On August fifth, Joe, our younger daughter Lisa and I flew to Santa Barbara, California for our nephew’s wedding. We’d booked a relatively inexpensive room at the Super 8 Motel just outside the airport grounds. A recent renovation gave the place a creamy white Spanish look. Though frill-free our room was spacious, possessing two double beds and a clean, roomy bath.
The next morning I woke at three a.m. - much later than usual. (Actually it was six a.m. Michigan time, for me.) Oh boy, a mug of fresh black coffee would taste wonderful! Dressing quickly to snores and deep breathing I grabbed my backpack and slid out the door to explore the possibility. Stumping downstairs I passed the outdoor elevator and attractive fenced-in pool to peer up and down the main avenue, hoping to spot an open McDonald’s. (Our motel was located on a corner near lots of shops, so the thought wasn’t unreasonable.)
No golden arches. Ah, well.
I’d just decided to return to my room when a tall, tidy, twenty-something guy with tousled blond hair strode into the light near the office. “Hi,” he said, cheerfully. “What’s up?”
“Just me,” I grinned, “coping with a three-hour time difference.” (Was this the night manager?) “Is there anyplace open nearby that serves coffee?”
He shook his head. “The office won’t brew a pot till six, but I can take you to an all-night restaurant, not far away.”
My alerto-meter dinged, signaling that I’d better think past fresh, hot, and black.
“Nah. Thanks anyway.”
He chuckled. “I’m batting zero here. Can’t provide coffee, can’t take you where there is some — But.” He paused, and smiled - “I am pretty good at makin’ love.”
What?! The boy had poor eyesight fer sure. Granted, the lights and fog were such that a rumpled old turnip might pass for fresh, but this was ridiculous. (Maybe he’d been smitten by my blond-over-gray hair poking out from my new, fringed pork pie hat…)
Sensing no threat there I grinned, and politely declined his offer. He shrugged, philosophical. “If you’re sure…” There was a hopeful pause.
“I’m sure. I want coffee, young man. Just coffee.”
Summoning the elevator, he stepped into it and held the door open, just in case I changed my mind. Then, after a fractional pause he sighed. “Too bad. You wouldn’t regret it.” The elevator closed, caging his grin. He was gone.
That guy’s smooth as butter, I mused, incredulous, and definitely not the night manager.
You’ve been propositioned, old girl. Fancy that.
I stood for a time in the darkness, trying to think about how to think about this. The air was still. I could smell the ocean… I popped back upstairs and woke Joe, who dressed quickly while Lisa slept on. We found a McDonald’s around the corner and down a bit (liar, liar; that lothario must have known!), then motored five minutes to Goleta Beach bearing two large, steaming black coffees.
The long wharf was a gray spear above the water: fog blurred its end. Warmly dressed fishermen - including one fellow who’d pitched his tent here - lined the gray railings, reeling in and efficiently cleaning small fish. Noisy gulls fought over remains tossed into the sea. After a while the sun began to creep over the smudged horizon, struggling to penetrate the still-thick fog. Seals floated belly-up, lulled to sleep by the ocean’s gentle swells.
I relayed the motel incident with amusement.
“You were a lady in the night, not of the night…” Joe reflected. “Funny how one tiny word defines such a huge difference…”
Yup.
The next morning I woke at three a.m. - much later than usual. (Actually it was six a.m. Michigan time, for me.) Oh boy, a mug of fresh black coffee would taste wonderful! Dressing quickly to snores and deep breathing I grabbed my backpack and slid out the door to explore the possibility. Stumping downstairs I passed the outdoor elevator and attractive fenced-in pool to peer up and down the main avenue, hoping to spot an open McDonald’s. (Our motel was located on a corner near lots of shops, so the thought wasn’t unreasonable.)
No golden arches. Ah, well.
I’d just decided to return to my room when a tall, tidy, twenty-something guy with tousled blond hair strode into the light near the office. “Hi,” he said, cheerfully. “What’s up?”
“Just me,” I grinned, “coping with a three-hour time difference.” (Was this the night manager?) “Is there anyplace open nearby that serves coffee?”
He shook his head. “The office won’t brew a pot till six, but I can take you to an all-night restaurant, not far away.”
My alerto-meter dinged, signaling that I’d better think past fresh, hot, and black.
“Nah. Thanks anyway.”
He chuckled. “I’m batting zero here. Can’t provide coffee, can’t take you where there is some — But.” He paused, and smiled - “I am pretty good at makin’ love.”
What?! The boy had poor eyesight fer sure. Granted, the lights and fog were such that a rumpled old turnip might pass for fresh, but this was ridiculous. (Maybe he’d been smitten by my blond-over-gray hair poking out from my new, fringed pork pie hat…)
Sensing no threat there I grinned, and politely declined his offer. He shrugged, philosophical. “If you’re sure…” There was a hopeful pause.
“I’m sure. I want coffee, young man. Just coffee.”
Summoning the elevator, he stepped into it and held the door open, just in case I changed my mind. Then, after a fractional pause he sighed. “Too bad. You wouldn’t regret it.” The elevator closed, caging his grin. He was gone.
That guy’s smooth as butter, I mused, incredulous, and definitely not the night manager.
You’ve been propositioned, old girl. Fancy that.
I stood for a time in the darkness, trying to think about how to think about this. The air was still. I could smell the ocean… I popped back upstairs and woke Joe, who dressed quickly while Lisa slept on. We found a McDonald’s around the corner and down a bit (liar, liar; that lothario must have known!), then motored five minutes to Goleta Beach bearing two large, steaming black coffees.
The long wharf was a gray spear above the water: fog blurred its end. Warmly dressed fishermen - including one fellow who’d pitched his tent here - lined the gray railings, reeling in and efficiently cleaning small fish. Noisy gulls fought over remains tossed into the sea. After a while the sun began to creep over the smudged horizon, struggling to penetrate the still-thick fog. Seals floated belly-up, lulled to sleep by the ocean’s gentle swells.
I relayed the motel incident with amusement.
“You were a lady in the night, not of the night…” Joe reflected. “Funny how one tiny word defines such a huge difference…”
Yup.