Seven years ago, my sister and her husband moved from the Baltimore area to Albuquerque, New Mexico. Being the helpful brother that I am, and also being in need of a road trip, I volunteered to drive one of their cars to their new home. I am still unclear whether the service that I offered was actually required, or if my sister was just enabling my road trip. If she was just enabling, then God bless her. Either way, early one morning I loaded myself and my five year old son into their trusty Honda Accord and we headed west.
I know. You’re probably saying, “Wait wait wait. His wife let him take their five year old son on a trip across the country?”
Yes. Yes she did. Because my wife is better than yours,,,,,,, at praying and trusting the Lord.
Maryland. West Virginia. Kentucky. Tennessee. We wound our way towards the southwest hitting some sights along the way. A long second day of driving brought us to the outskirts of Memphis where we picked a mid-range national hotel chain to stay at. We always picked our hotels based on whether they had a pool or not. This one had a pool and a free breakfast. The kind where you could make your own waffles. Score! Some people may stick up their noses at the make your own waffle bar, but I’m here to tell you that those people are wrong. Also, those people most likely have psychological problems that, untreated, will manifest in them shopping at Neiman Marcus and driving a BMW.
Sorry. I got a little off track.
Our hotel experience quickly went downhill after picking up the key at the front desk. We parked in front of our ground floor room. A long-haired shirtless guy walked past as we unloaded our gear. When I opened the door, our room was empty, but I could still feel the presence of the thousands of travelers who had come before us. Call me crazy, but when I check into a hotel room, I like to feel like it’s just been remodeled and I’m the first one using it. I don’t want to have the sneaking suspicion that if I pulled the entertainment center out from he wall I’d find an carving that says “Ted Bundy slept here. Try the waffles.” I put down our stuff, shook off the uncomfortable feeling, and we got dressed to go swimming.
On the way to the pool the shirtless guy passed us again, heading the other way. The hotel pool was old and had seen better days, but it was open for business. A few other families, one of whom had apparently named all of their children after virtues like Justice and Truth, paddled and splashed as my five year old hurled himself into the deep end from the crumbling cement edges time and time again. Our shirtless friend wandered past again. For some reason the hotel staff was congregating in the pool’s pump house. Once in a while one of them would step outside looking worried, like maybe the pool pump was broken, or the latest water test had come back positive for flesh eating bacteria. Eventually my son got tired and hungry. We traipsed back to our room, again passing Mr. shirtless, who always seemed to be in a hurry. Maybe he was retracing his steps in hope of finding his shirt or maybe he had misplaced his meth. After a shower and a trip to get some fast food we returned to our room. Before settling in for the night, I went back to the car and retrieved some dress shirts that my brother in law had hanging inside the rear passenger door. After all, there was someone in need of a shirt wandering the parking lot. How would I explain a broken window and stolen dress shirts?
That night my son fell asleep pretty quickly. I laid there and worrying about bedbugs and scratching imaginary bites.
In the morning we ate waffles and it was glorious. I even got to share my waffle machine operating expertise with a waffle bar rookie. Our friend from the parking lot didn’t show up for breakfast, cause you know,,,,, No Shirt, No Shoes, No Waffles.
If you ever find yourself in a run down hotel east of Memphis, pull the entertainment center out from the wall. You just might see a carving that says, “Marc slept fitfully here. Try the waffles.” It’ll be right below Ted Bundy’s.
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