A Short Story and Two Poems by Noel Plouffe Short Story: the Family Plot
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A Short Story and two Poems by Noel Plouffe Short Story: The Family Plot Poems: The February Sun and The Old House Stands The Family Plot If this were any other night John would have thought his lobby was a personal failure. A trail of dust and sand from the front door to the front desk. Newspapers in stacks on a cart by the elevator and not down in house keeping. Ash trays full. The room also smelled of stale, burnt coffee and not complementary fresh. This was not like any other night; this was his last shift as the night desk clerk at the Worcester Howard Johnson Motor Lodge and most likely the last night of his thirty two year career as a motel desk clerk. The letter from corporate clearly stated that “all desk clerks will need to be proficient on the new HJ 200 computer system effective July 31, 1982 or face employment termination.” For John the end of the hand written ledger was the end of clerking in brand name motels. He was not going back to work at some road side motel like the Sleepy Owl or the King's Court Motor Lodge. He understood that the advance of digital into hospitality was inevitable but he still hated the thing, lurking behind the desk with it's menacing green monochrome glow. The spring before John had cashed in the years of accumulated vacation and sick time, thanks to the teacher's union. He left the classroom at the start of the second semester, never to return. He always thought he would keep his motel career intact until the day he died. John was not just a clerk, he was an inn keeper with all of the show and gracious manner he could bring to the job; which was considerable. Where the other desk clerks would leave the large ring of keys hanging on the wall behind the front desk, John would hang the ring of keys from around his neck and out from him would pour affable wit and literary charm taught to him through degrees in English studies from Holy Cross and Boston University. He loved looking after a guest's every need and if those needs became personal and complicated, so much the better. Not one to end his desk clerk career with a sloppy reputation John emptied the ash trays into the coffee machine waist basket, replaced the old coffee grounds with new, pulled and replaced the trash bag, tied it up and dropping it off in the middle of the lobby on his way to the sink behind the desk to rinse out the glass coffee pot. Out from the desk with a clean pot and an upright vacuum cleaner. Returning the pot, starting coffee maker, plugged in the vacuum, cleaning the lobby carpet working his way toward the elevator door all the while moving the trash bag a little closer and a little closer until the vacuum cleaner is off; John calls for the elevator. Down to house keeping with the trash and newspapers. Returning he unplugs and wraps up the cord with the astonishing efficiency of a practice professional. Returning the vacuum behind the front desk, set the wake up call alarms and check the ledger for any early morning arrivals. The time two am and expected in an hour a guest from Italy. This changed John's mood. He was beside himself with a guest from Italy. Fluent in French and Latin from years spent in Catholic boarding schools he always wanted to speak Italian. He knew a few phrases learned from a “Let's Speak Italian” record box set from when he and his wife were planing a trip to Italy. His wife complained about the Italian lessons, convinced they were intended for Proctor and Gamble executives. Teaching such useful phrases as “Dove si trova il tuo detergente per il bagno” “Where is your bathroom cleanser located?” and “La tua casa è così pulita e fresca.” “Your home is so clean and fresh.” or “Ho poco sapone” “I have little soap.” Ready with these key Italian phrases and any French or Latin that sounded remotely Italian he excitedly awaited for his early morning guest. At ten minutes before the hour a taxi pulled up. John quickly bounded behind the desk, slipping on the ring of keys he pulled together the check in slip, a credit card slip should one be required and a room hospitality brochure with the floor map locating all vending machines and ice makers for a traveler's comfort and convenience. To John his guest looked like a young Medici. Short in stature and of solid build. Tight curly black hair with a wispy beard and mustache. His tan sports jacket was not off the rack; very fashionable. When the young Medici stood at the desk, John cold see his dark, expressive eyes. “I have a reservation” spoke the young man with with a sweet Italian lilt to his words. “Yes, Signor Bellini, Carlo Bellini, I'm John.” he said pointing to his name tag. “We have a room ready for you. Fifth floor with a commanding view of Worcester.” “Grazie, any room will do, I am very tired, any room will do.” John slides over the check in slip, “If you could please fill this out. How many nights will you be staying with us.” “Three” The young guest fills out the slip and passes it to John. He reads it and sees Singor Carlo Bellini is from Urbian, Italy. John mentally runs through his Proctor and Gamble Italian phrase book, “Dove si trova la tua casi pur il bango.” “You speak Italian?” The young man asks and John like any pizanne gesturing with his hand, “Poco, poco” “Urbian, it's in the middle” “Are you here for business or pleasure?” The young man pauses, “I am in Boston for business but I am here in Worcester for family” “You have family here in Worcester?” John asks “No my grandfather is buried here in Worcester. No one has been to his grave for about thirty years since my father was here. Now that my father is dead and I was in the USA, I should visit the family grave.” He shows John some photographs from his wallet. The first photograph was of a beautiful, angelic little girl. “That's my little Isabella. Wait, here, I have a picture of my grandfather's grave stone.” He hands John a snap shot of a man looking very grim standing next to a large, ornate grave stone. “That is my father, he was the last Bellini here. He never told me where in Worcester to look. I am not sure where to go.” John the inn keeper steps forward; a guest's every need. “May I help, Se tu per favore. May I call you Carlo? I know how to find the Bellini grave.” The young man looked at him, not sure what to make of this old man. John could see it in his guest's eyes; perche?, why? Singor Bellini had no idea that John's wife often complained about his habit of getting involved with other people's problems. More then once she would say, in complete exasperation, “John I swear you would give away your asshole and crap out your ribs.” John continued, “Carlo, I have a lot of time on my hands and I know my way about the city.” “Grazie John. Let me think about it, I am very tired, where do I find my room.” John watched Carlo enter the elevator and the doors close behind him. He felt a vague disappointment. It would have been a grand adventure to help find that young Italian's lost family grave. As this was his last shift. “Well I have to come in to be fired, I'll come late afternoon. Maybe I will run into Carlo.” Later that afternoon, John met with the motel management. They were genuinely sorry to see him go, he was reliable and a very good desk clerk but their hands were tied. So as mandated by corporate, he had to go. John was very understanding, explaining he was just to old to learn computers and thanks to the manager for his years working for Howard Johnson. After that he hung back in the lobby. He did not have to wait long when Carlo returned. “How did you make out Carlo” John asked “John, I got nowhere today, is that offer to help still good? I only have two days now.” John smiled broadly, “Carlo it would be my pleasure. I will pick you up in the morning, say about ten o'clock” “Si Grazie John.” When John pulled up in his black Ford Fairlane with the red vinyl seats and all the windows rolled down, Carlo was waiting for him. The morning was a hot and humid first day of August. The sun burned through a thick city haze and in the air were the sounds of eager cicadas. “I'm right on time.” said John “Yes you are.” said Carlo as he reached in his hand to feel the car seat before he sat down. “It is hot but we will be downtown in no time and I know where we can park near city hall; no questions ask.” “ Grazie John” said Carlo. John parked the car down a back ally near city hall and they went straight in. On city hall's second floor runs a long, dark hallway. In the hallway on both sides were signs like little street signs reading, “Building Inspector”, “Permits and License” and “Cemetery Commission”.