RUDIMENTS, pt. 754
(at least some work got done)
- The Troy Hotel, pt. TWO -
These weren't clubmen,
mind you; this wasn't the
social bridge-and-seltzer
crowd either. I don't even
know if any of that existed
thereabouts. On the way
out of Towanda, some 30
miles east, you'd pass the
Sylvania plant, and connected
to it was an actual 'Country
Club' and golf course kind
of thing. I imagined all
that was more for the
benefit of that company's
execs than anything else -
the one amenity that made
a transfer to the Towanda
plant amenable to anyone.
It was far easier to figure
high dining and cocktail
hours and all that in a
country club setting. The
spot here the Troy Hotel,
in the downtown center of
Spikeville, USA, on the
other hand was an outpost
of nothing at all; something
maybe fit for meaner versions
of Fred and Barney (Flinstones
reference). My first visit to
the Troy Hotel, out of the blue
and really never-even thinking,
was with my wife, on a quick
and dark November day - we
got in there, to town, well
after nine pm, after driving
most of the afternoon, out from
Joisey, to see the area. First
thing out of the bar guy's mouth,
after I asked for accommodations,
was - not quite a snarl, but
almost - 'It's hunting season,
no women allowed.' I almost
wanted to say, 'Huh? Excuse
me?' In my own way, actually,
I did. For, get this, an extra 7
dollars, we were granted a
somewhat out-of-the-way
room on an upper floor, and,
in addition, were forewarned
that there'd be no responsibility
for what we might see or hear.
And, here again. I wanted to
say, 'My fine fellow, this woman
is tough, she knows the ropes,
and she's NOT 14. I doubt she'd
find much here to surprise her.'
But I stayed quiet and she just
smiled. We went upstairs : a
few flights of quaint stairways
and nice landings, a heavy,
rounded, banister, and, at each
landing, some oddly bucolic
farm-scene in a big frame.
Occasional deer heads and
other dead things adorning
walls and landings. It was
just all old, nicely so, but
run-down as well.
-
I got to wondering; what do
people do around there? As
I sat there pondering. It was
still early, I guess, but maybe
not for them. This whole
'hunting season' and 'for men
only' thing baffled me. There
were any number of codgers
and men sitting around the
bar, and I could hear the talk,
near there, of their chatter and
bombast, but...no women?
Or were they just being kept
hidden? For when? A bar, with
nothing going on, and men staying
around only to shoot and kill
some more the next day? I was
confused, and it already all went
against my knowledge and logic,
and against the lore of 'hunting'
and the 'conquest.' The town
had no movie theater, nothing
I'd seen anyway. There were few
if any other people, outside or
anywhere - not even a liquor
store. At that time, in Pennsylvania,
maybe now too, you had to buy
liquor from a State Store. They
were called that; and they were
the 'boringest,' most uncluttered
unlittered sterile places to buy
alcohol - it was all priced and
taxed and controlled by the State,
with its own registers! So there
was no real wildlife around the
liquor store, and I'd seen no
other bars. It was all very
weird. After living around that
area for a while, I realized most
of the town-folk, those who
actually lived in 'Troy' proper,
were not the sort who drank. Too
scared or something, it seemed
like. Too wound-up, too tight
about things. Because of that,
any part of this little-mattered
to them : the movie-house lack,
the tavern and booze lack, and
the rest. Mixing that larger
picture up, I couldn't understand
about the Troy Hotel, from
whatever day and age it was
representing. I couldn't see why
it was there and who used it.
Who kept it in business. Nor,
what was ever here to have it
even gotten started. This wasn't
coal country - no mining execs
or labor and union leaders, no
conferences and entourages.
There seemed no reason for
people to be here. Judging by
the Troy Hotel, I guess the
hunting was good, but don't
come looking with lady-lust.
That too was gone, during
hunting season anyway.
-
One other thing about our
arrival there, that night. It
was our first trip to and
through, all kind of, as I
said, on a dare anyway,
and our plans had called
for us to have arrived
sooner than we did. We
took some meandering
back roadways that surely
added to the time of the
trip. But the most outrageous
thing was that, well after
dark, we got caught at a
freight-train crossing, from
somewhere to somewhere,
that must have been 14,000
freight cars long, going at,
maybe, and I say maybe,
3 miles an hour. I couldn't
even say to my wife, 'Make
a note here, that we don't
come this way again,' because
I had no idea where we even
were. I couldn't make it my
'no-fly zone' because I didn't
even know where I was flying.
-
So, we laughed about that a lot
over the years, that first trip and
the time and place, and I was, yes,
darn sure to know, later on, that
there were women there, at the
Troy Hotel, and business done
thereby too - so I never could
figure to know what they were
pulling on that one. Seemed like
a lousy tactic - I figured they'd
a' had a better time and made
more money if they had the
ladies stomping and dancing
around on the bar and sitting
on people's laps and enticing
everybody and all that. People
buying each other drinks and
all sorts of technicolor antics
going on - ringing the old
register, as it were, and keep
the rooms a bit busier than
they were with a bunch of old,
tired, half-lame and sodden
hunters and their huckleberry
stories of solace and woe
about the Bambi they almost
shot with a rifle. A song any
old crooner would sing:
'I live in lonely town.'
-
Bridging the gap, for things
like this, was easy, because -
I also found this out once I got
here and got settled in the area -
once you left the Troy Hotel,
or unless you were actually
there, no one ever talked about
it, or acknowledged it even
existed. It was all as if it just
wasn't there. I could figure
maybe farmers' wives and all,
what they are were like and
how they were about things -
all squeamish and all - not
wanting to know or hear about
it. But, on the other hand, it
was the kind of stuff those old
farmer guys loved to go on
about, between milkings and
fixing flat tires. They raised
pigs, some, and, heck, they
liked to talk about 'porking'
too. Or so it all seemed to
me anyway. At the local level
('All politics is local,' like Tip
O'Neil used to say, in Congress),
maybe it was better that there
were no ladies allowed. At least
some work got done.
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