03/16/07
Lately The Rambling Man has been receiving an awful lot of requests involving my old buddy, the legendary party animal and bon vivant, Scuba Steve. As I am sure you are all aware, it was Scuba Steve who once uttered those immortal words, “Is that a grouper sandwich in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?” It seems there are several of my readers who want to know more about Scuba. They want to know what he eats, what he drinks and what he thinks. I have it on good authority that he does, indeed, perform all three of those tasks, but never more than two at a time. In an effort to delve more deeply into the enigma that is Scuba Steve, The Rambling Man was forced to travel to an Alabama Gulf Coast beach hotel last weekend (strictly for research purposes, of course) in an attempt to track down this elusive creature in his native habitat, a self-service hotel elevator.
Upon arriving at the hotel on Wednesday evening last week I was quickly informed that I had correctly timed my arrival and that Scuba Steve had not yet checked in for the weekend. In fact, he didn’t show up with his entourage until the next evening. I had planned to reach my destination before him in an attempt to get some rest, because I knew I would not get much once he arrived. I was right.
Thursday evening, as I sat, anxiously waiting, in the hotel lobby, two large, burly men dressed in T-shirts, baggy swimsuits and wearing sunglasses (at night) came through the lobby doors and stood motionless, slowly surveying the room. To the average observer this would not seem particularly unusual, but to the practiced eye of The Rambling Man it was obvious these men were Scuba Steve’s bodyguards. Once it was determined to be safe, the members of the entourage made their way into the lobby. Most were dressed appropriately for the climate, including one who wore a T-shirt with the overly optimistic saying, “Chicks Dig Me” emblazoned on the front. He found out differently over the course of the weekend. Another wore a T-shirt with a saying on it that was way too politically incorrect for even The Rambling Man to repeat, but let me assure my readers that it was hilarious.
Then Scuba Steve made his entrance. His bodyguards held the doors wide for him and he burst into the lobby carrying a twelve-pack of beer in one hand and the biggest Taco Bell bag I have ever seen in the other. Under one arm was a watermelon, and under the other was nothing at all. Scuba Steve likes to travel light. When Scuba saw me he immediately smiled, tossed the watermelon to one of his entourage and made his way across the lobby. Before I knew it I had a cold beer in one hand, a chili-cheese burrito in the other and we were headed for the hotel bar. I thought someone from his entourage must be going to register for him, but then I remembered Scuba Steve never reserves a hotel room. Since he never knows which room he may end up in each night (or whether he’ll end up in one at all) he doesn’t see the point of having his own room. Six burritos, nine tacos, eighteen beers and a chalupa later Scuba suddenly decided he needed to be someplace else. After a short, but frightening ride, I found myself walking through the door of the infamous Florabama Roadhouse. It is named The Florabama because it sits directly on the Florida/Alabama state line. In other words, you can get drunk in one state and throw up in another state without having to leave the room.
The Florabama was packed with young, Spring Break college students and Scuba Steve immediately began recruiting beautiful, drunken coeds for the “Girls Gone Wild” film he told them he was shooting the next day. Of course there was no such film, but the auditions were something to behold. My favorite was a buxom young lass who wore an “I Will Flash for Shots” T-shirt. Needless to say, my bar tab was astronomical that night. Scuba generously let me pretend to be the cameraman.
As the evening wore on Scuba Steve and I were separated and I lost track of him. When I finally found a member of his entourage, some guy named Mark, I was told Scuba had gone out back to get some fresh air. This sounded a bit strange to me since I had never known Scuba to want anything to do with fresh air. I decided to investigate. I made my way to the boardwalk which led to the beach behind the Florabama. There at the end of the walkway I saw Scuba Steve leaning over the railing. It might have been a sixth sense of mine or it might have been that I could see Scuba was puking his guts up. Either way I could tell something was amiss. I didn’t want to embarrass him by asking if he was alright so I just put my hand on his shoulder and used a calming voice to assure him everything was going to be okay. After one particularly powerful wretch he stopped and gazed down at the sand below him. He then turned to me and uttered, “I don’t remember having that”. Those words will live in my heart forever. Apparently Scuba Steve was suffering from a mysterious malady known in medical circles as
Russetus-Elfen Overindulgi, or “Brownie Over-consumption” (if you know what I mean). After a prolonged visit to the Waffle House across the street he seemed to feel better.
