Western PA
March 1, 2007
Although the Carlyle Hotel may sound fancy -- the one in Manhattan certainly is -- I doubt the one in podunk, Pennsylvania will be. After all, it was the cheap rate that convinced us to book a room there to begin with. The hotel doesn't have a website —as Deborah said, they hardly have anyone to even answer the phone — so it's unlikely they will offer internet access. In other words, once we pack up the rental car and go, I probably won't be posting anything for a few days. We’ll see.
March 6, 2007
It turns out the name of our motel wasn't Carlyle after all. It wasn't even named Carlisle, as so many things in Pennsylvania are. It was called the Carlton. But having the name wrong wasn't the reason we had trouble finding it.
The Carlton is located right on the Interstate, across from a tall illuminated sign for an adult bookstore. "Adult Books and News," it says. (Adult News?) If the woman who answered the phone when Deborah called to confirm our reservation had simply said, "It's exit 32 off I-70, across from the adult bookstore," we would've found it easy enough. Instead, she told Deborah it was off Route 40 — an unlit and barely paved state road that had us winding our way, out of the way, for an hour in the rain. The driver of a Li'l Red Express hotrod pickup truck, who undoubtedly knew the road inside and out, bore down impatiently and harassed us with his high beams. When I finally found a place to pull over to let him pass, he floored it, kicking up gravel that plinked against the thin sheet metal of our cheap rental car as he roared past.
Deborah called the motel to ask again for directions. This time, a different woman answered and set us straight. Deborah fumed as we pulled into the motel parking lot. "Why the hell did that woman tell me it was off 40? I even repeated it to her. '40?' I asked. 'Yes, 40,' she said."
I parked near the office and we rang the doorbell. I could see through the curtains on the front door and saw a woman struggling to get out of a Naugahyde recliner and pick up the intercom phone. "Hello?" she said.
"We're here to check in," Deborah leaned into the intercom and said.
The woman waddled to the door and opened it. Except for the glass counter, the office looked more like a living room. The counter doubled as a display case, and inside it were assorted pain relievers.
The woman was pleasant enough, and although Deborah couldn't be sure, she didn't seem like the same woman who had given us bad directions. "Y'know," said Deborah, doing well to restrain herself, "when I called the other day, someone gave me the wrong directions. They told me you were located on Route 40."
"Oh," said the woman. "You probably spoke to Mary. She shouldn't even be answering the phone."
Although there didn't seem to be anyone else staying at the motel, our room was located at the far end of the complex, near the motel diner. Attached to the diner was a church with stained glass windows. Beyond the church, on the other side of the highway, loomed the illuminated sign for the adult bookstore. OPEN 24 HRS. TRUCKERS WELCOME. The parking lot was packed.
March 6, 2007
Like most people, when Deborah goes home, her parents fill her in on the town gossip. Her mother will mention someone Deborah went to school with, ask if she remembers them, then tell her what they've been up to lately. Someone might've gotten married, for instance, or had a baby. Marriage and babies are a popular subject between a mother and her unmarried daughter, after all. In the worst case, someone might've gotten into a car wreck or been arrested. Usually, the news is dull, and Deborah barely listens, so it was quite a shock when Deborah's mother told her about Daniel Riley.
"You remember Daniel Riley, don't you?" asked Deborah's mother.
"Sure," said Deborah. Daniel had been a high school friend of Deborah's brother. "I remember Daniel. He had a twin brother, David."
"That's right, a twin brother. Oh, that was him."
Deborah remembered Daniel well. Once, when one of Daniel's friends hooked up with Deborah's college roommate, Daniel tagged along to Deborah's apartment. Deborah had a crush on Daniel's identical twin brother, David, so you might think that when Daniel made a pass at Deborah that night, her interest could be easily redirected. Daniel certainly hoped so. Expected it, even. He and his brother looked exactly alike, after all, and his friend was having sex with Deborah's roommate in the very next room, so what was the problem? But no. "There was something off about him," Deborah said.
Deborah asked her mother why she mentioned him.
"Apparently, he was in the middle of a divorce," her mother said.
Deborah figured that was it; that was the news. Deborah's been out of high school long enough that not only have many of her former schoolmates gotten married and had kids, but many of them have gotten divorced, too. "Oh yeah?" she shrugged, not surprised.
"He and his wife were separated, but he had what do you call it —a visitation. I guess he had the kids one night, and while they were all together, he lined them all up and shot them. Three kids. Shot them all and then shot himself. It was on the news. I heard it and wondered if that was the boy you knew. When you said he had a twin, I knew it was him."
Like I said, it takes a lot for Deborah to flinch at town gossip, but that did it.
March 7, 2007
There were a few things Deborah wanted to do while she was home. One was to visit with her parents, like she promised she would. Another was to see her cousin's new baby. And in between it all, Deborah wanted to visit the thrift stores — of which there are dozens. And having a car meant Deborah could fill up her shopping cart without having to worry about how much of it would fit in her suitcase. It didn't take long to fill the cart up with all kinds of questionable items: several books including one by Stephen King the size of a dictionary; a Campbell's Soup cookbook; a few VHS movies for a dollar each — Officer and a Gentleman, Flashdance; several unheard of DVDs featuring stars before they were famous — all unwatchable, I'm sure; a scarf; some belts and shoes; dozens of dresses shirts and pants; and five pair of sunglasses.
"What time is it?" Deborah asked, having lost all sense of it.
"Five-thirty," I said.
"Shit."
We told Deborah's parents we'd be over for dinner, but we were going to be late, again. We had dinner with them every night, and every night we were late. "Who the hell eats dinner at four o'clock in the afternoon, anyway?" we wondered.
