Excerpt From ‘Passable in Pink’ The Novelization

From Chapter 5: Party Time!

 

…. “You want to tell me where we’re headed?” Addy asked.

“Gosh, I have so many things planned,” announced Grimer, breathlessly. “First stop … adventure!”

Meaning what exactly? thought Addy. How should she put this without offending him?

“Meaning what exactly?” Addy asked. She was too lazy to even rewrite the question in her head.

“Everything!” Grimer said, excitedly. “Just you wait!”

Moments later, they pulled into an indoor parking garage in downtown Chicago. A swarthy parking-lot attendant, smiling devilishly, approached.

“Here are the keys, sir!” Grimer exclaimed, climbing from out of the car and handing them over. “But I’ve already checked the odometer! No funny stuff!”

The swarthy attendant looked puzzled.

“Because it’s a priceless Ferrari,” Grimer patiently explained, as if to an imbecile.

The swarthy attendant looked over the car, from front to back and then back to front, and nodded.

He remained silent.

This did not at all seem to bother Grimer. He turned to Addy and screamed: “Time for the undertaking of a lifetime!”

First stop: the Art Institute of Chicago!

His intention—or so he said—was for the both of them to wander from floor to floor, gallery to gallery, observing paintings and sculptures and other astonishing works of art, all the while tilting their heads to the side at very humorous angles.

They would sit on various museum benches and perhaps even lie down and then reverse their positions and then stand on the benches and point to nude statues in an unusual manner.

Grimer had wanted to do such a thing for as long as he could remember. It would be comical. What a wonderful and entirely unique way to spend the morning!

But when they arrived at the museum, Grimer balked at the $2 admission charge.

Off to Wrigley Field to catch a Chicago Cubs day game!

Although Grimer hadn’t yet told Addy, he was planning on ordering a Chicago-style “loaded” hot dog and having one of the vendors toss it to him behind his back, and god help anyone sitting beneath it! Grimer also intended on screaming “Swing, battah battah!” in a very high and disturbing voice that would make all of those sitting around him wince. If he caught a foul ball and then shook his hand afterwards as if it hurt terribly, well, so much the better!

But the Cubs weren’t playing today, or even this week. Not even this month. Spring training wouldn’t begin for another twenty-one days.

“Fun having?” asked Grimer, purposely reversing the order of a clichéd greeting in order to make it sound fresher and more up-to-date.

“Not really,” said Addy.

This lack of enthusiasm from Addy did not sit well with Grimer who insisted that they now walk over to the Sears Tower in order to take a fast elevator to the very top to appreciate the building’s remarkable views. But the cloud cover was too thick for anyone to fully appreciate the gorgeous Chicago skyline and, to make matters worse, the observation area was depressingly empty, save for a lone forty-something looking out onto Lake Michigan and playing with himself through his thin, pleated khaki work slacks.

The man was on crutches. He was mumbling, “Tired.”

It was definitely a story. One Addy hoped never to hear. This most marvelous adventure of both of their lifetimes continued when Grimer insisted on taking Addy to the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. Grimer had long heard that this was a super fun place to “hang.”

After both sneaked past security, Grimer entered on to the trading floor and began to flash uproarious hand signals—including a few that the Three Stooges had so justifiably made famous—to the day traders.

But he stopped when a large man in a red vest approached to ask, not so kindly, “Fuck are you doing?” Grimer went to poke the trader in the eyes, another move made famous by the Three Stooges, but was instead punched in the face and immediately lost consciousness. The scene was almost like something out of a movie written by a suburbanite who never once entered a real city.

When Grimer regained consciousness, an hour later, it was nearly 2:30 P.M. and he was sprawled out on the sidewalk of Lincoln Avenue, just in front of a Marshall Field’s, Addy gently nursing him back into a quasi-state of awareness.

“We need to get you home,” soothed Addy, cradling Grimer in her lap, noticing that Grimer’s animal-print vest was now splotched with blood … as well as a generous dab of Old Style German whole grain mustard.

She hoped it was mustard.

“The world-famous Von Steuben Day parade is today,” garbled Grimer. “I have so many more amazing adventures awaiting us, Addy—”

“No more surprises,” said Addy. “Also, the parade you’re talking about is in September. It’s now March.”

“Exactly,” said Grimer, standing slowly, attempting to shake the confusion out of his head.

The Grimer weaved directly into the afternoon’s traffic and climbed on top of a stalled car. Stretching his arms wide in a most adorable manner—and gesturing to thousands, potentially millions—he began to lip synch to Wayne Newton’s version of “Danke Schoen,” playing to the crowd that was starting to form, using a toilet paper roll as a microphone, a few strips of soiled paper still attached.

“Who is this asshole?” asked a passersby.

“Fucking adorable,” said another bystander, holding an umbrella. “At least in his own mind.” The man was miserable from the sleet and rain. “Goddamn it to hell. I hate him. I want to murder him.”

“Ain’t nothin’ but a popcorn pimp,” declared a young man, walking past.

The opening chords for the classic Beatles version of “Twist and Shout” could not be heard but Grimer began to sing along anyway, swaying and sashaying, all cute and delightful, motioning to the hundreds of businessmen glancing out their high rise office windows, including a certain advertising copywriter who did a doubletake when he saw a girl who looked exactly like his daughter, which was all but impossible, as she was still in school, she never skipped!

“What’s he singing to?” asked another man who was wearing a yarmulke.

The yarmulke, as was the latest craze, was acid washed and 100% “pre shrunk.”

“A horrible song in his head,” said a businessman, struggling to be heard over the screams. Grimer was dancing and singing on top of a car, its hood now beginning to dish in the middle.

Miming playing the knee cymbals, both knees clashing, Grimer screamed out: “Clang, clang, clang-a-dang, clang-a-dang a-rang!”

“Guy’s off his rocker,” said a construction worker, sadly. “Nuttier than the goddamn stones in Reagan’s head!”

It was slowly dawning on Addy that something might not be quite “right” with her good friend, Grimer, who was now laughing hysterically, can-canning and bowing ….

 

 

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