“The Archie Special? Hold up, you’ve got a sandwich named after you?” I asked as Archie tried to hurry us away.
“You betcha,” the woman behind the counter piped up. Easily in her sixties, she wore her gray hair in long twin braids down her back and her eyes danced with fun. “Wanna know what’s in it?”
Archie looked mortified.
“Oh, I’d literally love nothing more,” I replied, keeping my eyes on him.
“Well, you start out with some plain white bread,” she began, and Archie shook his head.
“Judith . . .”
“—top piece gets ketchup, the other Miracle Whip, right, Archie? Never mayo for this kid!” Judith jerked her thumb in his direction and he shrugged sheepishly.
“—and you add three slices of pickle—”
“Love that pickle!” Handbag squealed and Fourth of July giggled.
“—and you finish her off with one big glob of braunschweiger spread stem to stern.”
“Ew, that should be illegal.” I laughed.
“Thank you, Judith,” Archie said from the far end of the counter.
“Does anyone actually ever order that?” I asked.
“Sure, Archie gets the Archie Special at least three times a week, although every so often he gets the Jonathan.”
“What’s the Jonathan?” I asked.
“Same thing, but with onion.”
“Good God, no,” I said, with a horrified face.
“Thank you, Judith,” Archie repeated, ushering us all back out into the lobby.
“When do we get to try some of that Archie Special?” Handbag whispered, prompting Fourth of July to giggle all over again while Archie blushed to the tips of his ears.
“Let’s continue the tour, shall we?” he said, leading us away from the soda fountain where Judith was waving proudly.
“Oh, I can’t wait to see what’s next,” I chimed in brightly.
Handbag and Fourth peeled off with a waved good-bye and a final giggle in Archie’s direction, and the two of us ended up in the TV lounge.
“You see, Ms. Morgan, you have access to a television anytime you want one,” he smiled, saccharine-like.
I rolled my eyes, looking around the room. Like everything else up here, it was bedecked with beautiful dark carved wood, lined with comfortable-looking easy chairs and love seats, all clustered around an ancient console television that had begun its life sometime in the early ’80s.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was a joke.”
“No joke.”
“You have an actual VHS player, Mr. Bryant, and you’re going to stand there with a straight face and tell me ‘no joke’?”
“Look closer, it’s a dual VHS/DVD player.”
“Wow. Just . . . wow.”
“My grandfather did consider installing televisions in the rooms back in the ’60s, my father as well a few years later. But they saw, as I continue to see, the benefit of truly being able to come up here and escape. These days it’s even more important to be able to disconnect and unplug.”
“You’ve mentioned this before.”
“However,” he continued, “of course we’ve always seen the need to remain somewhat connnected to what’s going on in the world, so we’ve always made sure there was a television available when necessary. Guests love being able to watch the ball drop on New Year’s Eve together, crowded into the same room where guests watched Neil Armstrong walk on the moon. Super Bowls, the Olympics, election nights, all events when our guests have remained in touch with the world but somehow connected together in such a unique way.”
“Okay, I get it. I do, especially this shared community space you’ve got going here. It’s quaint, it’s homey, it harkens back to another time and place and blah blah blah. But for God’s sake, people like TVs in their rooms! Especially for how much you’re charging per night!”
“Price per night, are we back to that? Ms. Morgan, what you fail to realize is that everything is included in the price. Meals, activities, afternoon tea, entertainment . . .”
“. . . but no TV. Come on, you gotta work with me on this, at least a little bit.”
“Why is it so necessary that you have a TV in your room?” he asked, in a challenging tone. A fair question, even if he was a nosy fucker.
But how do you explain to a stranger why silence and quiet were simply unacceptable?
“My reasons are my own,” I hedged, not wanting to explain why a grown woman preferred the cool twangy stylings of Classic Country brought to you by Time Life rather than let the voices of the past swoop in and drag her down.
Conway Twitty versus your mother went to jail and left you in foster care?
Actually, that could be a country-western song . . .
“The point, Mr. Bryant, is that while I can appreciate your family’s devotion to nature and the preservation of a quiet respite, for God’s sake you gotta loosen up a little bit!”
He held up his hand.
“Are you shooshing me?” I asked, crossing my arms.
He cocked his head to the side. “Can you hear that?” He leaned down to the large radiator in the corner, listening closely.
“Can I hear . . . hey! Hey, come back here,” I yelled as he took off through the lobby at a brisk pace, grumbling under his breath. “I was talking to you!”
“Well then, keep up, Ms. Morgan.”
“Oh you little . . .” I took off after him, chasing him through the lobby, through a double set of doors behind the reception desk, and down two flights of stairs.
“Literally, I was in the middle of something with you, and you just take off like a bat out of hell!”
“Not everything can revolve around you and your incessant need for a television.”
We went around a corner, past some old lockers, and down another steep staircase.
“That’s exactly my point, Mr. Bryant, that I’m not in the minority here. Practically everyone has a television in their room, certainly when they’re on vacation. Quit trying to make me feel like I’m totally off base here!”
At the bottom of the staircase he paused, grabbed a flashlight off a shelf, and made a sharp right turn.
“If you’re feeling off base that’s your own doing. I am merely trying to point out that when you’re up here, away from the big city and the noise and the hubbub, you should be able to unplug.”
“Did you really just say hubbub?”
We hurried through old brick archways, past stone-lined cold rooms, and when we ran past an old barrel-vaulted wine cellar he interrupted his critique of my television addiction to go back to playing tour guide.
“That’s where they used to store the hooch during Prohibition.”
“Really? I figured this place would have been as dry as the Sahara back then.”
“It was officially, of course.”
“Of course.” I grinned, thinking about all those buttoned-up Bryants down here swilling gin with the help. “Still got some down here?”
“It’s not even noon, Ms. Morgan.”
“Will we be wherever we’re going by cocktail hour? Where is it we’re going exactly?” I asked, as I followed him down another twisty tunnel, this one the darkest yet.
“Boiler room” came the answer, floating down the long, dark hallway in front of me.