It didn’t have to be this way. Higgs enjoyed all the benefits a charmed upbringing could provide. Born in the world-renowned Blue Heaven Hennery outside Long Neck, Delaware, raised in the lap of luxury, Higgs excelled at his studies and exhibited a great personality. He loved his music (Lullaby Of Birdland was a personal favorite) and was always the first one on the dancefloor. Skilled at the formal dances, Higgs was always eager to illustrate his adeptness with popular favorites like the Bossa Nova, the Twist and, of course, the Funky Chicken. When it came to athletics, he was always the coop champion. As a mere chick, he often spoke of a career in sports with the Baltimore Orioles, the Philadelphia Eagles or, his personal favorites, the Detroit Red Wings. Higgs was, of course, class valedictorian. His graduation address was titled, “Onward And Upward.” How could things have gone so wrong?
It’s hard to say for sure, but in high school drugs may have entered the picture. Higgs seemed to stray from his schoolwork a bit and was often seen in the company of crows and vultures. There was talk of secret dice games and other gambling adventures. His old friends staged an intervention, however, and Higgs seemed to regain his equilibrium. He was adopted by world-famous land barons Hal and Jennie Hollis, and lived a life of luxury at their Fairfield, Florida estate.
The supposed daylight birdnapping of Higgs made news world wide. Ransom negotiations were ongoing when detectives hired by the Hollis family turned up the bad news. Photographs showed a poker-playing Higgs engaged in jovial camaraderie with his alleged kidnappers while they waited for the ransom to appear. The FBI (Federal Bird Investigators) made quick work of the plot by flying in and arresting the whole motley crew.
It was a brazen notion, a hoax which came within hours of success. Like the rest of us, criminals dream big dreams. Higgs foresaw his own personal archipelago in the south seas, a harem of native hens, the avian good life. His track record of great success in life misled him into thinking he could do no wrong. Misled him, indeed, into thinking he could pullet off.
Adios, Tres Amigo(a)s
It’s been a sad couple of months. First, our postmistress, Julie Dare, took early retirement after 30 years of sorting letters, selling stamps and griping about the Gators with Bill every morning. The little martinet—Julie wasn’t much over five feet tall—ran a tight ship for Uncle Sam. Bend a rule here and there? Not happening. Make a mistake at her job? Not happening, either. Well….maybe once. Ever the helpful one, Julie once gave our address to one of Siobhan’s stalkers who had bicycled down from Canada to kill her, or so he said. Fortunately for us, he took a wrong turn at Shade Tree Farm and ended up in Key West where he was arrested for um, being crazy, actually. Taken to task for this near miss, Julie promised that it would never happen again. Since then, anybody who has asked directions to our house has been sent to Zuber. You know what they do to troublemakers there.
Next thing we knew, Larry, the Fedex man, announced that he was ceasing operations in our area. Seems they wanted to convert the route into a four-day, ten-hour affair and Larry was getting home too late already. Our new man is very nice and comes two hours earlier, but he is no Larry. How many Fedex men do you know who will climb the fence and walk a quarter of a mile down the driveway (and back) because they don’t think it’s kosher for the gate to be closed? Not many.
Finally, we part with the mysterious Tiara Catey, LMT. Aside from being the best masseuse in the world, endowed with special sleep-inducing powers and the ability to dispense with any physical annoyances her customers reported, Tiara was a good psychiatrist. She got you to talk about things that were bothering you which you would not discuss with anyone else. You felt taken care of. Now, she’s off to Montana for new adventures, professing no fear for the new surroundings and horrible winters. “I can be happy anywhere,” she exclaims. Of that we have no doubt.
A Letter From Court Lewis
For many years after Psycho came out, women travelling alone were scared to shower in a motel bathroom. Your stories could lead to a rash of funky-smelling women.
Well, Court, that’s a chance we’ll just have to take. Who else out there is willing to risk the slings and arrows of the giant motel lobby to reveal the sordid truth to their unknowing readers? Nobody, that’s who.
Of course, ALL motel moments are not rife with peril. We remember endless motel experiences that we keep close to our hearts. Some of them don’t even involve sex. When Marilyn Todd, my first wife, and I were escaping from Texas, we spent a night in a tiny cabin in Arkansas or Missouri. It was late December and very cold. The cabin had no heater but it did have a fireplace stocked with kindling, which made for a charming setting.
