There are some friends you don’t remember meeting, They’ve always been there, tucked into the strange corners of your life, surfacing when the universe decides you need them. Gwyneth is one of those. A long-lost friend I was somehow always supposed to find, and never supposed to let go.
One day they’re there, in your booth, sipping some absurd drink and recommending weird documentaries about mushroom consciousness, and you never quite remember a time before them. That’s Gwyneth for me. Or GP, as she insists I call her in zero gravity.
So yeah. When she messaged me through a dream or a glitchy pager, I honestly don’t remember and she said she’d be orbiting Earth for a few weeks and had found “something special,” I packed my Hawaiian shirt, slapped on my cowboy hat, and hitched a ride on a shopping cart tethered to a decommissioned SpaceX capsule.
Destination: Blockbuster 9.
The last one. Well, second to last but the only one left orbiting Earth. Floating above Kansas, rotating at a lazy clip, preserved like a blue-and-yellow fossil from the analog era. Still open. Still glowing. Still renting Bio-Dome for some reason.
And tonight, well, it’s going to be a hoot. For tonight there is an improve show happening and it’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before. For this improve show is hosted by a group of Nic Cage clones. And if you have ever wondered why there are Nic Cage clones floating around just ask yourself, would Nic Cage clone himself?
You know he would. And he did and they are a rowdy bunch.
The second I step through the automatic doors (yes, even in space), I see her. GP. Legs folded in a meditation pose, floating in the Comedy aisle, sipping a drink that smells like eucalyptus and the ocean. She doesn’t say hello. She just smiles and nods toward the back of the store.
That’s when I hear them.
The Cage Clones.
There are a bunch of them. Each one a different chapter in the holy gospel of Nicolas Cage:
- Raising Arizona Cage (talks in twangs and steals diapers).
- Face/Off Cage (asks everyone if they’d like to take his face… off).
- Vampire’s Kiss Cage (reciting the alphabet with bloody gums).
- Con Air Cage (shirtless and sweaty, whispering “Put the bunny back in the box” to a bag of popcorn).
- National Treasure Cage (insisting the Blockbuster is sitting on a map to Atlantis).
- And Wild at Heart Cage (dressed like Elvis and screaming about snakes).
It’s chaos. It’s improv. It’s heaven.
Apps, Drinks, and Existential Hors D’oeuvres
We order drinks from a repurposed gumball machine called “Cage Rage Cocktails.” No labels, just feelings.
GP gets something called “Iron Manhattan” — bourbon with activated charcoal and a slice of compressed kombucha scoby.
The alien (that’s me, if you forgot) sips a “Leaving Las Vegas-tini”, which tastes like motel ice, old casino carpet, and bad decisions. Perfect.
The apps come out on a laserdisc because in a situation like this, they have to.
- Raising Arizona Jalapeño Poppers (they steal your dignity).
- Gone in 60 Seconds Wings (served, devoured, forgotten).
- Adaptation Nachos, where every chip is different and half of them are secretly mushrooms.
One of the Cage clones reads a poem about tax evasion. Another Cage clone heckles him for not committing hard enough. I think one of them bites GP. She doesn’t flinch. She’s seen worse at Sundance.
Spinning Tapes and Sentimental Glitches
We don’t really talk about anything important.
That’s the beauty of old friends.
You float through the aisles of life, sometimes bumping into Sliding Doors, sometimes Captain Corelli’s Mandolin, but you always end up back at the checkout counter, wondering where the time went.
GP tells me she’s been good and recently released a new line of bio-empathic bath salts and starred in a reboot of Shakespeare in Love but with no dialogue and only dance. She’s happy. Or she says she is. Maybe that’s enough.
I mention I visited Gary Busey on the moon. She nods like that tracks.
Scene Ends, Curtain Rises
Eventually, the lights dim. The Blockbuster’s power flickers. The Duets soundtrack starts playing from somewhere behind the Horror section.
Time to go.
GP hugs me like a sibling from a past life.
One of the Cage clones salutes with a Blockbuster rewards card.
I leave with a plastic bag full of VHS tapes, one of which might actually be a portal to 1997. I don’t check. I want it to surprise me later.
✌️Until Next Time
There are no goodbyes with friends like Gwyneth.
Just long pauses between chapters.
And maybe an improv set in the frozen yogurt aisle of a floating Rite Aid next time.
I float back toward the shopping cart, tipsy on Cage and weird nostalgia, and wonder what it means to feel home when your vacation feels more real than real life.
But that’s a problem for future me.
For now? I’ve still got half a Face/Off cocktail and a nacho in my pocket.