The Hotel Detective (31 page)

“You’re raining on my parade,” she said.

“It never rains in Southern California. Sometimes it just mists very heavily.”

“Who are the OB Geriatrics?”

She was a careful listener, something he wasn’t used to, something that was a little bit frightening. “Official name, the
Ocean Beach Geriatric Surf Club Precision Marching Surfboard Drill Team and Gidget Patrol, usually shortened to the OB Geriatrics.”

In an attempt at a Rod Serling voice, Am said, “Imagine, if you will, a collection of woodies, followed by a bevy of beach
bunny Gidgets, and then the
pièce de résistance,
a group of aging surfers. Boards in hand, aloha shirts on their backs, the Geriatrics show on land what they do on sea: take
the big waves. Their skits, choreographed by booming music, and a few lifeguard types with whistles, have them hanging ten,
wiping out, and running around like a latter-day collection of Busby Berkeleys. Around them are such props as papier-mâché
seagulls, beach chairs, inflatable sharks, one with a human leg in a toothed mouth, and cheering Gidgets in Hula Hoops. Like
Indians of old demonstrating their skill at the hunt, the surfers pantomime their ride of the big blue horse, but instead
of tom-toms, there are the sounds of ‘Surfing Safari,’ and ‘Wipeout,’ and ‘Surfing U.S.A.,’ pushing percussions that have
the crowds cheering, singing, and dancing.

“Of course, these days,” added Am, giving up on his “Twilight Zone” voice, “most of the Geriatrics probably surf better on
asphalt than on the ocean.”

“And are they really a precision surfboard drill team?”

“That sort of depends on how many beers they’ve had beforehand. Another old tradition.”

They cruised south along the coastline, proceeding through the Bird Rock area of La Jolla onto Mission Boulevard, then through
Pacific Beach and Mission Beach. The lights of Belmont Park’s Giant Dipper roller coaster beckoned them to stop. Most of San
Diego seemed to be out for a walk or a ride, and Am and Sharon joined the strollers. The crowd was polyglot and diverse, from
the dressy set out to dine to the beach purists whose wardrobes didn’t extend beyond bathing suits. Two SDPD patrolmen were
out on their walking beat. The beach police wore shorts, which looked much more comfortable than bulletproof vests. Skateboards
were not yet issued as official police equipment.

Screams are always a good draw. They drifted toward them and the roller coaster, where a long line of people were waiting
to have their near death experiences.

“One of San Diego’s other landmarks,” said Am. “Like the Hotel California, the Giant Dipper is on the
National Register of Historic Places
.”

“Are you kidding?” she asked.

“I am not,” he said. “It was built in 1925 and is now the last of its kind.”

The carriages slowly creaked up the rails, but though the roller coaster was of age for Social Security, she still knew how
to thrill. The speed picked up and with it the banks, drops, curves, and, most of all, the screams.

“Care for a ride?” asked Am.

“Thanks, but I’ve had enough thrills and chills for the weekend.”

They continued their stroll, coming to the Plunge, Southern California’s largest indoor pool and a venerable landmark for
the swimming set. The huge pool had been put out of the athlete’s foot business for a few years but after a face lift had
returned grander than ever. Short of the ocean, it offered more liquid space than any other spot in the city. Sharon was particularly
taken by the huge mural on the wall, a pod of killer whales. She moved her head up and down and then side to side, never taking
her eyes off the artwork. At last she announced, “I don’t like it.”

“Why not?”

“Those whales seem to be moving, following you around like the Mona Lisa’s eyes. It must be disconcerting to swim laps and
always feel like you’re being pursued by killer whales.”

“Maybe that’s the idea, to make people swim all the faster.”

They moved on, stopping frequently to window-shop. Sharon insisted on going into only one store, a surf shop. Her browsing,
Am thought, was reminiscent of a tourist’s looking upon quaint aboriginal artifacts. She marveled at the different kinds of
boards, the long and the short of them, the body boards, boogie boards, and knee boards. Fingering through the multitude of
waxes, wet suits, sunblock, beachwear, decals, and bumper stickers, Sharon almost looked as if she were tempted to go native.
When in Rome…

“Ready to take up the sport?” asked Am.

