Mary-Kate Olsen Runs Out Of Gas

World’s wackiest twin meets up with a bunch that’s even wackier than her

COVINA, CALIF., JULY 25, 2008 – The opening of Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen’s JAMa Kidz adoption network, originally planned for July 8, had been postponed indefinitely when Mary-Kate’s funeral was scheduled for the same day. The 22-year-old twins were to meet in Glendale Friday evening to work up plans for another launch date. Ashley, who had been interviewing models in Pasadena all day, arranged a dinner meeting with Mary-Kate at 7:30 at the Blue Hen Vietnamese Kitchen. The last thing she’d said to Mary-Kate when they talked on the phone at three o’clock was, “Don’t be late.”

Mary-Kate had spent her day playing with her attack dog, Rusty, and laying in the sun in the back yard of her and Ashley’s Larchmont Village home in Los Angeles and was too exhausted for a meeting. But knowing what would happen if she missed it, she left the house at 6:55 for the boring ten-mile drive to Glendale.

She climbed in her Range Rover and found half a joint in the ashtray and smoked it. She wished she could remember who had given her the joint, because it was better than most of the crap floating around L.A. these days.

The road to Glendale goes through Glendora but doesn’t stop there

As she passed into Glendale, Mary-Kate decided she didn’t care how Ashley would react if she missed the meeting – she wasn’t in the mood for her sister’s bossiness and nitpicking tonight. She’d been staying in their L.A. home since Tuesday night, and her Ashley-tolerance was nearly bottomed-out.

So she drove on through Glendale, right past the San Fernando Road exit she was supposed to have taken, and just kept driving. Freedom. Peace. Aloneness, which she always needed after more than 48 hours with her sister. She drove for 25 miles through Pasadena, Monrovia, Duarte, Azusa and Glendora. When the freeway curved south heading into San Dimas, her Range Rover started sputtering. She looked at the gas gauge. It was on empty.

“Motherfucker!” she said and slapped the steering wheel. She glanced in every direction, looking for a gas station. The next exit coming up was Arrow Hwy., and she took it, and she didn’t see a goddamned thing that even resembled a gas station. “How can there be no fucking gas stations in a place with this many houses and businesses?” she said. She looked to the east. Nothing. So she drove west, where there were all kinds of things, but no gas stations.

The Range Rover died at the corner of Arrow Hwy. and Valley Center Drive. Instinctively, she grabbed her cell. But who would she call? Everybody she knew lived in L.A. or close to it. Usually, she called Ashley when she was in trouble, but Ashley was at the Blue Hen, waiting for Mary-Kate to meet her, and she would be pissed off if Mary-Kate called and told her she’d gone on a joy ride and run out of gas.

“Good,” Ashley would say. “You can just figure it out for yourself. This is what happens when you’re not committed.”

“Fuck,” Mary-Kate said and got out of the vehicle and slammed the door. There were a million cars going up and down Arrow Hwy., but she didn’t want to flag any of them down, because people a lot less famous and pretty than her had been raped and murdered in situations like this. So she walked. Behind her was a Stater Bros. grocery store with the “S” missing on the marquee sign, making the name read “ tater Bros.” The paved sidewalk turned to dirt, and everything she passed was a closed business. Then across the busy street she saw a mobilehome park. The glowing twenty-foot sign said Royal Palms.

Welcome to Royal Palms Mobilehome Park, Covina, California

She crossed the street, figuring she could find somebody there who would take her to a gas station. If they recognized her, she’d tell them there’s a gun in her purse. She wanted to bring Rusty along, but Ashley had flipped out and said there’s no way Mary-Kate could pull off the seeing-eye-dog routine in a Vietnamese restaurant, even though Mary-Kate knew it was totally doable.

She entered the trailer park. It was pretty nice, as far as trailer parks went – the streets were paved and clean, there were a lot of streetlights, there was a big swimming pool and a clubhouse to her left and, true to the name of the park, palm trees everywhere. Sort of like Beverly Hills, only different.

