A Bedtime Story

OK, OK. Been told I never update my posts and since I have not done one since my return to freezing New Jersey, let's just say, I'm blue. I have had to honor some consulting commitments that bring to mind, "What the hell was I thinking when I agreed last year to do them? January seemed so far away". And....and....the dreaded painters are coming. Now, I don't have the greatest history with contractors, so I am prepared to gather a wealth of information for the next blog. However, I came across an account of a trip with friends to golf school and I will put a few installments here.

America's Favorite Golf School (AFGS) is located in Ocean City, MD. One week before our departure, a co-worker, Joe Cleric, walked into my office and said, "Aren't you going to OC this weekend?" "Yes" I nodded brightly. "Hurricane Isabel is supposed to make a direct hit there right about then" I called one of our group and we laughed and said, "Shoot, it's only a category five". This was way before Katrina, so what did we know? Storm tracker central was officially established with P's husband and myself simultaneously sending emails from the National Weather Service about the "cane". Several conference calls were held with much hand-wringing alternating with laughter about the Francis Scott Key motel losing its roof and being renamed, 'The Francis'.

The joint chiefs made the decision that we were green lighted to go. All three of us were attired in red T-shirts supplied by R emblazoned with "Road Trip" on the front. At one of the toll booths, R asked the collector, "Do you like our shirts?' He yawned.

We arrive at the FSK motel, driving down a path to a plantation-like building, park, get out and spot a giant, white sculpture of a horse laying on its side in the bushes by the front stairs. This is some of the carnage of Isabel, but we see it as a bad omen: A dead horse you have to almost step over to get into the building. The motel clerk, Norman (honest) acknowledged our presence after several small eternities. P had a nasty cold and asked for her own room. This brain-crushing task had to be handed over to a superior, one who had a different shirt. (And who am I to talk with our shirts?). Norman's evil twin was willing to lend a hand as long as we completely took over her job and made all the arrangements. R got on the phone with AFGS (it was a package) and made it happen. Now, Norman’s evil twin begins the process, the long, tedious process, of checking into the Francis Scott Key motel. Finally, Norman himself holds out two keys and says, “That’ll be $20 please.” “For what????”
“For the key deposit, you stupid sonafabitch.”

Well, he didn’t actually say that last part, but he certainly was saying it with his one functioning eye.

We left the office and found ourselves in the great state of Pennsylvania section of the motel. So we three razor sharp observers soon realize that our rooms are located on the second level of a no-elevator building. Picture 3 red shirts holding 3 huge duffels and 3 bags of clubs staring at that flight of stairs like the summit of Kilimanjaro.

R just gets in the van and drives to the front office and returns with different room keys and an iron (don’t ask). As we opened the door to the first room, we were hit by a stench that made downtown Calcutta smell fragrant. Apparently, the carpet really got soaked from the hurricane. We quickly turned on the AC as P gasped for air from her already compromised respiratory system. R and I found a toilet that was installed by Francis Scott Key himself during his apprenticeship with Phineas Plumbing after his musical career did not pan out.

In our room, we decided that we would not venture to sit, let alone sleep, on the pull out couch. We feared opening it would allow subterranean life forms to scurry out. The bed springs and mattresses were stained from the remnants of many a crime scene. The bedspreads were made of a fabric that seemed to be moving. I remarked, “This is where people go to commit suicide.” I later determined it may have not been the best choice because there were no plastic laundry bags to suffocate yourself, no water pressure to drown yourself, and, as the hotel guest we observed at the front desk could attest as she tried to get shaving supplies for her husband, no razor blades to slit your throat.

Apparently, though, one lucky customer figured out how to do it and his remains were buried at “Pop Pop’s Memory Playground”, a macabre plot of land adjacent to the pool that contained a swing set, sliding pond and a $2 bunch of plastic flowers. During our entire stay at the FSK, we did not see one single child in there, all too traumatized to think of their toes brushing back and forth over Pop Pop’s mortal remains.

More tomorrow, or later....I have to get coffee for the painters who turned out to be quite nice and competent. This is a bedtime story.