A NIGHT AT THE MOVIES

         I must love hyperbole, I use so much of it. “The taproom lights are going out all across Cape May; we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.” In actual fact, I was aware of only one watering hole open in the town and that was in the next block. Pam and I had dined there six hours prior, and now were trying to sleep the good sleep. How were we to know that this Irish-themed tavern had loosed its patrons onto Beach Avenue, and they sure weren't singing "Galway Bay?" One loud-mouthed male was commenting on the ancestry of a buddy’s Sainted mother; in reply a group of young Colleens raised their voices and serenaded us up in our perch on the third floor of the hotel.

         "New York City's quieter than this place." That was Pam. She'd dozed off ten minutes from the end of "Three Godfathers" only to be awakened by the serenading Biddies taking their cows home to Killarney. Our evening had passed in and out of Ted Turner land. "Lawrence" had been on earlier, letter-boxed, uncut and without commercials. We were entranced, but as Peter O'Toole strode through the officer's club in Cairo in mufti, I heard deep breathing next to me. Pam was blowing Z's. Her family claims she snores, but if she did this evening, she did not drown out the hero's return to the desert and his growing self-doubt. My eyes wearied as the story grew unpleasant, and soon the King and Queen of Cape May For A Day were both sawing wood.

         John Wayne was feeding a baby when we woke. For some reason I called Ford's allegory "Three Amigos." I was politely corrected by Miss Movie, who then rattled off the name, "Harry Carey, Jr." "Pedro Armendariz," I shouted, but she volleyed back with "Ward Bond." I knew better than to play in her ballpark, so after one last "Jane Darwell" I shut my mouth and watched the rest of the film. I thought it was nearly midnight when it ended, only to discover the digital clock read nearly two a.m. When my partner ignored my excited badgering that Abbott and Costello would be on in a few moments, I knew it was time to turn off the lantern.

         Morning would bring a view of the ocean, which was the reason we took this room across the street from the beach. "Every room has a view of the ocean," the desk clerk said, "and breakfast is free." It was dark when we first opened the door, but looking out over the small balcony into a black void assured us that the Atlantic must be there. Now at 2:15 the drunks were stumbling home; soon a veil of silence would drop over the hotel. It lasted for all of an hour. Then the Cape May Sunday Morning Debating Society decided to gather somewhere nearby and parse the state of the world.

         I could hear mumbling male voices, joined in harmony by several females. They were not singing; but each was trying to make a point. A pontificator in a loud bass tone broke in to sum up the discussion. Raucous laughter ensued. When that died down, it was time for topic number two, and three, and four. This went on until the deep of the morning. About five o’clock I came to the conclusion that the best defense was a good offense, and turned on “Four Daughters” with John Garfield, Claude Rains and a gaggle of Lane Sisters. In minutes we were dozing again.

         I daydreamed of Bill, Carol’s husband. He’d been the one to suggest this place when we visited them the afternoon before. “It’s right on the ocean, and they have an out-of-season deal that’s pretty good.” Our ears pricked up; ‘how romantic,’ we thought. How were any of us to know that Grand Central Station would be relocated for the evening, and that off-season rates would be joined with off-season service?

         There was in-room coffee, but only one cup and no glasses. The ubiquitous envelope with an appeal from the cleaning woman for a tip was prominently placed where we could see it; the rolled up nylon stocking that a previous guest had shed was harder to find. It was under a corner of one bed. We won’t mention the hair in the bathtub, but the roll of toilet paper was nearly spent, and a replacement was not to be found.

         The off-season malaise had spread to the restaurant. The cozy tavern with windows on the street looked inviting, but service was either feast or famine. Two people asked if we cared for something to drink. The curlicues in the mashed spuds atop my shepherd’s pie were done almost Cajun style, with singed black ridges. Pam’s turkey, on the other hand, must have sat outside while this delicate operation was performed. Our bill was proffered to us as we ate, but collection was put off until we wondered if the meal might be free. I began to wonder if our waiter had emigrated back to Liverpool, where he told a neighboring diner he had been born.

         We walked back to our lodging, where I stopped at the desk to mention our critical shortage upstairs. The clerk reached below the counter and came up, roll in hand, smiling. She even put her phone call on hold while she handed me the prize. Poor innocent Pam thought ‘room service’ would deliver it. We were fortunate we had waited until we returned from dinner to ask, else the roll of ‘teepee’ would have sat on our table as we ate.

         Upstairs we found one feature that worked in spades. Pam had turned up the thermostat when we entered the room earlier. Life is full of unintended consequences. The sauna-like atmosphere made us drowsy and allowed us to get sleep that we were deprived of later.

         It was nearly eight in the morning when I pulled back the shades. Aside from our television, quiet had descended. We gazed out at the ocean. Unlike the day before, the sun was shining brightly. A man and a dog were walking on the beach. The sight brought back a boring French movie of 1970 where the director kept returning to that vignette. We looked at each other and knew we should hit the sand, but first the beaches of “Elvira Madigan” came back to me, while Pam remembered “10.” With romance in the air, we wrestled with our memories, while Henry Fonda and Olivia deHavilland watched from the screen. Then our stomachs reminded us that breakfast was free upstairs.

         The dining room also overlooked the sea. The sun shone on us through the window. Breakfast was served buffet style. Service was in mid-summer form here. In theory, diners could return to the buffet for seconds. In practice, a busboy, apparently recruited from the Wehrmacht, whisked plates away as soon as they were emptied. The less said about the coffee and tea, the better, but Pam’s stories about her father’s love of chipped beef made it one more memorable feast for me.

         After eating, we gathered our overnight bags and assembled at the desk to check out. Would I be charging the same credit card I gave them the night before? I nodded affirmatively. Then their computer went into a stall; what could go wrong now? Would this story never end? Would more hyperbole be needed? “Run up and get the toilet paper, Pam. They want it back.”

Valatie Feb 3, 2003

For more exciting adventures of Pam and David, see"MY FRIEND PAM"