She heard voices and laughter coming from the right, so that’s the direction she went. Out front of the third trailer on the right side of the narrow street, on a little cement patch between two juniper beds, a guy had his palms planted flat on the ground with his knees pressed into his elbows and his feet floating in the air behind him. He was fat. He had a bush of an afro sticking out from under a stained yellow Yamaha cap, but he didn’t appear to be black. A person she couldn’t see said, “What the hell do you call that?” and the guy hovering over the ground said, “Buffalo tripod!”

When the guy saw Mary-Kate, he dropped to his knees and said, “Whoa, are you who I think you are? Hey, you guys – check it out – it’s that chick that used to be on that TV show!”

A voice beyond the edge of the trailer said, “Oh, that tells me a whole lot.”

“My car ran out of gas,” Mary-Kate said.

“No prob,” the fat guy said. “We’ll help you.” He walked around the front corner of the trailer. On a wide redwood porch sat two other guys, one of them about the same age as the contortionist. The other was maybe 12 years old, and he was heavy, but not as heavy as the first guy. Actually they were all heavy. Mary-Kate lived in a world surrounded by fat people, and there was nothing she could do about it.

The kid said, “Are you Mary-Kate Olsen?” He had blonde hair and a squealy voice and sounded about six years younger than he looked.

“Yeah,” Mary-Kate said. “I need some gas. My car ran out over there.” She pointed toward Valley Center.

“I can take you to get some gas,” the older guy on the porch said. “But I gotta wait till my mom gets back with the car.”

“None of you guys have cars?”

“I’m too young to drive,” the boy said.

“Shut up, Stevie, or I’ll hit you,” said the guy Mary-Kate had met in the street. He took off his Yamaha cap and whacked Stevie in the head with it.

“Ouch!” Stevie said. “And don’t call me Stevie!”

Mary-Kate sighed. “Do you other two have names?”

“I’m Doug,” the guy on the porch said. “That’s Fats Pauls.”

“Fats Pauls?” Mary-Kate had remained standing in the street, not sure if she wanted to get any closer.

“Ah, wells, yous guys knows . . .” Fats Pauls said.

She gave Doug a confused look.

“It’s fans clubs language,” he said. “See, the manager here is Johns Burslews. When he was with the famslees back in New Yorks, they called him Jackies Borsleaus. Mainly he directs traffics with his bodyguards, Herbs, and throws Scotties out of the pools.”

Mary-Kate smiled so they wouldn’t think she was hostile.

In a New York accent, Doug said, “Scotties, if Muffins pinches another loafs by the little pools, you’ll’s be out of it for six weeks!” and Steve and Fats Pauls busted up laughing.

Mary-Kate laughed a little, too, mainly to be polite, but also because it was sort of funny that people like Doug and Fats Pauls could actually exist. “I love your hair,” she said to Fats Pauls. “Are you Samoan?”

Fats Pauls is a jolly young Mexican, a jolly young Mexican is he

“Naw, Mexican,” Fats Pauls said.

“You look like a Samoan.”

“I know, but I’m still a Mexican.”

“His dad’s Hot Sauce Dad,” Doug said. “He made this chile one time and put it in a plastic bag, and it burnt a hole right through it.”

“And we gave some of it to Lubino,” Fats Pauls said. “Then Doug suplexed him.”

“Who’s Lubino?” Mary-Kate said.

“Doug’s married girlfriend’s doberman.”

“Plus Paul’s old man is a major Cole Porter fan,” Doug said.

“I like Cole Porter,” Mary-Kate said.

“Do you like black widows?” Fats Pauls said.

Unsure how the two were related, Mary-Kate said, “Not really.”

In a fairly good impression of Fats Pauls, Doug said, “Hey, dad, who’s the greatest songwriter in the world?”

Fats Pauls raised his fist in the air, and in a pretty good impression of a gruff old Mexican man, said, “Cole Porter!”

“Who’s the greatest singer in the world?”

“Cole Porter!”

“Who’s the greatest piano player?”

“Cole Porter!”

“What’s under the front porch?”

“Cole Porter . . . black widow! Shut up, Paul, you’re stupid as whaaaaaat! Why don’t you sit down and eat like a man, not like a doggone caveman!”

All three of the guys cracked up laughing.

“You can come over here and sit down till Doug’s mom gets back, if you want,” Steve said to Mary-Kate.

