As the car weaved its way through a succession of dingy alleyways behind the port complex, Freddie was surprised to find a familiar sight: a "Come On Inn" sign beckoned in the night with a rusty marquee below that read:
SAILORS & TRUCKERS WELCOME
COLOR TV
HOURLY RATES
"I had no idea 'Come On Inn' was a national chain," Freddie remarked to no one in particular.
"Oh, they're global," Uncle Carmine replied cheerily from the driver's seat. "Anywhere in the world you'd possibly want to be – here in Seattle at the wharf; Genoa; Tangier; Liverpool; Camden, New Jersey; Port Moresby; Mombasa; Piraeus; the Sydney Tar Ponds; there's bound to be a Come On Inn."
Sam's face was thoroughly buried in her hands.
"We're almost there," Carmine said as the car pulled into a dilapidated square a few blocks behind the wharf illuminated by the yellow glow of a solitary streetlamp. The Come On Inn, which resembled a massive concrete bunker upon closer view, covered one side of the square. Opposite the hotel stood two buildings, one occupied by a seedy-looking bar named "Shanghai-La," and the other was lit up by a sickly neon sign in its front window that flickered the words, "Annie's Tattoos." It was impossible to see beyond the window due to several garbage bags of various colors duct-taped together and used as a curtain behind the sign.
The trio parked, exited the car and entered the tattoo parlor. "Sister Ray" by the Velvet Underground sneered and fuzzed through the air from some unseen stereo.
Sam's cousin Annie was just finishing up with a customer, a sailor with whom she was speaking in fluent Portuguese. After he paid and inspected under the bandage on his arm, Annie asked, "What brings you guys here?"
"The kids ran into a little trouble tonight," Carmine said, "and we need to get them cleaned up a bit."
As soon as she noticed Freddie, Annie ran in his direction and came to a stop before him like the moth that hovered around the light bulb dangling on a chain above them. "Wow, Freddie Benson," she said, clearly impressed with something, although Freddie couldn't tell what that might be.
"I remember when you were just a little pipsqueak, and now . . . WOW . . ." she said, inspecting his arms. "What a canvas . . ." Annie Puckett continued, half to herself. "Just let me know if you ever want me to do any work on those gorgeous arms of yours." She ravenously looked him over from head to toe. "Or anywhere else, for that matter. Anywhere at all," she said, leaning in for emphasis.
"Okay, bye, Annie!" Sam said abruptly, grabbing Freddie by the collar of his shirt and pulling him toward the back of the shop. "Has the water been turned back on in the basement?"
"Uh, sure, extra paint's in the cabinet." Annie said, staring absent-mindedly in the direction of Freddie's backside.
As Sam, Freddie, and Carmine made their way down the open stairs to the stone-carved basement, Freddie expressed his surprise at how much larger it was than upstairs.
"Yeah," Carmine responded. "My brother Buzz runs the Shanghai-La next door, and the two places are connected through the basement. Plus there are some tunnels that go by here and run the whole way out to the docks. Up until about a hundred years ago there used to be a bar here where the crimps would drug merchant sailors on shore leave, haul them down to ships bound for the Far East, and impress them into service onboard. That's how Buzz came up with the name for the bar – sort of a homage to the good old days."
"Creative," Freddie remarked as they reached the bottom of the stairs.
"Whatever. Bathrooms are down here," Sam said curtly.
Concern crossed Freddie's face. "What's gotten into you all of a sudden?"
"Nothing," she said with deliberate airiness. "Let's go get cleaned up." Sam was doing that eyebrow thing again, Freddie noticed.
"Carmine? Sammie? Is that you?" an old woman's voice called from around a hidden corner, apparently at the entryway of one of the tunnels.
"Hi, J'Mam-Maw," Sam said, somehow at once cheerily and wearily.
Sam's bespectacled grandmother emerged from the shadows. Her grayish-white Q-tip styled hair was framed by a clear green visor shade, and she was carrying a huge ledger full of old-fashioned accounting paper and a slide rule. "Come here and give Mama a hug," she said merrily, setting her things down on a shelf.
"What's new?" Carmine asked as they embraced.
"Oh, just trying to figure out where to set the spread for the Seahawks' preseason opener. It's always so much harder to tell when just the backups and trialists are playing. The regular formulas don't work," J'Mam-Maw replied. Her office, tucked in a tunnel's entrance, was lit by several old-fashioned green-shaded bankers' lamps and the surface of her desk was filled with open ledgers, newspaper sports sections, and antique calculating devices. Bookshelves stuffed with more ledgers, news clippings, and sports memorabilia lined the tunnel and stretched into the darkness beyond.
"I never knew your grandma was a bookie," Freddie wondered aloud to Sam, awestruck. "Look at all this ledger paper and these slide rules," he continued rapturously, taking in the office in all its archaic glory. "I had no idea they still made this stuff; this is the coolest thing I've ever seen. Oh my God, is that a Burroughs Adding Machine?"
Sam did that eyebrow thing again and inhaled deeply, just before her grandmother hugged her.
"And Freddie Benson!" J-Mam-Maw squealed delightedly. "I know Pam said you sure filled out nicely, but, wow! You've turned into a right sexy wee bastard; do you know that?" she said as she hugged him tightly. Maybe a little too tightly.
"Umm, thanks?" Freddie stammered bewilderedly.
"She's right, you know," Carmine chimed in.
"We just need to use the bathrooms to wash up a bit, and we'll get out of your hair so you can get back to your number crunchin'," Sam said quickly.
Freddie took the bathroom labeled "Buccaneers," while Sam occupied the one labeled "Wenches."
Disclaimer: I don't own iCarly, and I don't own the characters. I also don't own the rights to So I Married an Axe Murderer, from which I shamelessly ripped off a line (guess where). I also want to make it abundantly clear that I mean no slight to the residents of any of the places mentioned by Uncle Carmine at the beginning of this chapter – I'm making fun of the stereotypes of port cities in general, not the places themselves. I've actually been to Camden, NJ, Sydney, NS (yes, I've seen the tar ponds, too), and Piraeus, and I'm quite fond of all three.