When we arrived for dinner, Deborah's father had already eaten, and the food was cold. "I said, I'm not gonna wait," said her father, half to himself, half to whoever was listening. "We eat every day at four o'clock. Sometimes four-thirty, four-fifteen, some days. Four-fifteen, four-ten, but closer to four o'clock. I'd say four o'clock. Every day, that's when we eat. Four o'clock. I said to your mother, I'm not gonna wait. I can't wait until six or seven o'clock for dinner. I waited until five o'clock and then I said, I'm not gonna wait any more."
It was the same thing he'd said to us the day before.
He'd eaten the food Deborah's mother prepared (followed by a peanut butter sandwich for dessert, the way he does every day) and had been in the basement watching The Lawrence Welk Show on PBS. "I like that show. I always have. You know why I like it? Because it's decent. It's a decent show. Nowadays, all they show on the T.V. is filth. People dance around half-naked, singing vulgar songs. Lawrence Welk is a good show. It's decent. Decent."
It was hard to argue.
"Sorry, we're late," said Deborah. "You know how much time I need to spend at the thrift stores."
"I hope the food isn't all dried out," said her mom.
Their two dogs yelped and moaned incessantly, straining on their leashes, trying to eat the new clothes that Deborah took out of the bag to show her parents. "What happened to the rest of it? Someone cut the top off of that one," said Deborah's mom when Deborah pulled out a sleeveless shirt. "Those are nice," she said about a pair of high-heeled shoes. "If you can walk in them."
"I always said Deborah was born to walk in high heels," said her father. "Ever since she was a little girl, she could walk in them. Some people can't you know. I know they're bad for women's feet and all, but I just think women look so good in high heels, I really do."
The dogs began to fight with each other, biting each other's tails, barking, yelping, and moaning. Deborah's dad pulled them tighter to his side and told them to be quiet. They didn't listen. "They love Deborah," said her mother. "They aren't like that for most people. They want to see Deborah." There were little tufts of hair all over the house. Deborah's father was constantly bending down to pick them up.
"You need to wear more color," Deborah's father said when he noticed a single bright green shirt in Deborah's pile of goods. "You always wear so much black all the time. Everything is always black. I don't understand it."
The food was delicious, not dry at all. After we ate, we went downstairs to the basement to catch the rest of Lawrence Welk. "I like this show. It's a decent show."
It took longer than I expected, but Deborah's father finally got around to asking me the question I'd been dreading: "What's your faith, Jamie?"
"Well," I said. "I was raised Catholic."
You could see the disappointment in his eyes. At least I hadn't said I worshipped the devil. But there was still hope. Deborah's grandfather had been born Catholic, too, after all. Maybe I'd seen the light. "You were raised Catholic? Are you still? What are you now?"
"Not much of anything, I guess."
"You don't go to church?"
"No."
"Everyone should go to church if they can. This year, I really think something is going to happen. This is the year, I can feel it. I don't know if it's the Rapture or what, but something is gonna happen. Because of the terrorists and all. If you can go to church, you really should."
He told me about some evangelical churches in New York City — a few he'd heard mentioned on television — and asked if they were near me. I had no idea; I'd never heard of any of them.
"How about you, Deborah?" he asked, knowing full well that she didn't go to church, but hoping for a miracle. "I don't know what happened to you," he sighed. "You used to dance with the spirit." He raised his hands and shook them like a jazz dancer. "The spirit would get all up inside you."
I laughed. It sounded dirty. Deborah got embarrassed.
"You used to dance with the spirit," he said again.
"We should get going," said Deborah.
"You're chasing them away, Elmer," said Deborah's mother. "Don't chase them away."
March 7, 2007
"Don't call them stuffed animals," Deborah's cousin, Katy, warned her as we drove to Cabela's in West Virginia to see where Katy works. Katy was excited to show us the store — a Walmart-sized outfitters full of fishing, camping, and hunting gear, as well as an aquarium, gun museum, and an extensive collection of taxidermy animals from all over the world. "They get really mad if you call them stuffed animals."
There were animals mounted and displayed everywhere. It was like being in a zoo, except you didn't have to stand around waiting for the animals to come out of hiding; they were all there, posing perfectly still, surrounded by equipment to kill them with. There was a crocodile, a rhino, an elephant, a lion, a tiger — animals that the average West Virginia hunter isn't likely to face in his or her lifetime, and wouldn't be allowed to kill if he did — but there were also plenty of local varmints, too. And deer. Lots and lots of deer. In fact, there was an entire room filled with them. The taxidermied animals didn't bother me much, but I have to admit seeing dozens and dozens of deer heads mounted on the wall was a little disturbing. I half-expected Vincent Price to come waltzing down the aisle to greet me.
High-powered rifles with telescopic sights, chemical attractants, and night vision goggles. Perusing the hunting equipment left Deborah dumbfounded. "It's hardly a fair fight," she said. "All this super high-tech gear, you may as well be squashing bugs."
I don't hunt and I rarely fish, and I'm already well stocked with camping equipment, so I didn't see anything I wanted to buy. Everything was either too specialized or too expensive. Sure, it would've been fun to have a pair of night vision goggles, but a few hundred dollars seemed a little pricey for the novelty. My neighbors aren't that interesting.
Speaking of pricey novelties, what exactly is the purpose of Smith and Wesson's obscenely large .50 caliber revolver, anyway? Seeing one behind the counter left me slack-jawed. It looked too big to hold, like something you'd see in a joke shop, although I'm sure whatever got shot by one wouldn't think it was funny. After all, if Dirty Harry's .44 "would blow your head clean off," what would that thing do?
