This is the first of what may become a series of reminiscences. They are in no particular order, although I may collate them more rationally at some later stage. My intentions are to communicate these in a light-hearted manner, ‘though most of them have resulted in ‘teachable moments’.
Without further ado …
THE NAKED TRUTH
Instantly-- from a sound sleep, my heart pounding-- I am wide awake, noting the time on the bedside clock: 2 am. Lyn, seemingly oblivious, lies beside me, unstirring.Almost immediately, there it is again: the voice of a woman in great distress, shrieking desperately. I’m sure I can discern her words: “I’m going! I’m going!”
I leap out of bed, wearing my watch … nothing else … just my wristwatch. At the door of our motel room, I undo the security chain and rush out onto the second-floor walkway, not consciously registering the deeply sub-zero temperatures.
There, poised precariously on the handrail of the parapet twenty feet above the parked cars, is a woman wearing … well … wearing very little at all! The towering spike-heels on those bling-encased sandals aren’t contributing to her balance, and the sequins which comprise over ninety percent of her skimpy attire are assisting neither her modesty nor her bodily warmth. Standing a few yards along this upper walkway with an attitude of seeming disinterest is an older, smartly dressed fellow with his hands in the pockets of an expensive – and definitely more suitable for the weather – overcoat. My mind is struggling to make sense of the scene before me ….
Although we are Brits, Lyn and I, at that time, made our home over a hundred miles north in Salmo, a small community in the mountains of British Columbia. What was I doing stark naked, freezing, outside the bedroom of a cheap motel, in the seedier area of Spokane, in the state of Washington? Well … it’s a bit of a story.
I’m a touring folk-singer; therefore, every Dollar, Pound and Euro needs to be considered, husbanded, stretched, accounted for, and made to justify its expenditure. Just a few weeks prior to Christmas, my record company in Toronto – finally – had my new CD ready for distribution. Toronto could never be thought of as the centre of gravity of North America, nor Salmo considered to be a significant geographical entity in the federation of Canada. Whilst Canada Post/Postes Canada is a thoroughly estimable communications delivery organ of the Canadian government, its pricing structures are prey to the vast distances covered by its services. Sending anything larger than a simple letter, within Canada, involves some considerable expense. Sending similar items from Canada outwith its borders … well, let’s not go there … it’s ruinous!
Salmo, however, is barely ten miles from the border with the United States of America; and Spokane (pronounced: ‘spow-can’), with a population in excess of two- hundred-thousand souls, is just a two-hour drive from home. The city has hotels, restaurants, multifarious shopping opportunities, and even a thriving night life. Salmo has none of these! Spokane also has a U.S. Post Office with very efficient and obliging staff who are committed to the motto: “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”
TANGENT WARNING!!! Back in the 18th. Century, the United States Postal Service was founded with the idea that it would be a part of the ‘glue’ which would bind the citizens of a fledgling republic into a continent-wide community. As part of that ethos, the prices of services were tightly controlled, to keep those services within reach of all. It is almost forgotten that, a couple of centuries ago, Democrat and Republican politicians were at loggerheads over the issue of postal charges. One side felt – passionately - that newspapers delivered by the postal service should be allowed a ninety percent discount for such service. The other side held - just as passionately - that ANY CHARGE WHATSOEVER was an iniquitous attack on Freedom of the Press. How times have changed!
Be that as it may: the U.S. Post Office cost to mail a CD, to anywhere in the USA, was considerably cheaper than mailing it from Canada; moreover, mailing a CD from the USA to anywhere in Canada was cheaper than sending the item from Salmo’s Canadian Post Office … go figure!
Anyway, in order to take advantage of these conditions, we arranged for Borealis Records to ship five hundred CDs to the Post Office in Spokane, for us to personally collect. (Again, less expensive than sending them from Ontario to Salmo.) On the Friday morning we had driven across the border to Spokane with pre-printed labels for nearly 350 ordered-in-advance CDs. Having collected our waiting package and purchased the requisite postage stamps, we checked into the cheapest downtown accommodation we could find: the Ruby Motel.
The scene of the crime. (our room was at the top of that upper flight of stairs.)
We set up our room as an impromptu dispatch office. Over the space of the next several hours we licked, personalised, double-checked, stamped, and collated for all we were worth. By the time our labours were completed it was mid-evening, the Post
Office long-since closed, and we were exhausted. Because the hotel was located close to the centre of the city’s ‘entertainment district’ (I use the term very loosely), our presumed dining choices would be limited to typical American small-town options; but, rather than the ubiquitous burgers or steaks, we happened upon an unusually good Thai/Chinese dining emporium. Solid comestible requirements having been satisfied, we repaired to a local establishment with a very decent I.P.A. on tap and a fairly good, but overly-loud, band playing mainly 60’s and 70’s covers. By ten-thirty we were more than ready for a well-earned night’s rest, so we traipsed beside the piles of dirty snow, left by the passage of numerous snowplows, back to our room. Having retired in the warmth of the Ruby Hotel, we slept the sleep of the righteous-- for all of three hours-- until I was rudely awakened by that aforementioned scream … Onwards, gentle reader.