The next morning, at breakfast, Scuba Steve was excited to tell me about the woman he had met the night before. “I wasn’t feeling too good” he began “but out at the end of the beach walkway this lady put her hand on my shoulder and made me feel better. She wore a ponytail, had a deep voice and really big hands. I need to find out who she was. She was beautiful.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him. In a case such as this I think it’s better he maintains the fantasy than to know the truth.
Later that morning Scuba began what are customarily known as his “elevator tours”. This is done by convincing naïve young women they need a tour of the area surrounding the hotel. Scuba tells them the best vantage point for such a tour is, of course, an aerial view. He then takes them into the hotel elevator (which is enclosed in glass and rides up and down on the outside of the building) and as it ascends he proceeds to point out local points of interest such as the gas station across the street, the condos being built next door, and exactly where his vehicle is located in the hotel parking lot. This continued until lunchtime when I was allowed to accompany Scuba Steve and his entourage to a local eating establishment. As we were seated around a large table I noticed Scuba was the only one who didn’t have a menu. When I asked him how he intended to order lunch without a menu, he told me, “I just like to guess”. How incredibly Zen-like he is.
Once lunch was out of the way, the entire entourage boarded Scuba Steve’s white stretch limousine and we were whisked away to an establishment in which young, incredibly flexible ladies (?) removed what little clothing they had on to begin with while dancing (?). Of course the young ladies paid the most attention to Scuba Steve since he had a front row seat and he was obviously glad to see them (and it WASN’T a grouper sandwich in his pocket, either). Shortly after arriving and ordering drinks all around Scuba Steve motioned for one of the dancers to bend down from the stage and he whispered something in her ear. She immediately went backstage and shortly returned with three more of the dancers. They then escorted a smiling Scuba Steve to a small private room behind the stage. I watched as knowing smiles and winks were passed from one member of his entourage to another. Apparently they had seen this before. We ordered another round of drinks and settled back to watch the show. It couldn’t have been more than about fifteen minutes since he had been escorted backstage when suddenly Scuba Steve burst from the private room and, without so much as a hesitation or glance in our direction, sprinted for the front door. Puzzled by this behavior I looked to the others seated around me. I could tell by the panicked expressions and the fact they were all in the process of doing the same thing Scuba Steve had just done that they had apparently seen this before as well. No one said a word. No one had to. We exited the establishment en masse, diving into the limo as it threw gravel into the air while leaving the parking lot in a hasty manner. I never found out what happened in that private room with those four strippers, and I knew better than to ask.
Sadly, I was forced to leave Scuba Steve’s
entourage that evening and go back to my room to pack. I was leaving early the
next morning on a long drive home and wanted to try to catch up on some of the
sleep I had by-passed all weekend. It was about 3:00 am when suddenly there
came a tapping, as if someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis
some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.' When I opened my chamber door I was not at all
surprised to see Scuba Steve standing before me, smiling. I stood aside and he
silently entered. Once inside the room he turned to me, and without a word
produced a grouper sandwich from his pocket and handed it to me. It was his way
of telling me he had been glad to see me. He had another sandwich in his other
pocket, so we sat and ate together in silence. Once we had both finished Scuba
Steve arose, smiled and gave me a warm (totally heterosexual) hug, and still
without muttering a sound left my room.
It was with great sadness I drove out of the parking lot the next morning, and headed for home. I had had an amazing time in my vain attempt to keep up with the legendary Scuba Steve. And I knew in my heart that someday, when I least expected it, we would meet once again. I only hope that when we do I happen to have a grouper sandwich in my pocket that I can give to him.