ON THE BOARDWALK
The strong wind throws its hot breath on the boardwalk. Sweaters, shirts end up in back packs or tied around spreading fat hips. I amble aimlessly into shop after shop, looking for nothing except relief from the sun. Not a salesperson pays attention to me. I semi-fondle a small plastic kewpie doll and wonder if my niece, Jessie, would like it. I think not and return it to its bin bed.
What's with these shops? I've been in every one between the Belmont and Hibiscus hotels and not one has it's AC on. This former NJ highlight has seen its day. From my many pacings up and down, the planks need total replacement. The rented rolling chairs that carried those who could afford the dollar fee disappeared ten years ago when even then the rides were getting bumpy. Walking is now healthy. Bike riding is healthy. Eating gobs of frozen custard is not. Children still love it and their parents don't give a darn about the fat content. Licking keeps noisy mouth shut, so they get their custard.
The Nestle peanut man, swirling, twirling toffee are all memories. I hate this place. So what am I doing here? I'm bitching, trying to go back to my childhood but it is elusive. My eyes are wider, my disappointments too much to stand for long. It is almost evening. The neon sign on the roof of my hotel reads Hihiscus. The 'b' is dull and becomes an 'h.' This is night two of my short trip and I have had it up to my vazooms. My small suitcase holds just the scanty clothes I brought along. There is no need for me to call for service, can get on the slow moving elevator without crutches and make it to the check out counter alone. Jee OW! The taxes added, the t.v. that I never turned on, ran my two night stay to $200 !' Don't fret about it,' I tell myself. 'Give the man your charge card and get it over with.'
My wallet is where I put it, in the middle section of my purse but my Visa card is not in its pocket. The desk clerk gives me a sour look and taps the desk with his fingers while I empty everything on a side desk. The card is missing. In some ways, I am clever and have emergency phone numbers with me. In my list I include charge card and phone numbers. The clerk allows me to use the desk phone for an 800 call. I stop the use of the card and will have to wait at least a week at home before a new one arrives. I'm zonked, really upset, move my things over to a round table in the lounge to figure out what to do. My check book is okay but a $200 withdrawal will leave me little for gas, meals, a nite in Bethesda. The clerk is antsy, comes looking for me in the lounge. 'And what are we going to do about your bill, Miss Careless?' He gets a full look at my anger, his talking to me in such a tone. I tell him to go back where he belongs, behind a cruddy woebegone counter, and I'll bring him a check. As he turns, he snaps at me, 'I'm waiting.'
A young, rather pleasant voice reaches me. I recognize the 'maid' who came into my room to make my bed this morning. She comes directly to me. 'Miss Langley, look what I found under your bed.' My eyes well with tears as I see my name on my Visa card. It is useless now but I feel better. Before I can get a ten dollar bill from my wallet, the maid takes from behind her back a wrapped box of English toffee for me to take home. She wishes me well, a safe journey home and fond memories of Atlantic City.
She tops my list of what will be remembered –the other things I'll bury.
No comments:
Post a Comment