“You sure it’s safe?”

“Yeah, there’s no black widows under this porch,” Fats Pauls said.

“No, I just meant in general.”

“Yeah, we never attack TV stars.”

Mary-Kate ventured over and sat gingerly on one of the wooden steps a few feet below Steve, who was swinging his foot a few inches from her face.

“Goddamnit, Stevie!” Fats Pauls said. “If you kick her in the face, I’m gonna bust your ass!”

“So how old are you guys?” Mary-Kate said.

Doug said, “I’m seventeen, Paul’s sixteen . . .”

“And Stevie’s eight,” Fats Pauls said.

“I’m not eight, I’m eleven,” Steve said and took a swig from a can of Pepsi. Immediately and with gale force, he blew out a spewing spray of the liquid. “What’s in this!” he yelled and began spitting on the grass by the porch.

“That’s my fucking chaw can!” Fats Pauls said.

“You spit chew in this?” Steve said.

“Well, I don’t just spit on the ground. I got manners. If you got any of that shit on Mary-Kate, I’ll rip you a new set of tits!”

“What’s ‘chaw’?” Mary-Kate said, sliding across the step until her back met the aluminum siding of the trailer.

Fats Pauls removed a green tin of Skoal from his back pocket. “This. Want some?”

“No, thanks. Can I smoke?”

“Sure,” Doug said. He pulled a lighter out of his pocket.

“Did you start smoking?” Fats Pauls asked him.

“No, I keep it for Dar,” Doug said.

“I guess she can’t get Limply to light her cigarettes, that fucked-out asshole. Gotta get the boys in on this!”

Mary-Kate found a cigarette in her purse and let Doug light it for her. She’d never needed a smoke so badly in her life.

Meet Jason, a dude who knows what he wants, even if it don’t want him

A green lowered mini truck barreled up in front of the house. The stereo inside was blasting the song “Just Like Paradise.”

“Turn that shit down!” Fats Pauls shouted at the driver. His shout was louder than the music.

“That’s Jason,” Doug said to Mary-Kate.

“Should that mean something to me?” Mary-Kate said.

“Not yet. You don’t know him.”

“What’s up, dudes?” Jason yelled. He had long brown hair, and from a distance in the shadow of the cab, he sort of looked like Abigail Breslin. “Who’s that?” he said. “Is that Britney Spears?”

“It’s Mary-Kate Olsen,” Doug said. “She ran out of gas. Can you drive her to a gas station?”

Jason leaned an arm on the passenger door and slung back his hair. “Hey, Katie.”

Mary-Kate forced a smile.

Jason said, “After we get gas, wanna go to the mountains?”

“Not really,” Mary-Kate said.

“Fuck it, then.” Jason cranked the stereo back up and drove off.

“What’s his problem?” Mary-Kate said.

“He’s really into girls,” Fats Pauls said.

“You guys aren’t into girls?”

“Yeah, but not like that. And speaking of who, here comes Moss and Stupidbuns.”

Sherry Moss and Irene Steddenbenz, bored and lonely, as usual, on a Friday night

Mary-Kate looked up the street and saw two girls about the same age as Doug and Fats Pauls walking toward the trailer. One had dark-brown hair, feathered, like something out of the 70’s, and wore tight jeans and a Boston T-shirt. The other had short black hair and was a little dumpy in a baggy sweatshirt and khakis.

“What’s the matter, aren’t they playing Journey on the radio tonight?” Fats Pauls yelled at the girls and started laughing.

“Hey, Sherry, hey, Irene,” Steve called out.

“Hey Steve,” the girl in the Boston shirt said. “Paul, shut up, okay? I’m not in the mood.”

The dumpy girl said, “Is that . . . are you Ashley Olsen?”

Mary-Kate said, “Mary-Kate.”

The other girl said, “What are you doing here, with these losers?”

“Hey,” Fats Pauls said, “at least when I lay out by the pool, milk doesn’t curdle in my stomach!”

“Shut up, Paul. You got too much fat for the sun to even reach your stomach!”

“The one with the big mouth, that’s Moss,” Fats Pauls told Mary-Kate. “And the other one is Stupidbunz.”

Steve laughed. So did Doug.

