Conversations With Eddie

Recently Eddie and I went on a road trip to Newport Beach.

Why?

Listen, going to Newport Beach does not require a reason...okay?

Anyway...

In a cost saving measure, we decided to share a room.

Two double beds.

Not a good idea.

Not a good idea at all.

Because, well, because he, uh, snores.

I mean I do too, but in Eddie's case we're talkin'

the big leagues of snoring.

Prehistoric-dinosaur-in-the-throes-of-death snoring.

One might even say he was a bront-a-snorus.

(Sorry...I had to go for it.)

Snorr-est Whitaker.

(Okay, I'll stop.)

We went out for our nightly Saint Arbuck’s fix and then back to the room with the idea in mind of retiring early

because we had a lot to accomplish the following day.

And, besides that, I was really tired from several

nights of insomnia.

Don't ask.

So, the lights go out.

Eddie says, "Think you can go to sleep?"

"Yeah," I said, "as long as someone doesn't keep me

awake."

"Oh, I'm not planning on talking."

"That's not what I mean."

He sat up and turned on the light.

"Oh? And just what do you mean?"

I turned to face him and said, "Dude, do I have to

spell it out for you?"

He thought for a minute and then said, "You implying

that I snore?"

I laughed.

"No, I'm not implying it, I'm flat out saying it."

His face arranged itself into a familiar pout.

"You just bein' mean spirited now."

And with that, he turned out the light, laid his head on the pillow and within five minutes was snoring with great vigor.

I reached for my shaving kit, inside of which I keep

ear plugs, and to my horror...they weren't there.

Panic stitched a pattern across my sleep-starved consciousness.

What was I going to do?

I knew.

The gift shop in the hotel lobby.

It was my only hope.

I threw on a combination of clothes one would never want to be seen wearing in public.

I didn't care.

Down the elevator into the lobby where I was greeted by the oh-so-cheerful Asian night clerk.

I said, "Do you have any ear plugs?"

To which he replied with much smiling and head nodding.

Then he just stood there.

I repeated my question this time with a pronounced and dramatic snore.

Immediately his face brightened and he said something like, "Ahhhhhh."

With that he walked over to a rack of pamphlets where he selected one for the San Diego Zoo—one which featured a picture of elephants.

By then I realized I wasn't going to get anywhere with my happy host, so I simply said, "Thank-you," and went back to the room where I fantasized killing my feloniously resonating roommate.

I knew that it wasn't really an option—at least not yet—so I secured some toilet paper from the bathroom and proceeded to cram it tightly into my ears.

It did no good whatsoever!

My mind strayed to my original idea of murder.

I mean, who would blame me.

I could just see the investigating officers coming onto the scene.

I am cuffed and led downstairs into the lobby while the crime scene technicians examine the room.

Just as the arresting officer is ushering me out to a waiting squad car a stern-faced Detective Sergeant stops me, looks at my ears and says, "Oh, for cryin' out loud, Barney. Look at his ears...there's toilet paper stuffed in there. The vic was a snorer. Let him go, the bum deserved what he got."

I woke up to a sonorous serenade and our neighbor in the room next door pounding out his complaint on the adjoining wall. Maybe I could actually get away with it...

Film at eleven.