pinkened with delight. Mr. Met grasped the gravity of the situation quickly and his feet started thrashing in this terror-stricken jazz routine. The handler, also trapped in the chamber like some magic trick gone wrong, started banging on the glass, hyperventilating and trying to breathe through his tie, I think. I was doubled on the floor now, my hammer cackling combined with the three pounds of continental breakfast meat were melding into a wicked cramp, of which I had no choice but to laugh off.
A hoity-toity family stepped out from breakfast, and I could tell they thought they were better than me — mostly because they weren’t taking pleasure in someone else’s misfortune and, also, because they didn’t have residual yolk in the corners of their mouths and weren’t soaked in ham sweat. They tried to shuffle past, denying themselves the opportunity to gape and giggle as a bellhop climbed a precarious ladder and attempted to apply a hefty amount of Crisco to a beloved mascot’s foam head. I pitied both their repressed lifestyle and their merciful approach to free meats.
Mr. Met was still sporting his usual goony grin, which kept a bit of whimsy in the situation when his handler started scream crying into his phone. The Crisco, though, appeared now to be attracting seagulls. Oh, God — one of the seagulls squeezed itself through the narrow opening in the door! The handler, he was melting down entirely, basically just a puddle of a person by this time. He was trying to surrender to the bird. But the bird took no prisoners and just kept shitting and biting. The gulls outside started screeching in solidarity and — wait, what!? —some asshole kid yelled, “Go Yankees,” and threw a firecracker in there! My voice was gone, but I started to settle down when my heart started beating weird and I peed a little.
The firecracker, mercifully, didn’t pop. Instead, it just smoldered until it tripped the sprinkler system. That seagull was fucking livid now and I’m so focused on this wet, greasy struggle that I don’t even notice the little baker guy wheeling a giant cake into the lobby. This white-coated cherub started fuming, tearing around the lobby now, approaching anyone with a big head and asking if they’d be willing to surprise the bar mitzvah boy. Finally, the firefighters arrived with the giant claw they use for extracting mascots and other trapped victims with pliable heads. The seagull eventually strutted out from the door barely traumatized, the fiasco’s true alpha.
I skipped my cousin’s wedding and opted to crash the bar mitzvah instead, despite it being glaringly obvious that I wasn’t invited due to my hotel bathrobe and my emanating ham smell. While stuffing the robe’s pockets with whitefish, I looked backstage and couldn’t help but smile as the livid baker berated a hapless Mr. Met into climbing into the cramped, PTSD-triggering confines of the giant cake.