“Right after bullfighting,” she said.

“Not forty miles from here we could catch a bullfight,” said Am. “There are two bull rings in Tijuana.”

She shook her head emphatically. “I get squeamish enough watching football.”

“Maybe the matador would present you with the ears.”

“If he did, I’d probably present him with my dinner.”

Her announcing “dinner” put an immediacy to their hunger. In their short drive, they had probably passed a hundred restaurants,
every one of which now seemed to be calling. But this was a night, Am thought, for fine dining. Sharon would want finger bowls
and menus where English was the second language.

“We better get our name on a wait list,” he said.

She surprised him: “Why don’t we hold the tablecloth, and the anchovies?”

They ate pizza on the boardwalk, not goat’s cheese with hearts of palm and sun-dried tomatoes, but pepperoni and mushroom
with a runny red sauce. Straddling the beach wall, they alternated between watching the tide and watching the tide of humanity.
As if to sum up their viewing, Am said, “Freud said the ocean is feminine, and also said a lot of people are nuts.”

“Is that an exact quote?”

“Close enough.”

She questioned him about where he got off talking about Freud, and waxing poetic, and sometimes sounding pedantic, and Am
told her about his philosophical meanderings and how for years he had faithfully scanned the Help Wanteds in the hopes of
finding some firm advertising for a philosopher, “a pursuit,” he said, “that has proved as fruitless as Diogenes going out
with his lantern and searching for an honest man.”

“Why hotels?” she asked.

“Why not? A fantasy industry in a fantasy city.”

“And what makes this a fantasy city?”

“It should be more desert than not, and maybe because of that, it’s difficult to tell what is mirage and what isn’t. This
is a city where old is measured not in centuries, but in decades, where Yuletide is celebrated by sailors in Hawaiian shirts
cruising San Diego Bay in boats draped with Christmas lights, where the change of seasons is measured not by falling leaves
or dropping snow, but by the number of convertibles with their tops down.

“San Diego would be a difficult city to invent if it didn’t already exist. Some great fantasists have known that. Ted Geisel,
better known as Dr. Seuss, lived out most of his life in La Jolla, and L. Frank Baum wrote one of his Oz books in Coronado.”

Am opened his arms to all that was around them. “Behold,” he said. “Emerald City.”

“And that makes you what, the Wizard?”

“Sometimes. Guests come to the Hotel for a respite from the real world. Any great hotel fosters an environment of fantasy,
has a staff of magicians, each and every one versed in maintaining illusions. Showmanship is important, and so is sleight
of hand. No one wants to see a juggler sweating, or an illusionist positioning mirrors. The guests pay for their fantasies,
and they make the staff pay dearly if they don’t get them.”

“And where does the Hotel California come into your fable?”

“Camelot, you mean. It is the constant among the transience, the castle among the sea foam. The Grande Dame is a personality,
a presence, a pronoun, even. The Hotel. Everyone needs their magic places.”

“And do you really think the Hotel a magic place? Or is that just good PR?”

“Ask the pilgrims. They’ll tell you.”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard the traveling wealthy referred to as ‘pilgrims.’ “

“Shrines must be kept up. And the wealthy aren’t the only wayfarers. Sometimes the poor, or the middle class, decide to be
king for a day. I think the Hotel is more special to them than it is to the rich. When their cameras come out it doesn’t take
much imagination to see them years from now thumbing through their photo albums and remembering little details of their stay,
and the people that they were, and their memories. The Hotel seems to take on a cosmic significance to many, almost like a
trip to Mecca. When staff becomes cynical, I try to remind them that they could be providing the brightest day in a fellow
human being’s existence.”

Am paused for breath but not to consider, not to think of something cute or to be clever, but just to find the words for what
was inside of him. In the background the noise from the roller coaster was building, along with the speed of its cars. There
were a few screams from the occupants.

“I’ve watched the magic at work, couples teetering on divorce reclaiming the very room where they began their married journey,
and finding their roots again,” said Am. “I have seen the bitter and the sweet, a man who traveled with his wife’s ashes three
thousand miles, a husband who still remembered. He decided what was left of his wife belonged in the Pacific, off the shore
of the Hotel, because their fondest memories were of that spot. He checked in with an urn, and when he registered, it was
as mister and missus. For a few days, he told me, she was almost there.”

