All Things Considered - The Unspeakable Inn, MI

The Unspeakable Inn, MI

I can see why surrealism had such an impact here in America. There are places where it is merely a representation of some natural eccentricity; some social situation perverted by unknown local forces, perhaps some flux in the earth's magnetic field; and transmuted into a weirdness between horror and high farce. And I have pulled into the parking lot of just such a place, a fairly cheap motel with aspirations way beyond its natural status, and no clear indication of the lobby's location. I enter the likeliest looking doorway, find myself in a restaurant, and follow a corridor that starts behind the maitre d's lectern, traversing a class-warp to reception.

Beside a kind of squished atrium, I see the doorway through which I should have entered, and find a small, elderly valet-cum-bellman, his hair, or maybe it is something dead, like pressed rat, folded in tight waves and stuck down to his bony old scalp with epoxy resin. He looks at me as if Iwere something the cat dragged in, then ignores me and sniffs his disapproval.

The woman behind the reception counter has a savagely modern haircut, severespectacles, and an absolutely huge behind. Imperiously, she requests that I fill in the registration form, and turns to deal with some other trivial affair. As she rotates on her feet, not particularly quickly, her rear end's surface travels at a quite incredible speed through the atmosphere simply by virtue of its enormous circumference. Clearly she would need Space Shuttle re-entry heat tiles to perform anything approaching a pirouette. I am afraid to ask her any questions in case she turns back to me so quickly that her trousers burst into flames.

I seem to have filled in the form more or less to her satisfaction - she corrects a mistake or two, grades it C plus, files it with my credit card imprint and then summons the nonagenarian bellman. His name is Hicks. I don't believe it. They have chosen it out of some cheap English novel about the aristocracy.

I try to explain that I don't need or want help with my luggage, it all rollson squeaky wheels, and I am anyway averse to giving alms to the undead. Hicks ignores me, takes my room key from Griselda the Massive, and gestures imperiously for me to walk behind him to my room. He opens the door, precedes me in, and fiddles with curtains and light switches, explaining to me the location of the en suite bathroom as if I were as blind as my maternal grandfather and a lot more stupid.

The drapes are by Ramada, the carpet by Super 8 Motels with a light puce tint amid the overall brown. The furniture is by Hampton out of Red Roof, bathroom by Motel 6 with 19th century New York City plumbing; electrical fittings by a myopic alcoholic one Friday afternoon.

I remember that I am English, and that we invented snobbery. With a minimal tweak to my accent and attitude, I can outclass these upstarts anyday if I have to.

Ignoring the snooty Hicks, I remove my key from the door and leave the room to shift my car, which is still parked outside the restaurant. In my absence, he scuttles off to find a more impressionable guest. I move my car so that it blocks the access to reception quite comprehensively while I unload, tow in and unpack my essentials and make a cup of tea. I sip it slowly until a space opens up in the car lot right outside my ground floor room. Then I move my car there so I can load it up from my window tomorrow when I leave, and thus avoid the deathly ministrations of the appallingHicks.

Griselda the Enormous is another matter. I will have to face her at checkout.

Maybe if I light a candle and slaughter a tea-bag, the gods will smile on me and she will fall through the floor.