Lambert

The only motel in Lambert was the International Inn. Lambert was a thousand miles from any foreign country, but I suppose if you buy a place, you can name it whatever you like. I stayed at the motel in April, which was the slow season. In the evening, the owner became the bartender. He served drinks and told stories.

"In the 1920s, the original hotel on this land was a truck stop," he said. "The drivers needed to sleep and eat. The story goes the top floor was a brothel. The roads here get iced over in winter. One night in October there was a snow storm. With zero visibility, a restaurant supply truck skidded through the river bridge, ending up in the kitchen, starting a fire. The fire spread and the hotel burned down. A year and a half later, the hotel owner collected on the insurance. By then, the depression had hit and the owners decided not to reopen the hotel."

The Good Book

I stopped overnight at the Stay in Style Motel. The place was cheap; the rooms were clean, After I checked in, I walked outside by the parking lot and found a wooden bench. A guy was sitting at one end. His t shirt said "Jimbo." He looked up at me, nodded and pointed at the empty space. He said, "You're welcome to it."

I sat down. "Jimbo" perched at the edge of the bench whistling. He whistled four notes and then stopped. He turned to me and said, "What's your favorite book in the Bible?"

I said, “New or Old Testament?”

“Either one.”

I said, “I'm partial to Ecclesiastes.”

He thought a while and then started whistling those four notes and stopped.

I said, "If you don't mind me asking, who is the Jimbo on your t shirt?"

He said, "Oh, not me. Jimbo is my dad. He's been in Joliet Correctional since I was born. I'm going to see him soon and get him out of jail." He started whistling again. He finished the whole song.

Cowboys

The sign said Cowboy City, population 7539. I pulled into the Shell gas station and put ten gallons in the tank. I went inside the office to pay.

I said, "Is this Cowboy City?"

"Yes."

"Are there any Cowboys here?"

"No."

"Why was it named Cowboy?"

"The owner of the Read'em and Weep store thought it was a good idea."

"Who is the owner of the store?"

"That would be me."

"And your name is?"

"My name is Paul D. Depaul."

"Hard to pronounce, don't you think?"

"You think so? My original name was Qwerty."

"Qwerty?"

"My mother repaired typewriters. You know, Qwerty are the letters at the top of a keyboard. Mom was a prankster. She named my brother Palindrome. I think my father left because he couldn't take it. Puns for breakfast. Cryptograms for lunch. Anagrams for dinner."

Another Sunny Honeymoon

I was walking through the Botanical Gardens and came upon a wedding party.

The bride said, “All unmarried women prepare to catch the bouquet.”

A woman walked to the open space in front of the bride. She said, “I’m the only girl.” She looked at her boyfriend.

The bride said, “Maybe I should just hand you the flowers.”

“No, don't do that,” the woman said.

A young boy said, “I'll try to catch the flowers too.” The young boy jumped in front and caught the flowers, like he was intercepting a football pass. He stopped, looked at the flowers and dropped them on the ground.

The groom said, “Now, I’ll throw the garter.”

The boy said, “What's a garter?”

Bubba

On my walk around the lake, I saw a stone engraved with the word Bubba. I asked the caretaker about the marker.

"Bubba was a duck who thought he was a dog, " he said. "In 1994, I got this caretaker job. In the beginning, few people used the park, so I had plenty of free time. One day, I noticed a lone duck and fed him the leftovers from my lunch. After that, the duck followed me around like a puppy. I taught him basic obedience; he learned to sit, come and heel. People came to the park to see the duck do his tricks. As a joke, I named the duck Bubba.

"Then Bubba got old and died. I buried him behind the maintenance shack with a marker."

Parking Incident

In an unfamiliar part of town, I saw a prepay parking lot. I pulled the car into a space and walked over to the line at the machines. I waited my turn. After two minutes on the line, I punched in my parking space code, G7. The machine told me, "Space reserved."

A stranger said, "You'd better move your car."

I went back. A tow truck operator had picked up the car; the front end was eight feet in the air. The truck driver ignored my explanation; he insisted I pay eighty dollars cash to release the car. I was mad, but I gave him the cash.

He pulled out a form and said, "Sign this."

I said, "I'll sign it, if you will."

He said, "If you want your car, sign."

I signed and he gave me a copy of the ticket. I got my car back.