“My name’s Sherry,” said the one Fats Pauls had identified as Moss. “This is Irene. Her last name is . . .” She looked at Fats Pauls and yelled, “Steddenbenz!”

Fats Pauls clamped his hands over his ears and twisted up his face as if somebody had run a flaming knife through his skull.

“Paul, don’t be an ass,” Sherry said as she and Irene walked up on the patio.

“Did you say Standandfuckher?” Fats Pauls said and took the Pepsi chaw can off the porch and spit in it.

“You guys need to grow up,” Irene said. “I love your TV shows,” she said to Mary-Kate. “What are you really doing here? Don’t you live in New York or something?”

“She drove out to meet us,” Fats Pauls said.

Sherry raised her arm as if she was going to strike Fats Pauls, and Fats Pauls raised his own and said, “Five servin’ two, thirty all, my ad, duce-love.”

“Idiot,” Sherry said and dropped her arm.

“Why do you tease her like that?” Mary-Kate asked Fats Pauls.

“I’m just playing. I got nothing agin’ her.”

Sherry and Irene climbed up on the porch and sat as far away as possible from Fats Pauls. Mary-Kate assumed this was a little gang of regulars that hung out all the time, even thought they probably fought all the time, too.

Heeeeere’s Johnny!

Just then a man appeared in the street in front of the trailer. He was about 40 or 45 years old and had one of those macho mustaches that no normal man wore anymore. His button dress shirt was open halfway to his waist, and within a jungle of black chest hair hung several gold chains.

“Hey, Johnny, what’s happening?” Doug said.

“I-I-I-I’m lookin’ for Jeffrey,” Johnny said.

Sherry giggled. Fats Pauls said, “Shut up, Mosstachula!”

“Shut up, Paul, this is a free country. I can laugh if I want!”

Doug said, “What are you looking for Jeffrey for?”

“I-I-I-I’m just lookin’ for Jeffrey,” Johnny repeated, obviously drunk.

“Johnny?” Steve said. “Guess what? Jeff put my bike on the roof by the basketball court.”

Silence all around, then Johnny said, “Jeffrey put your bike on the roof?”

Steve said, “Yeah, when we were up there playing basketball earlier.”

Johnny said, “Jeffrey put your bike on the roof.” He was getting wound.

“It was when we were–”

Johnny went from wound to really wound. “Jeffrey put your bike on the roof?”

“Like I said, we–”

Now Johnny got loud. “Jeffrey put your bike on the roof! I’ll kill the little motherfucker! I’ll slaughter the little bastard!”

To Doug, Mary-Kate whispered, “Who’s Jeffrey?”

“His stepson.”

“Aaah.”

“If there’s one person I hate, it’s Jeffrey,” Johnny said. “Everybody else I like, but Jeffrey I hate. I’d like to take him up in the mountains on a one-way trip, chop him up and put him in a paper bag and roll him down the hill.”

“I think he went that way,” Doug said and pointed, and Johnny thanked him and swaggered off.

“What a weirdo,” Mary-Kate said.

“Johnsies is gonna kill Jeffreys one of these days,” Fats Pauls said.

“Johnsies?” Mary-Kate said.

“Fans clubs language,” Doug said. “Johnsies and Jeffreys. The Johnsies Kills ‘Em and Drags ‘Em Fans Clubs.”

“The conventions is always on Valentine’s Day, cause Johnsies gots a lot of heart,” Fats Pauls said.

Mary-Kate took a breath. “When do you think your mom’ll be back with the car?”

“Shouldn’t be too long. Her and her boyfriend guy . . . person . . . just went to the store.”

Jeannie and Peggy Jo are out walking the dog

Up the street came a woman and a young girl, who was walking a skittish little white dog on a leash.

“That’s Jeansies and her daughter, Peggys Jos,” Doug said to Mary-Kate.

“Fans clubs language, right?”

“Right.”

“Hey, Peggys . . . I mean Peggy Jo,” Fats Pauls said.

Hearing Fats Pauls’ voice, the dog jerked backwards and tried to run off in the opposite direction. “Baby Number Three, you stop that right now, or daddy’s going to make me hang up this leash!” Jeannie said to the animal and took the leash from Peggy Jo.

