Under New Management (Faux Friendly)
Continued from last week.
My wife and I lay on the bed, watching a DVD with the sound down low, as D---- slept at the foot of the bed in his new crib.
And then, like something out of "The Night Before Christmas", there were taps at the door. Neither of us were in kerchief and cap, but imagine the Night Before Christmas crew in beachwear, lounging on a bed, enjoying a DVD, and exhausted in that way a small baby and moving that small baby across an entire country can make you feel. That would be us.
Like the man in the poem, I sprung to my feet, only I doubt the man in the poem was doing so for fear Old Saint Nick would wake a napping baby, disturbing the precious few minutes of quiet time a sleeping baby will allow you a day. I pried open the door, unable to avoid the creak that doors of houses down the Cape are required, by law, to have. It was one of the owners. "Oh," she said, in quiet tones, "oh, is he sleeping? Okay, I need to talk to you guys about something. Can we talk when he wakes up?" I nodded my head. Maybe breathed a "yes," nodded again, and closed the door with the tiniest of creaks.
The baby, whom I passed on my way back to the bed, still slept. He was sleeping funny, his butt up in the air, head burrowed into the side of his floppy zebra. Back on the bed, with the DVD unpaused (a transgression I overlooked for the birthday girl), I returned the aforementioned birthday girl's quizzical glance with one of my own, bolstered by an equally quizzical shrug.
My mind wandered from the DVD, as if over the Derbyshire moors in a pattering rain, with long flowing tresses behind it, back to the door, and the B&B keeper. Of course, the fact that the DVD was Pride & Prejudice had nothing to do with that image.
We'd had some pleasant conversations with the B&B owners, a middle aged sort of couple, down from Boston (West Roxbury, to be precise), just down in Falmouth since February, in this beautiful building overlooking the sound. Of course, there was the conversation we'd had when they brought the dog in, though that didn't consist of much more than "Oh, look, he loves the dog!" since every conversation in the presence of a non-sleeping baby must somehow circle down into the conversational gravitational pull of the young one, and we usually resist the inevitable by diving headlong into it before D---- takes it by the ears and drags it down that route, anyway.
Being nearly eternally grateful * to the owners for putting us up, we had gushed about the breakfast they had prepared, the dog, the free drinks and nearly perfect room with all the facilities for all the various baby stuff that required near constant heating up, cooling down, or washing off. This was one thing, we said to each other, that marked them as rookie B&B owners: they had an abundance of free drinks and snacks that more seasoned veterans would not have, because, frankly, they had a good location and pleasant accommodations... the rest was gravy.
The owners had talked about their renovations and history of the old place a little bit at the breakfast table, which we listened to with one ear while every other sense was tuned to the baby, who was requesting blueberries by pointing so emphatically I'm a little disappointed there's no profession that involves simply pointing, because otherwise we'd be looking to lock him into a long term lucrative deal with sponsorships for Lead Pointer positions at various companies.
When the tap-tap-tapping came at the door again, I leapt from my reverie to the door, again, careful to creak only the least possible amount. And what to my wondering eyes did appear? Well, the B&B owner, again.
"Can I talk to you?" she asked.
I paused for a second, unclear as to whether or not I imagined the previous conversation of a few scant minutes ago, in which she seemed content to let us ride out the baby's nap in peace. I gestured out into the hall, and followed, closing the door behind me. I threw one last quizzical shrug over my shoulder to my wife. As it was my third or so of the day, she needn't even really look up from the DVD to get the full effect. I thought that maybe we'd join some elite quizzical shrugging team that could feel the impact of a certain shrug even if the other one of us was blindfolded and locked in a lead room. I wondered if the CIA had any need for that sort of thing.
On the couch, the owner sat, with a few pieces of paper with pictures in her hands. My first thought was that they were of the house back in its heyday. I wasn't entirely sure I was the audience to appreciate this particular jaunt down memory lane, and instantly regretted not letting the birthday girl get the door this time. However, as I neared the couch, I saw that the pictures were of another hotel-looking place... something you'd print off a web page, something very like what I'd printed off a web page, in fact, before heading down to this bed and breakfast for the long weekend.
The major, glaring difference was, however, that these were printouts of a different B&B than the one we were in. "Odd," I thought.
"Now, understand, we're not evicting you." I have never, ever heard the following words kick off a sentence. But there you have it, my first time. And I had a pretty good idea they probably meant we were getting evicted. "We've had. Complaints. From other. Guests. Staying here." And a whole torrent of carefully worded (sometimes not in the right order) phrases that amounted to: We were being asked to leave to a B&B on the other side of Falmouth, way away from the ferries, way away from the bikes, with an ocean view, if you stood on the balcony and leaned precariously, and it wasn't foggy out. Because the baby was crying and upsetting the guests, who sought to get away from their kids. "Some of them are away from their kids for the very first time." This is the baby who was presently mostly unconscious in the room next door, save for the occasional interruption of someone tapping on the door. The remainder of her speech ran along the lines of we could move to this other B&B, which was comparably priced (though with less of the conveniences and amenities I'd carefully researched when choosing the B&B for my wife's 22nd birthday. Or we could stick it out, "endure the harsh stares" of the fellow guests, and eat our breakfast sequestered in our own room, out of the sight of the common people. Or, wait, we were the common people. Or something, anyway.
I took the papers from her and went back to the room. I may have said something, more likely than not I didn't. I simply went into shock. In the room, where the baby had now woken up, thanks to dear old Dad opening the door countless creaky times, I told L--------. "We're being kicked out. I think," I said.