Several early LSD experiences were also housed in motels, some to the chagrin of neighboring guests, I’m sure. My partner in several of these episodes was Claudine, an acid devotee, but otherwise a normal and occasionally brilliant student of photography. Claudine thought that LSD should empower a person to desire to stay up all night, engaged in sexual hijinks and philosophical discussion. I have always been of the persuasion that if you don’t get to sleep by daylight you have somehow sinned against nature. Back when all those hippies were celebrating their solstices on the beach at daybreak, I was never tempted. Besides, Claudine was more of a half-night girl. I have only known three or four all-night girls in my entire lifetime and even that’s only for the first couple of months. Guys like to advertise their prowess at these all-night affairs but most of them are big liars. But I digress. We’re talking about motels here. As you know, I called for motel stories from the audience and I got some. Needless to say, some of you were profligate in your duties and did not report in. Those people will be getting the “B” blog this week while all the story-senders will be getting the “A” blog. There is always a price to pay for laziness.
Siobhan’s Motel Story
After driving for ten hours, my mother and I were road-weary as we approached Knoxville, Tennessee. My stepfather, Tom, had dutifully provided us with a route to take but, underestimating our keen intellects, kept us on 4-lane highways all the way and added many unnecessary miles to an already long trek. To give you some idea of my mother’s condition, near the end of the day she suggested we stay in the well-advertised next town of “Phone.”
We found a motel but we both had an eerie feeling that a truck driver was following us into the place. He kept watching us while we registered. In a generous expression of concern, my mother selected the bed furthest from the door. Needless to say, nobody slept the sleep of the dead. Next morning, as we were about to check out, we couldn’t locate the room key. After a prolonged search, we gave up. We hauled our stuff outside to the car, loaded up and turned to look once more at our little prison. And there they were, hanging happily in the lock above the door. The keys.
Irana’s Hotel Story
I have a bunch of ‘em but my favorite moment occurred at the Savoy Hotel in London. I was there by myself and had experienced a long, tedious day. I was taking a bath when the butler—they have butlers there, no kidding—let himself into the room, walked into the bathroom and set up his tea cart. He never even looked at me. I didn’t know whether to be appalled or disappointed.
Katherine’s Hotel Story
I once stayed at the Victor Hotel on Ocean Drive in South Beach. In the suite one floor below mine, a crew was filming a pornographic movie. With all the windows open. ALL weekend.
It was a swanky place, too, not some dirty motel. Our room service waiter confirmed that yep, that indeed was what was taking place and the same group had been there to film in the past. Every time I went to the hotel bar or the lobby, I would scan the crowd, trying to pick out the porn stars. In Miami, of course, it’s really hard to tell.
Court’s Hotel Story II (Court doesn’t stay home much.)
Margaret and I were house-hunting in East Tennessee and staying in a restored grand hotel in Johnson City. It was New Year’s Eve. We had plans the next morning so we watched the ball drop and went to bed. Not long after, the hotel fire alarm went off. We threw on some clothes and went out to the hotel parking lot with everyone else. It was 22 degrees and snowing. It was a false alarm, of course, but everybody had to wait in the cold for the firemen to show up and check out the rooms. Meanwhile, the drunken perpetrator who had caused all the foofaraw was tracked down, apprehended and brought back to the hotel in a squad car for the bar patrons to identify him. Another Happy New Year.
Sharon’s Motel Story
About ten years ago, John and I were staying at this Mom & Pop motel up north. We were sound asleep when—about 2 a.m.—this idiot drove his diesel truck in and parked right outside our door. He left the engine running, of course. After about 20 minutes of wakefulness, John says, “I’m going to go out and find the guy and tell him to turn it off.”
You know how paranoid I am. I don’t believe in waking the sleeping bear. I begged him to just forget about it and go back to sleep, as if that were possible. After 15 more minutes, John erupted. “Forget about it—I’m going out!”
I lay there anticipating all kinds of mayhem. Husband dead. Murderers at the door. Eventually, John came back. “I took care of it,” he said. The parking lot was quiet. “What do you mean ‘took care of it?’”
“I took the damn keys and threw them over the roof.”
“You’re making that up!”
“Nope.”
“What if the guy comes knocking at the door?”
“We just won’t answer. He’ll never figure it out, anyway.”
Next morning, John heard the guy complaining in the coffee room. Said he had to call his boss and tell him he’d lost his keys. I couldn’t even look over at him, sure as I was he’d leap up, point at me and scream “AHA!” Needless to say, we don’t stay at that motel any more. But I think about it every time we drive by.
“It’s Comin’ The Tornaduh!”
….as my old Oklahoma pal, Jim Lavendusky, would so often exclaim. In this case, it’s comin’ the hurricane, Isaac by name. Headed more or less toward us. So this is the time for everybody to have fun running around buying needless supplies that they wouldn’t even use if the hurricane hit. We’ve got a closet full of ‘em. If everything goes as planned—which it never does with these things—Isaac should arrive before next midweek. Don’t worry though—we bloggers have our generator for emergency purposes. As long as a tree doesn’t fall on the house (or us), we’ll be here next week in all our radiant splendor. And remember, it’s never too late to send in those last-minute motel stories. You want to get the “A” blog, don’t you?
That’s all, folks. Batten those hatches….