“Hi Paul,” said Peggy, who looked to be about the same age as Steve.

“Where’s Bradsleys? I mean Brads . . . fuck, I mean Brad.”

Jeannie said, “He’s been in the house since two o’clock. KISS is on TV tonight.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t start till eight,” Doug said.

“Yes, but he didn’t want to take a chance on missing any of it. He’s already in his Pittsburgh Steelers pajamas with his KISS trash can right by the couch, with plenty of french fries and hot Coke to see him through.”

Jeannie and Peggy and Baby Number Three walked on by, and Fats Pauls said, “Brads is Peggys Joes’ brother. Their dad is Dads Studs – he’s the only studs around, and he wears the pants in his famslees.”

Irene giggled.

“Dads is an awesome stud!” Steve said and pumped his fist in the air.

“Studs, Stevie!” Fats Pauls said. “Say it right next time, or I’ll bust your ass!”

“Sorry! Don’t have a cow.”

“He is a cow,” Sherry said.

“Shut up, Moss, or I’ll have Tor throw your ass in the shower then put you out in the sun to cook the eggs in your stomach.”

“Shut up, Paul,” Sherry said.

“Gotta get the boys in on this!” Fats Pauls said.

Oooh, son, it’s Ruth Farmer

A middle-aged woman in curlers and a bathrobe came around the corner of the trailer. She had on two striped socks and no shoes. One of the socks was in a crumple around her ankle. “Oooh, son, have any of you seen Baby?”

“Peggy and Jeannie just walked her off that way,” Mary-Kate said.

“No, son, not that baby. My Baby.”

“Hey, Ruth,” Doug said. “You mean David?”

“Yes, son. I just got to find him.”

“I haven’t seen him since yesterday, when he was working on his carburetor.”

“Oooh, son, if you see him, tell him Ace is on the phone.”

“Ace?”

“Yes, son, from KISS.”

“Oh, right, Ace Frehley,” Fats Pauls said. “We’ll be sure to tell him.”

“Thank you, son. Now I gotta go see Champ and his girlfriend and their new baby, Josha. Do any of you happen to have an extra box of Ko-Post Raisin Burns?”

“You like that stuff?” Sherry said.

“No, but that’s what Josha eats.”

“Josha’s getting to be such a big boy now,” Doug said.

“Yes, and I hope he don’t turn out like his mother,” Ruth said and wandered off down the street.

“Is this a typical night around here?” Mary-Kate said. “I’ve never seen so many weird people in one place since I left home.”

“It’s pretty typical,” Doug said.

“Hey, Doug, let’s do ‘Nicnicville,’ for Mary-Kate,” Fats Pauls said.

“Shut up, Paul,” Sherry said.

“What’s ‘Nicnicville’?” Mary-Kate said and tossed her cigarette through the air into the street, hoping it wouldn’t hit the next nutcase that showed up.

“It’s a song Doug wrote about when Moss had sex with a guy on a bench in an RV park in Utah,” Fats Pauls said. “It goes, ‘Sherry was driving down the road, she had such a heavy load . . .’”

Sherry and Irene hopped off the porch. Pretending not to notice, Fats Pauls said, “Was that an earthquake?”

“Shut up, Paul,” Irene said.

Fats Pauls looked around at the girls. “Oh, you guys just jumped on the ground. Sorry.”

“It was cool meeting you,” Sherry said to Mary-Kate, “even though it had to be when the gorilla was around.”

“Fucked-out asshole,” Fats Pauls grumbled.

“Yeah, really cool,” Irene said.

“It was cool meeting you guys, too,” Mary-Kate said. “Irene – I heard like five different versions of your last name. What’s your real last name?”

Steddenbenz, Stupidbunz, Standandfuckher, Znebneddets, Snubdiputs – what’s the difference?

“Steddenbenz,” Irene said. “It’s German.”

“Znebneddets,” Fats Pauls said. “That’s ‘Steddenbenz’ backwards.”

“Fuckhead,” Irene said. “That’s Paul in any direction.”

“Snubdiputs – that’s Stupidbunz backwards.”

