We began to see signs for Chapstick and Sunglasses. As we approached the city, we passed a few suburban communities. The largest was called Bic Pens. Another was called Lone Glove. We sped though Lone Sock, Disposable Lighters, Backs of Earrings and Single Cufflinks.

Finally, we arrived in downtown Chapstick and Sunglasses. The city was about 50 miles square. On one side of the highway were tubes of chapstick as far as the eye could see. In some places, the tubes were piled high; in others, they nestled in small private communities. Blistex had its own private beach club.

On the other side of the road were sunglasses of all shapes and colors, piled just as high as the chapstick tubes.

"WELL, I guess this is goodbye." the tube said as he hopped out the passenger door and headed for his version of Valhalla.

As I waited, I recognized a pair of Ray-Bans I had lost when I was 15.

The tube returned a few minutes later and told me that because he was empty, he had been denied entry. He said that the city would only accept half-full tubes, and only if they had been lost.

"You have to refill me," he said, "or I can't go home."

I ignored him, slipped into gear and sped back east.

The next day I arrived home. As I got out of the car, I noticed that the empty tube had jumped on the tailpipe and ridden all the way back with me.

"Refill me now, or I'll do to your car what I did to the garbage can," he announced.

Not wanting to test the forces of nature a second time, I invited the tube into my room. I poured him a drink and opened a full tube of lip balm. I sliced the top quarter of stick off the new tube and forced it down the neck of my annoying guest.

The once-animate tube now lost all of its life and rolled off the chair it had been sitting in. I picked it up and pocketed it.

It never spoke to me again. My cold went away, the weather got warmer, and my lips were no longer chapped. I put the tube in some medicine chest somewhere. But I lost it.