#49: I Love Lucy

In need of a good place to recover from a nasty cold, I’ve been holed up here in a room overlooking Chautauqua Lake, not far from the old stomping grounds in Western New York. Luckily I have a week between gigs in which to recuperate—or convalesce, a word which seems more in keeping with the faintly 19th-century hearkenings of this hotel: sad and slightly spooky in its off-season doldrums. If anyone asks I’ll say I’ve got ague.

But they won’t ask, because there’s no one here. Seriously. I’m fairly sure I am this hotel’s only guest. And while all of this sleeping, binge-watching, reading and general wallowing is having the desired effect, I can’t help but feel I should be ordering more from room service. I am, after all, the only source of tips for the two servers who alternate in bringing me food. So I feel guilty ordering so little. It’s a good menu, full of things I would usually want to eat, like profiteroles. But since I can’t taste anything, I’m sticking to oatmeal in the morning, chicken soup in the evening, and tipping like a madman. But I still I feel responsible. In fact I feel responsible for this entire operation. By the looks of things, the success or failure of this hotel’s off-season—yea, its very business model—is riding on my patronage. Much depends on a guest with grippe.

Feeling somewhat better, after a couple of days I venture out into a world I’ll describe as Wes Anderson meets Twin Peaks meets the Radisson scene in Fargo. My hallway is long, well-lit, stylishly carpeted, and suspiciously empty. The decor leans toward the North Woods without ever really getting there. Downstairs, the halls are long, well-lit, uncarpeted, and suspiciously empty. Where is everyone? Has there been some kind of cosmic event? Those faintly 19th-century hearkenings make me wonder if the Rapture has occurred.

I wander about, as one would after the Rapture. There’s a small dispensary, unattended. Small blessings. I could just grab some of those Fig Newtons. But again, what’s the point? I can’t taste anything. And stealing is bad. Likewise over in the restaurant, the lights are on. But there’s no one at the welcome desk, where a sign is bidding me wait to be seated. Given everything I seen, I’m not inclined to wait much, though I do wait a little. Reassured by the low rumble of the HVAC system kicking in, I stride forth into the restaurant. But there’s no one—and most importantly for an old lush like me, no one guarding the glass encased, mechanized, floor-to-ceiling wall of really good wine. I could just… But no. I won’t. I can’t taste anything (as if taste has anything to do with it). And drinking is not something I do anymore, ever, even if it is after the Rapture, when (as some suppose) all bets are off. I am always the same person, no matter where we are in the dispensation.

I should say something about the downstairs decor. It combines a well-deserved homage to local hero Lucille Ball with large color prints of local species of fish, mostly largemouth bass and some sort of carnivorous pike. Yikes. There’s also a comedy museum, another nod to Lucille I suppose. Not much to see there. It’s about the size of a coat room. But I’m not leaving here without one those Desilu t-shirts.

I’m getting a sense that the interior design team must’ve been laboring under an unwieldy dictat: “Lucille Ball and big fish. That’s what we want. Just get it done”. However it went down, there is zero doubt in my mind that Lucille Ball would find the juxtaposition sidesplitting. And when she recovered, she’d break into the world’s greatest ever imitation of a largemouth bass. On a roll, she’d segue into the carnivorous pike skit. Maybe those interior designers knew what they were doing.

After wandering all the halls there are to wander and encountering nary a soul, I decide to go back to my room, where the absence of other humans is less concerning. In fact it’s the very thing I’m paying for! I open my laptop. Wi-fi is working. The world continues. I navigate to Netflix and find myself briefly tempted by a Swedish series (“dystopic / nudity / smoking”) in which everyone in Norway named Olaf suddenly grows gills where his ears used to be. And then the aliens emerge from the North Sea. Not what I need right now. Meanwhile, we’ve got weather.

The wind is whistling through the sliding doors, gusting to God knows what. Chautauqua Lake is just there beyond the breakwater. I can hear it. But it can’t be seen except as a vast absence. My palms on the cold glass, I imagine white caps, dark water, carnivorous pike, and wonder who owns the streaming rights for I Love Lucy.

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