“You’re a retard,” Sherry said, and she and Irene walked out into the street and disappeared. A small, dark-blue car zoomed by. Together, Doug and Fats Pauls sang, “It’s a fag . . . it’s a Barbado.”

Mary-Kate laughed in spite of herself.

Fats Pauls hit Steve on the leg. “Isn’t it past your bed time?”

“No, I can stay out till ten.”

Mary-Kate heard a door shut and then the sound of a garden hose turning on next door. Doug got off the porch and looked. “Willie,” he said.

“What’s he doing?” Fats Pauls said.

“Washing his hair in the backyard.”

“Fucking moron. Anyway, so, Mary-Kate, you said you ran out of gas, but what were you doing way out here in the first place?”

“I was just driving. I was supposed to meet Ashley for dinner, but I just kept driving.”

“From New York?” Steve said.

“From Glendale,” Mary-Kate said.

“Dumbass,” Fats Pauls said to Steve.

“Ashley’s really pretty,” Steve said.

Fats Pauls mocked him: “Ashley’s really pretty. Like you would know. You think Tammy Norrie’s hot.”

“No, I don’t!” Steve said.

“I’m the on who thinks Tammy’s hot,” Doug said.

“Okay, I knew it was one of you. But Ashley is pretty. You guys are both pretty, but why are you always so skinny?”

“I got a lot of problems,” Mary-Kate said and took out another cigarette.

“I do, too, but I’m fat,” Fats Pauls said.

“Yeah, that’s what your problem is,” Steve said.

“You want to have the problem of getting your face smashed on the ground?”

“No.”

“Cause I’ll fucking do it.”

“I said no.”

“Then shut up.”

“Would you really do that to him?” Mary-Kate said to Fats Pauls. “Smash his nose on the ground?”

“Does the pope shit in the woods?”

The car finally arrives, but the insanity goes on

A car pulled into the driveway on the other side of Doug’s trailer.

“There’s my mom and her friend, Joe,” Doug said. “Are you ready to go?”

“Well, I’d like to stay here all night,” Mary-Kate said, “but yeah, I guess I need to get back before Ashley thinks I ran off to Cuba again or something.”

Mary-Kate shook hands with Steve and Fats Pauls and wished Fats Pauls all the luck in the world with whatever he planned to do with the rest of his life. Then she followed Doug around to the driveway, where a woman about 50 years old and a small man about twice that age were getting out of a white Chevrolet.

The old man went, “Hakha, hakha, hakha!” then he sneezed so violently, two wheezing tones blew out of his nose in perfect harmony.

“Joe, easy,” Doug’s mother said.

Joe said, “Huh?”

“I gotta take the car to get some gas,” Doug said.

“We just filled the tank. Who’s your friend?”

“It’s Mary-Kate Olsen. You know, from TV.”

“From Full House? The real Mary-Kate Olsen?”

Mary-Kate said, “Yeah, it’s me, the real–”

Joe went, “Hakha, hakha, hakha!” and the Chevrolet rocked a little bit.

“The real Mary-Kate,” Mary-Kate finished.

“She ran out of gas, and we were waiting for you to get home,” Doug said to his mother.

“We would have been home sooner, but we stopped at Trader Joe’s, and it took forever to find potatoes that looked like they didn’t have germs on them.”

Joe yelled, “I told you – there was no Germans on them potatoes!”

“Joe, sssh,” Doug’s mother said.

Joe said, “Huh?”

“Do you need any money?” Doug’s mother asked Mary-Kate.

“Mom, she’s got money,” Doug said.

“Yes, I guess she does.” She handed Doug the car keys. “Are you coming back to watch David Copperfield?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“He’s going to make the Staples Center disappear. Supposedly Magic Johnson’s going to be inside it.”

“It won’t be as good as Thurston,” Joe barked from where he was standing beneath a nearby avocado tree, inspecting the fruit in the dark. “Thurston sawed the girl in half in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, in 1938. Let’s see Copperfield do that!”

Doug opened the door to let Mary-Kate in the car, got in himself, and they drove out of the trailer park.

All in all, Mary-Kate had a fun time

“You’ve got some interesting friends,” she said when they were on Arrow Hwy.

“Yeah, they’re okay. We’ve all been friends for years. It’s good to have friends.”