In an heroic attempt to be of some assistance (i.e. ‘damsel-in-distress’ mode) I rushed toward the young woman … being completely oblivious to my state of (total) undress, and likewise the ambient temperature (by this time around 5 degrees Fahrenheit
/minus 15 Celsius). In as calm a manner as I could manage in the circumstances, I addressed her saying: “There’s no need to jump. Why don’t you let me help you down?” At this point the gentleman (i.e. her ‘John’) grabbed at my arm violently, saying: “F### off, a##hole!”. I had only just managed to reply something in the way of: “Might I possibly be of any assistance, my good man?”, when he shoved me, quite violently, saying: “Just get back into your f###ing room!”
It was, by now, slowly dawning on me that --far from entertaining suicidal thoughts, nor perceiving herself to be in any danger – the young woman was hugely under the influence of some recreational drug and had been calling, uninhibitedly, to a co-worker engaged in some commerce across the parking lot: “I’m golden! I’m golden!” At this point my ‘knight-errant’ mode was commencing to shrivel (as was much else in those freezing temperatures) so, with as much dignity as I could muster, I departed the scene.
Back in our motel room, my bloodstream still suffused with adrenalin, I clambered into bed beside Lyn, and tried to return to the sleep from which I had been so rudely awakened. I had barely dropped off when I was, once again, awoken--this time by heavy and repeated hammering on the door of our room. Assuming that the girl’s customer had returned for Round 2, I dialled ‘911’ on my cell-phone (without pressing ‘send’) and handed the phone to Lyn. With my eye to the peep-hole, I discerned a uniform at the door so I opened it. Before my eyes were three representatives of the Spokane City Police Department: a pair of large, and quite young, males, and a more diminutive, and even younger, female.
Before I could speak, one of the male cops announced: “We’ve had a complaint of public noodity!!!” I was on the point of admitting that I could well be the occasion of such a complaint, when the largest of these officers of the law pushed into the room –
accompanied by the female officer – leaving their compatriot outside guarding the door. Lyn was still in bed, whilst I was wearing no addition to my earlier wardrobe!
(Here’s a little gem, for your delectation. The term: ‘naked as a jay-bird is not originally an Americanism, but from 17th century Dutch usage.)
Standing in front of the constables, without any thought for my state of undress, I attempted to explain the circumstances; but the only part of my dissertation which caught the law officer’s attention was the word: “Canadian”. This appeared to enrage him (even further) and he demanded sight of my passport. My response-- that I didn’t, at that particular moment, have such about my person-- seemed to fly right over his head. I explained that everything he required was in the hanging-space behind a curtain, a few yards away at the end of a shadowy passageway.
It occurred to me, as I was sauntering into the gloom (to comply with the officer's instruction: “Show it to me!"), that he obviously trusted Canadians not to carry firearms. Had I been a Second Amendment fanatic asserting my rights to own and carry a ‘Saturday Night Special’, a hand gun, as is practically ‘de rigueur’ amongst the local citizenry, this tale might have had a very different outcome for the young, but obviously poorly trained, representative of local law enforcement.
After examination of my passport he informed me: “Public noodity is a crime in this jurisdiction, mister. I could arrest you right now!” Since he evinced no interest in any explanation I might offer for my behaviour, I decided that my best response was no response. Then, seemingly bewildered as to some route out of this quandary, the officer decided to extract from me a promise that I would “not again, this night, leave
the room in a state of undress”, and required that I give a solemn undertaking to return to Canada on the following morning. I duly complied … all the time looking directly at
the female officer, who appeared ill-at-ease and - for whatever reason - unwilling to make eye contact with me.
Eventually ‘Spokane’s Finest’ departed; presumably to continue their ‘Public Noodity Patrol’; whilst the persons who actually occasioned the whole incident remained, unexamined and undisturbed, about five doors away. Obviously, in the lexicon of American jurisprudence, ‘Disturbing the Peace’ does not weigh against the much more serious: ‘Public Nudity’.
Next morning at breakfast in the hotel dining room (such as it was), some other diners remarked upon ‘the ruckus last night’! Lyn and I were on the point of assuming that my interaction out on the walkway was the subject of this conversation when we were treated to a blow-by-blow description of the noisy and hilarious hours of sound effects, coming from the room next to theirs … obviously the overcoated gentleman had received excellent ‘value for money’!
Now ... I have always adhered to the adage: ‘no good deed goes unpunished’.
Having left Spokane and returned to our Canadian home, Lyn and I felt that we had escaped unscathed, but with an amusing tale to tell. However … about two weeks later our credit-card bill, which included the expected charge for our accommodation at the Ruby Hotel, arrived. We were nonplussed to register that an unexplained fee of fifty dollars had been added to the bill. A telephone call to the hotel connected me with a young woman who informed me that I was conversing with the hotel manager. Upon checking her records, she stated that the night manager had appended the additional charge-- “as per the regulations posted in every room”-- pertaining to a police visit occasioned by a guest at the hotel. When I told her the story, in excruciating detail, she commenced to giggle uncontrollably. Once she regained her composure she offered to refund the extra charge, on the sole proviso that I send the story to her in an e-mail. The gracious offer was hastily accepted and the anecdote sent off as requested; in a pleasing result, our next credit-card bill showed a $50 refund.
The lesson I took from the above encounter was: Never argue with someone who is wearing a gun … and clothes … when you are wearing neither!
Next time ... an Army ‘sick-bay tiffy’, 200 feet under
the South China
Sea!
