
                                 THE ROAD SHOW
                                 by Dave Barry


          I didn't lose my luggage until Day 12 of the Book Promotion Tour
     From Hell.   By  then I was glad to get rid of it.  I'd been dragging
     it to every North American city large enough to have roads, appearing
     on thousands of radio talk  shows, all named "Speaking About Talking"
     for  the purpose of pretending to  be  enthusiastic  about  my  book,
     although after about the fifth day I  usually just staggered into the
     radio studio, put my head down on the host's lap and went to sleep.

          Most    hosts    are   accustomed  to  interviewing  unconscious
     book-tour-victims, so  they'd just plunge ahead.  "Our guest today on
     'Speaking About Talking,'"  they'd  say, "smells like the bottom of a
     homeless person's shopping bag."  

          This was true.  The reason was that, no matter how many days I'm
     on the road, I insist  on  taking only one small carry-on suitcase so
     as to prevent my luggage from  falling  into the hands of the Baggage
     People, who would pounce upon it like  those  grief-stricken  Iranian
     mourners  who  nearly  reduced the late Mr.   Ayatollah  Khomeini  to
     Corpse McNuggets.

          So my garments and toiletry articles spend their days compressed
     into an extremely dense carry-on wad in which they are able to freely
     exchange  grime, mayonnaise stains, BO vapors, etc., the result being
     that, after several days, my "clean" shirts look like giant community
     handkerchiefs and my Tartar Control toothpaste tastes like sock dirt.

          Eventually, my luggage  undergoes  a process known to physicists
     and frequent fliers as  "suitcase  fusion,"  wherein the contents all
     unite into one writhing, festering,  pulsating  blob of laundry that,
     when I get to the hotel  room,  climbs angrily out of the suitcase by
     itself  and  crawls  over to the TV  to  watch  in-room  pornographic
     movies.  This worries me, because the movie  goes  on my computerized
     hotel bill, and I'm afraid that when I check out, the clerk will say,
     in  a  loud  and perky voice:  "Mr.  Barry,  we  certainly  hope  you
     enjoyed  your  stay  here, especially your private in-room viewing of
     "Return to Planet Nipple."

          Actually, I  don't  have time to watch movies, because I have to
     forage for food.    the  split-second  schedule of the Book Promotion
     Tour From Hell calls for me to arrive at the hotel five minutes after
     room service closes, so I  usually enjoy a hearty and nourishing meal
     from the "mini-bar," which is a  little  box provided as a service to
     hotel  guests  by  the  American  Cholesterol  Growers   Association,
     featuring foodlike items that are perfect for the  busy  traveler who
     figures  he's  going to die soon anyway, such as  Honey-Roasted  Pork
     Parts.

          After  dinner it's time to crawl into bed, turn out  the  lights
     and  listen to the Subtle But Annoying Air-Conditioning Rattle, which
     is required  by  law  to be in all hotel rooms as a safety precaution
     against the danger  that  a  guest might carelessly fall asleep.  You
     notice that the bellman  never  tells  you  about  this.  The bellman
     gives you a lengthy orientation  speech  full of information that you
     have  known since childhood, such as  that  you  operate  the  TV  by
     turning it on, but he never says, "Incidentally, the only way to stop
     the annoying rattle is to jam a pair  of  jockey shorts into that air
     register up there."

          No, part of the fun of hotel life is  that you get to solve this
     puzzle for yourself, which I usually do at 1:30 a.m.,  just  in  time
     for  the  start  of  the  Sudden Violent Outburst of Hallway Laughter
     Tournament, in which  teams  of  large  hearing-impaired  men  gather
     directly outside my door  to  inhale  nitrous  oxide  and see who can
     laugh loud enough to dislodge  my  shorts  from the air register.  In
     less time than it took to  form  the  Hawaiian Islands, the night has
     flown by and it's 5:42 a.m., time for the Housekeeping Person, secure
     in the knowledge that I cannot pack a  gun in my carry-on luggage, to
     knock  on  my  door, just above the sign that  says  "Please  Do  Not
     Disturb"  in 127 languages, and inform me helpfully that she'll  come
     back later.  But I usually get up anyway, because the  sooner I check
     out, the sooner I can appear on a radio talk show and get some sleep.

          Sometimes I also go on TV, which is how I lost my luggage.  What
     happened was a TV crew was following me around, doing a story about a
     Typical Day on a book tour.  They put a wireless microphone on me  so
     they  could record me  making  typical  remarks,  such  as  "Is  this
     recording  me  in  the bathroom?"  And:    "I'm  wearing  a  wireless
     microphone." I made this last typical  remark to a concerned security
     attendant after I set off the alarm  at  the  Minneapolis-St.    Paul
     airport.  So he started poking around under my shirt, bravely risking
     Death  By  Armpit  Fumes,  and while this was going  on,  some  other
     unfortunate  air traveler mistakenly walked off with my suitcase.   I
     hate to think what happened to this person.  My guess is that at some
     point  he  foolishly  opened my suitcase and a tentacle of my laundry
     came snaking out and dragged him back inside.

          The airline  people eventually gave me back my suitcase, but now
     I'm afraid to  open  it,  because  this  person  is probably still in
     there, being genetically combined  with  my  Prell  shampoo.    So if
     you're missing a friend or  loved  one  who  was  last  seen  in  the
     Minneapolis-St.  Paul Airport, I've got  him,  and  I'll  be  glad to
     return him when I come to your town, which will be any day now on the
     Book Tour From Hell.  You'll smell me coming.