As the speed of the Giant Dipper built, so did Am’s words. “I have witnessed the world coming to the Hotel, family reunions
from around the globe. I have helped with special events, conferences on the environment, and international treaties, and
have seen the world shrink, and become a better place, in front of my eyes.

“For over a century the movers and shakers have come to the Hotel. I know a maid who put a pea under a princess’s mattress,
just to see if she’d really feel it. I have shaken hands with the father of the atomic bomb and said, ‘There—there goes someone
who literally shook the world.’ And on that same day I helped the doctor who found a cure for polio, and I thought, This is
alpha, and this is omega. This is death, and this is life. That is the Hotel.”

There was the grand finale of both machine and speech, the last rush of metal on wooden slats, of larynxes being stretched:
“I remember helping the first woman astronaut up to her room, and I couldn’t help but reflect that she who went to the stars,
also went to our third floor. And somehow through that vicarious experience, I have been there to those stars.”

Slow, and slower: “There are times when I curse the Hotel, when I hate her, when I wish she had not become such an encompassing
part of my life. But I have never doubted that the Hotel is a special place. It is where I belong.”

Am was suddenly embarrassed. He could never remember having rambled on like this before. In the madness of a workday it is
often difficult to acknowledge special moments. His talk had been personal, introspective, not the usual kind of black humor
uttered on the job. Being honest made him feel vulnerable. He looked for an easy joke, or a pat statement, but found himself
short of any, so he looked at Sharon instead.

She was trying to hide her tears, but not doing a very good job. Surprised, Am wasn’t sure what he should say or do. In the
movies, men were always pulling clean handkerchiefs out of their pockets, but Am only had a Swiss Army knife in his pocket,
and she didn’t need a bottle opener, but a closer.

Still, he attempted chivalry. He carefully wiped some crusted pizza sauce off his napkin and handed it to her. Sharon rather
fiercely attacked her eyes.

“They’re not really tears,” she said. “Just California mist.”

They had drinks at Jose Murphy's, a Pacific Beach club as schizophrenic as its name, and between listening to a band and watching
other people dance, they talked. Sharon asked more questions than he did, and Am wondered if she was that curious or whether
it was a defense mechanism. She inquired of the loves in his life, and Am explained how he hadn't really dated for six months,
but that the time alone had been good for him. Until the breakups, he had been preoccupied.

Breakups?

Almost apologetically, he explained he had been dating two women at the same time. “It wasn't planned,” he said. “It just
sort of happened. One was eight years older than I am, and the other ten years younger. The older one liked staying at home,
and playing Scrabble, and going for quiet walks, while the younger preferred night life, and dancing, and a faster lane.”

“So what happened?”

“I went bald,” said Am.

Sharon pointedly scrutinized his full head of wavy hair, then questioned him with a look.

“Not literally, just mentally. I relived the Aesop's fable of the red-haired man with two mistresses, the one older and the
other younger. When he was with the older one she plucked out his red hairs, while the younger one pulled out his gray hairs.
They plucked and plucked until he went bald.”

“A hair-raising story,” she said. “It must have been terrible having two women fawn over you. What's next? Triplets? And since
they'd all be the same age, you wouldn't have to worry about going bald.”

“I'm not looking for triplets,” Am said, “and it wasn't a case of losing hairs. I just didn't lose my head to either one of
them.”

His eyes demanded hers, and his message was this: You, I could lose my head to you. And she didn't immediately look away.

They drove back to the Hotel, Am playing tour guide along the way, describing the names of various beaches and the lore associated
with them. They parked Annette near Children's Cove and stopped to look for sea lions on Seal Rock; but they didn't see any.
The moon was full, and there was a hint of coastal sage in the air. Everywhere there seemed to be something Am wanted to show
her: the caves around La Jolla Cove where opium smugglers used to store their wares; the remains of Alligator Head, a rock
landmark whose jaws had been taken years back by a storm; the crumbling edifices of “Red Roost” and “Red Rest,” reminders
of the days in La Jolla when all homes had been identified by names and not street numbers, a practice the U.S. postmaster
put a stop to.