The next day I decided to write a letter. I didn't know where to write, so I looked on the ticket, but the only information was the name of the towing company. I made a few calls and found out that a nonprofit managed the parking lot. I called and spoke to a Mr. Walgreen. He said he was sorry; He sounded amused.

"Please write a letter describing the incident. We'll refund the money and speak to the towing company."

The next day, I mailed the letter and walked to town. One week later, I got a certified check for eighty dollars.

Buena Vista

Despite the name, the Buena Vista hotel had no vistas, good or bad. The building's construction predated air-conditioning; it had large porches and shade trees to keep the guests cool. The only telephones and TVs were in the lobby. Paintings by local eccentrics covered the walls and none of the furniture matched. The brochure at the front desk said, "If you're looking for a normal hotel, you're in the wrong place."

I asked the man at the front desk if they were serving lunch. He said yes and pointed to the right. I walked towards the smell of cooking and the sound of music.

I looked around the dining room and saw an elderly woman in a flower print dress, a waiter serving apple-pie ala mode and a large family eating fried catfish by the plateful.

 A middle-aged man was playing a spinet piano and taking song requests. At one point, all the people at one table joined him in singing the Yellow Rose of Texas.

And the food was good.

Dr. Pumpernickel

Bob and I were killing time at the Buddha Bagel. The shop used to be called The NY Bagel and Deli. The new owner got rid of the Yankee memorabilia and NYC Subway maps on the walls and put up pictures of fat smiling Buddhas.

I said, "Do you know anything about the original owner of this place?"

Bob knew everything or he claimed he did. He said, "Doctor Pumpernickel was the first owner. Pumpernickel said he had a biochemistry degree from the University of Dortmund. The bagels were really fine. On Sundays, people leaving church headed to the bakery. While waiting on line, the customers sang hymns."

"The trouble was Pumpernickel started making medical claims. First was weight loss, then super energy. The problems really started with the New Age No Age bagel. Some local doctors complained. The local food inspectors warned Pumpernickel to stop making medical claims or spend a year in the prison bakery.

"Pumpernickel sold the store and left town."

Curiosity Shop

Exploring Asheville, I found the Cull De Sac Curiosity Shop. Inside were postcard reproductions of 1920s era Soviet graphics, faded photographs of charlatans and ornate maps of Eastern Europe. I picked out four cards and brought them to the cash register.

I said to the owner, "I'll buy these four cards." He looked at me as though no one had ever bought anything in the store before. I offered a five-dollar bill. He looked annoyed and walked away. I said, "I'll just take another card and leave five dollars." He came back and said, "No, nyet, nein." He gave me a dollar bill in change and disappeared into the back room.

Lake City

I got off the interstate at Lake City. The AAA guide recommended the historic De Soto for lunch. The De Soto was a restored drug store with a soda fountain, marble counters and those old fashioned pumps and electric mixers. They served milk shakes, banana splits and ice-cream sodas. Also, Lake City is a timber harvesting hub and a manufacturing center for mobile homes. So if you ever wake up at three in the morning and need an ice-cream soda, a mobile home, or a large dead tree, now you know where to go.

Books or Beans

The admission fee was thirty eight dollars. Forty dollars was my food budget for the whole week. I thought about skipping the mansion and reading about it in a guide book. But I decided to see the estate and eat rice and beans for a week.

I didn't think about the summer heat. The mansion was built before air conditioning. The temperature inside was oppressive; the only relief came from rotating electric fans. The cheap white extension cords everywhere ruined the effect of the elegant carved wood furniture. Leather bound books covered the library walls.
I asked the attendant, "Does anybody actually read these books?"

The man said, "The original owner read and wrote in seven languages. He spent many hours in the library, annotating books in Greek and Latin. . . .Would you like a job here?"

"How much does it pay?"

"It's a volunteer position."

"No pay, no thanks."

If and Only If

At the local shopping mall, I walked past a Victoria's Secret store, a trampoline for kids and three massage chairs. I went into the Borders bookstore. In the history section, I picked up a paperback about Hitler's errors, The Mistakes of World War II. Although war is repulsive to me, somehow military history is fascinating.

In the book, I saw a small white card between the pages. At first, I thought it was a theft control device. It was a business card; it read, "Aryan Brothers, Defend the White Race, 828-325-6666."