Needless to say, neither of us were particularly happy. As I recounted the owner's monologue, the two of us got sufficiently confused that we decided to stalk out of the room to let them know that we would be staying, and if any guests had a problem with a baby sleeping from 11 to 8 they could give us as many dirty looks as they like.
As we made our way into the kitchen, her husband appeared, brandishing a receipt with the two nights we hadn't stayed refunded, which he gave to me brusquely. Perhaps his wife's grasp of the English language wasn't so great. Or maybe his wasn't. "So you're basically evicting us?" I asked. I figured I'd check. Maybe by using the word I'd jog their memories and they'd rescind, "Saying, oh no! Wait, no. Stick around. Sorry, did I hand you your receipt? Here, have another one of our cinnamon bread stick things and a bottle of water."
But no, they were either both spectacularly thick, or they used English in a slightly different manner than the rest of us. Very kindly, they charged us full price for the night we stayed because they wouldn't let us book any less than three nights, and they threw in the Pak 'N' Play, which, presumably, they'll never be using again. When I stood dumbfounded, and we both attempted to reason with the owners, we were rebuffed with "no, you need to go." When we asked, "When did they complain about the baby? What times?" The man, contrary to what his wife hinted at, which was the morning, since all she seemed to talk about was breakfast and us needing to eat breakfast well out of sight and mind of everyone in our own room, said that they had complained about the late night. When we explained what time the baby went down and to what time he slept, quietly, in our bed, so unless we were raising a ninja baby, that little sucker didn't move or make a peep all night long, let alone enough of one to disturb other guests, he said, "no, you need to go." He also said "I'm sorry" a few times, in that insincere, smarmy way some people have o saying "I'm sorry." That is to say, he said it with a shake of his head that gives away the intent of saying "I'm sorry" as if he means to say that, actually, you're the one that should be sorry, and anyway, I've been practicing this head shake in the mirror for hours, modeling it off the covers of several good romance novels people have left behind.
When I regained some of my senses I pointed out to him that it was he that made the mistake, that I'd made sure to tell him about our little co-traveler, wanting to make certain that it was okay to bring a baby along. I also pointed out that he took our reservation. These facts I had assumed would spark something off. Maybe something out of the B&B owners handbook, B&B'ing for Dummies. But nothing. Not a single glimmer of recognition. My right arm shook slightly, which was either a subconscious attempt to mimic the international B&B Order of Owner's hand shake or rage. If it was rage, it was just as confused as the rest of myself. At some point during the, well, I'd call them discussions, but it was like having a discussion with a cinnamon break stick. Only at the end, if you're really pissed off with a badly behaving cinnamon bread stick you can always break it in two and flush it down the toilet. I'm not sure what lesson that would be teaching the bread stick, but I would certainly chalk up a victory to the party that didn't get broken in two and flushed down a toilet. At some point during the discussion the man said, to my wife, who was crying at the thought of putting our boy, who was now no longer napping and in no mood for a car ride, in the car, and driving across Falmouth to unpack yet again after our repacking at this inn, "You're overreacting." After which he muttered, "I have work to do," and shuffle/stalked into his computer room to play Solitaire or read the last positive reviews on his B&B or something.
At this point, I left the room and began packing. If I hadn't, I pictured the headlines in the Falmouth newspaper: "Inn Keeper Beaten to Death with Pak N Play While Playing Solitaire on His Computer, Graco lauds new construction holding up under extreme strain."
As I packed things, in between white hot rage, I imagined that this poor, English-impaired man apparently didn't realize that they'd leapt, feet first, into the hospitality industry, in which, if you make a booking mistake and allow a couple with infant to stay, only to realize after they'd arrived and the reality of a baby in the house sets in, that you, karmic-ally, are probably best disposed to admit the mistake, suffer out the remaining two nights and early mornings, and then never, ever again allow people with children to stay at your inn. And if you did happen to make a mistake, you would be pretty darn sure you wouldn't tell the guest they're overreacting and mutter some half-a** excuse as you shuffle off.
Now, in the grand Karmic scheme of things, I can happily picture 10,000 years from now, when the Cape is predicted to have been reclaimed by the sea, coming incredibly early and incredibly close, but just to this one small area of Falmouth Heights. And instead of driving by on my way to return the bikes we'd rented and had had to stuff in the back of the car for our drive across town and seeing a "No Vacancy" sign hung outside the Inn on the Sound, I would see nothing but a big gaping hole down to the sea, and perhaps a shocked and not so smarmy looking owner looking down at the ruins of his house, with the slightest inkling on his face that he was coming back in the next life as a dung beetle, hopefully one with some screaming dung beetle kids, so smelly even their own dung beetle father couldn't stand their stink (not that dung beetles necessarily stink, it's just their name that gives the impression, I'm sure). And I'm sure we weren't booted because they'd overbooked, and saw the chance to kill a couple birds with one well-placed, if distinctly a*****e-ish, stone.
disclaimer:
* The shelf life of this eternity, it would turn out, was quite shorter than you might expect eternity to be... good news, I suppose, if you believe in Hell and you're expected inhabiting of it at any point.
The rest of the disclaimer:
Just an update: another Monday issue, another searing bit of heat on my lap from the laptop and the air. Go figure.
The issue you have just read is based on a true story. Still.
Support Sane:
Tshirts & clothing: The Sane Magazine Shop at Cafe Press
- New designs coming soon, so these limited edition shirts may be worth bazillions of dollars! I swear. I promise you... you just wait...
A Book: Fenway Fiction
See you next week, chapoodles.
Discuss this in the forums
Discuss the horoscopes in the forums
Forum hosting provided by forumthing.