“What was all that stuff about fans clubs languages?”

Doug laughed. “Just some stupid shit we made up. It keeps us busy when we got nothing else to do.”

“I think it’s pretty funny. I might start using it around Ashley, just to piss her off. So, what is it – you just put an ‘s’ on the end of everything?”

“Not everything, just most things. There’s a flow. If you practice it, you’ll get it.”

“There’s my car,” Mary-Kate said and pointed at her black Range Rover.

“There’s a gas station two blocks down. I got a can in the back.”

“Thanks. I appreciate this a lot. I want to pay you for your trouble.”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay, then let me pay you for the entertainment.”

“What entertainment?”

“All that shit back there.”

Before Doug could say anything else, an 18-wheeler pulled out of a side street, right into their path. Interestingly, Mary-Kate noticed that it bore the grocery store name Stater Bros., only for some reason the “S” was missing, making it say “ tater Bros.” Doug slammed the brakes, the car spun sideways, Mary-Kate let out a scream, the side of the truck came closer and closer and closer, glass shattered, metal bent, and Mary-Kate . . .

woke up in her Range Rover.

In the driveway of her and Ashley’s Larchmont Village home.

Her heart was slamming in her chest. She gripped the steering wheel, holding on, just in case the collision really was about to happen and she had just blacked out there for a moment. When no collision came, she realized she had blacked out, and not just for a moment. She looked at her watch. It was 7:25. She’d been out for thirty minutes and went to the land of fucking Oz.

Cautiously she drove to Glendale and found Ashley sitting stiff and impatient at a table in the back of the Blue Hen, punching numbers into a calculator.

Mary-Kate’ll take one chaw can, you fucked-out asshole!

“You’re late,” Ashley said, looking up but only with her eyes.

“Don’t starts yellings at mes, or you’lls be out of the pools for six months!” Mary-Kate said.

“What?”

“I said, don’t starts yellings at mes, or I’ll take you on a one-way trips to the mountains and rolls you downs a hills!”

“Mary-Kate!”

“Sssh, watch this.” Mary-Kate got down on the floor and assumed the buffalo tripod position. People all over the restaurant were staring at her. Ashley was on the verge of tears, or hysterics, which for Ashley were basically the same things. Satisfied, Mary-Kate got up and sat down in a chair.

A waiter came over. “Is everything all right, ladies?”

“Oh, sure it’s all just peachy,” Ashley said, too loudly. “We’re just grooving along on controlled substances, waiting for the next crash–”

“With a tater Bros. truck,” Mary-Kate interjected.

“–waiting for the next crash, which I’m predicting will happen before the weekend’s over.”

The waiter said, “Uh, would you please to order now?”

Ashley said, “I can’t eat. Just bring the check.”

Mary-Kate looked at the menu. “Do you guys have any chaw cans?”

“Oh, my God!” Ashley said.

“Chaw cans?” the waiter said.

“Yeah, you know . . .” Mary-Kate spit into a water glass, and Ashley covered her eyes.

“I’m sorry, but we have no chaw cans,” the waiter said.

“No chaw cans? Gotta get the boys in on this, you fucked-out asshole.”

Dumbfounded but determined, the waiter said, “We have nice rice noodle salad with organic chicken or tofu tonight.”

Mary-Kate just sat there, staring at a fly buzzing around Ashley’s head.

“You not like noodle salad?” the waiter said.

Mary-Kate shrugged. “I got nothing agin’ it.”

“I’m sorry, I not understand.”

“Forget it, it’s no big deal,” Mary-Kate said. “Just bring me a bowl of Ko-Post Raisin Burns.” She looked deeply into her sister’s troubled eyes. “That’s what Josha eats.”

(Editor’s note: Thanks to Doug, Paul, Steve, Jason, Sherry, Irene, Hot Sauce Dad, Lubino, Johnny, Jeffrey, Johns Burslews, Jeannie, Peggy Jo, Brad, Dads Studs, Baby Number Three, Ruth Farmer, Joe, and Doug’s mom. And of course, Mary-Kate and Ashley and the Blue Hen Vietnamese Kitchen. They’re all real, believe it or not. Except for the poor waiter, who I made up.)