Tracklist:
Throwing It All Away – Genesis
Shaker Song – Spiro Gyra
Last Christmas – Wham!
19
A few minutes after midnight the towboat cut engines and began to coast the last few miles to Huntington. The largest city on this part of the Ohio with port facilities, it shone on the murky water like a string of Christmas lights. Once a jewel in Collis Potter Huntington’s railroad-baron crown, the city had shouldered through the decline of rail, steel, and coal, but in the age of distributed computing and instant communications had begun to reinvent itself as a hub for health care and outsourced customer service.
The sailors left Dean and Emerson at the dock with handshakes and tight hugs respectively. Against Dean’s wishes, the sailors had taken up a collection which amounted to over two hundred dollars. Emerson had lost all of her jewelry and the formerly flour-covered pair didn’t have two halves of a credit card to rub together.
Dean waved furiously as the water churned behind the towboat and it slowly moved away from the dock.
“It’s amazing the way people offer help when you need it,” he said. “Without any benefit at all.”
Emerson giggled as she waved at the departing men. “Then I will keep it a secret that all the sailors asked to marry me.”
“Even the captain? He’s older than Methuselah.”
Emerson shrugged. “It is always this way with sailors.”
They walked hand-in-hand through ten blocks of the warehouse district to the university, where Dean knew there would be places to stay. Past shuttered comic book stores, overgrown lots, and international houses of pancakes stood the gleaming neon horseshoe of the Silver Spur. A sixty-year-old relic of the nation’s obsession with cowboys, the lemon-painted two-story motel had not fared as well as other buildings from the era. Peeling paint covered the wooden slats and grass spurted through the faded asphalt of the parking lot. The “Vacancies” sign was lit, however, and that was the most important fact for a pair of tired travelers.
An elaborate carving of a herd of wild horses trotting across the plains covered the lacquered wood of the double entrance doors. Dean remembered what Emerson had said about Kamchatkan men entering a room first, and pushed inside with a loud jangle of bells. A stooping, white-haired man shuffled into the lobby and took his place behind an ancient, glass-covered oak counter.
“Can I help you?”
“We’d like a room for the night,” said Dean.
The old man glanced at Dean’s suspenders and Emerson’s plain gray dress. “Would you like the Mennonite package or the Lancaster County Deluxe?” He leaned forward and whispered, “Tell you what, feller––there’s a special discount on The Shaker.”
“Excuse me?”
The old man waved his hands. “Never mind. You’re not Amish, my mistake.”
“What’s this about Mennonite and Shaker rooms?”
“Nothing.”
“But you just said––”
“Listen, Mister, can’t you see that I’m a strange old coot? I get confused sometimes. I turn on the TV in the mornings looking for David Hartman and Joan Lunden, and instead get a face-full of rap music. Nobody eats his eggs Benedict with a face-full of rap music.”
“I don’t care. I grew up around here, and I’ve never heard of a Mennonite room.”
“I can’t tell you. Haven’t you heard of the Amish mafia? They’ll come and burn this place down like they did the Shake Shoppe on Third Avenue.”
Dean turned away. “Let’s try another hotel, dear.”
“All right, all right,” said the old man. “The rooms aren’t that much different from the English ones, they just don’t have electricity. Well, apart from The Shaker. You put quarters in the bed and it vibrates real good. The little lady would love that, I’ll tell you that for free. She’s turning red, and that’s a sure sign if I ever saw one.”
Blood had indeed rushed to Emerson’s face.
“I don’t know what you mean!” she said.
“We’ll be moving on,” said Dean.
“Wait! Just this once I’ll upgrade you to a Shaker at no charge,” said the old man. “But if a guy called Ludovico Ariosto comes around asking questions, you never stayed here and I don’t know Jack Squat or his momma.”
Visions of a backwoods cabin, a tight-fitting miniskirt, and lipstick that tasted of roses flashed through Dean’s mind.
“If Ludovico Ariosto does show up, I guarantee we won’t be here for long.”