If You've Ever Wondered

[Sung to the tune of WKRP in Cincinnati]

Baby, if you’ve ever wondered
Wondered whatever happened to me
I’m stuck in this hotel in Cincinnati
And worst of all not even the water is free


I’m writing this from my hotel in Cincinnati. As it turns out, there is a “bad neighborhood” in Cincinnati, and it covers most of the city. My co-worker (S) and I were warned to “not go out at night.” Well, S was warned and he mentioned it to me as we pulled into the hotel. Nice. No matter, I’ve no desire to go out as I’m located – essentially – in this bizarre University Campus/Veterans Administration/University Hospital conglomerate of buildings. There are no other obvious types of business. Dinner – clearly – was eaten in the hotel. Tomorrow should be interesting, as S is making reservations for us to take the clients out to dinner. I cannot wait to see where we end up.

Cincinnati is so much more “Southern” than the northern parts of Ohio, which is where I’ve focused my previous travels. After walking through (what must have been) 10 miles of airport hallways this morning, S and I were shuttled over to Avis to pick up our rental car. As S took care of the paperwork, I stared at the counter, transfixed. There were four female employees “working” (euphemism.) All in their 50’s, they had eerily identical hair (short, shellacked, bottle blond), eerily orange skin (BAD foundation), and excessive eye make-up.

Propped up against the counter on one end was the cleaning man, also “working.” He held a dishtowel in one hand (clearly a prop) and a spray bottle in the other (see previous parentheses.) A few feet away from him stood an elderly gentleman, occupying a spot that one would expect to find a customer in. It appeared – however – that he was there for the guaranteed audience that he found in the Avis employees. He was talking, and talking, and talking…. As it turns out, he served in the Marines for many years. When he left the service, he tried to get a job but was 49 and no one wanted him. (This caused a great uproar among the Avis ladies, who agreed passionately. “Uh-huh!” They exclaimed in their southern accents. “They don’t SAY that, but they think it!” They all shook their heads in commiseration and the cleaning man chuckled into his fake cleaning rag.)

Eventually, the elderly man found work driving a dairy truck, which – he informed everyone, repeatedly – was HARD work. Having exhausted the subject of employment the man moved on to his life in Kentucky/Cincinnati. (As it turns out, this was only a temporary pause. It seems that this fellow just recycles old material as needed in order to keep a constant stream of chatter going.) I learned that he had resigned himself, originally, to five years here, but was now in his 22nd year. This caused another wave of excited chatter among the Avis gals. “Isn’t that how life goes!” “Uh-huh!”

On and on the conversation went, and the entire time I was bothered by one thing: The man’s belt. It was a leather belt, and it had letters pressed into it. The first letter was covered by his belt loop, but I could clearly see the next four. They were: a-r-g-e. I was perplexed. The most logical assumption would be that the covered letter was an “m” and that the word was the name “Marge.” But why would this man be wearing a belt with a woman’s name on it? I’ve never seen that done, and I’ve seen a lot of tooled/embroidered/pressed leather belts in my time. (Spend a little time with a Hispanic population and you’ll realize what happened to me…) I couldn’t figure it out, and – obviously – still can’t. Just as I was debating actually approaching the man, S came toward me, gesturing for me to follow him out the door.

I took one final look at the mysterious belt, and turned to leave. Perhaps I should not have done that. Perhaps I should have satisfied my curiosity. That would have avoided such lingering effects as this blog, for one thing. I’d probably sleep better than I will now, the belt floating before my closed eyes…

Still, maybe it’s for the best. There's something very appealing about the idea of leaving this city with this image burned upon my brain. In my head, I see an audience of aged Southern women, behind an Avis counter, lined up before a mysterious white-haired man known only as A-r-g-e.