*The names in this story have been changed.
Friday night was our first wedding of the year and it took a while to shake the rust off and fall back into gear. It's been so quiet around here that everyone is a bit out of practice when it comes to putting on a good show to a packed house. I was in no way ready to deal with the number of questions, requests and complaints we had in the rush of check-in time and it all left me a bit flustered and frustrated.
During teatime, both pots had been sucked clean as two more guests ambled into the living room, hoping for a hot cup of Earl Grey. Taking the portable phone with me, I ran to the kitchen to get them their drinks when the phone rang. I had to abort my current mission in order to run back to the desk to fulfill a room request for the woman on the phone. Once that was taken care of, I returned to the kitchen to finish getting the tea ready when the phone rang again. Boiling with rage, I answered it.
"Hello," said the voice on the other end, "who am I speaking to?" I informed him and he continued.
"I understand that the owners of your inn are a woman who goes by the name Mrs. Rockefeller and a doctor of some renown, is this correct?" This was not correct (she does not still use her maiden name Rockefeller and I'm not sure "renown" is the right word in this case) but I did not tell him, instead I was focusing on how similar his voice was to Niles Standish, the creepy British puppet on Crank Yankers. I half expected him to end his question by saying, "Yes yes?"
"I don't want to drop names, but my wife used to work for John Rockefeller (the owner's rich and powerful brother)." I could tell this was going to be interesting so I quickly put the tea on a tray and hurried it out to our guests so I could enjoy the rest of this phone call unencumbered. He went on to botch a few more facts about the owners before telling me he wanted to talk to the doctor. I informed him that he was not in but I could take a message.
"Jeremy," he said, his voice cautious, "use your discretion with how much of this you want to tell them." Use my discretion? What the hell was he going to tell me? I reached for a pen and paper, scribbling down the conversation so far. "Give me a second," I asked him, "I want to get this all down." He cackled, "Oh, ho, Jeremy, I'm sure you are taking good notes." He allowed me a long pause to get my bearings before I told him to continue. "I met with the doctor two summers ago. Tell him I'm the Englishman in the big red SUV. I hoped to have a happy message for him but I'm sad to say that I do not."
Up until this point, all the quotes in this tale have been close approximations to the actual conversation but what he told me next is a direct quote. "Jeremy, I have made a verbal discovery which threatens the human information system." Whaa?
His voice was extremely grave as he told me this. I was dumbstruck, waiting for more information to help explain what that could possibly have meant but unfortunately he offered no explanation. After a long silence, trying to stifle laughter, I said, "I have no idea what to make of this." "Nor should you!" he barked at me, then cackled again.
At this point my coworker came over to see what I was so furiously scrawling and as she glanced over my notes I looked up and gave her the international sign for "crazy" as he hit me with another punch. "I have realised a danger with this discovery: It can not be trusted in the hands of pre-teenagers."
Now that...that was unexpected. This guy was throwing curveball after curveball. I had no idea what to expect out of his mouth next. He apparently sensed my utter confusion and tried to reassure me that it was all right that I had no clue what he was going on about.
"This is an important discovery and I've been worrying about it. I have been in touch with the University of Indiana and the British Defense Department and have evinced the same question mark-exclamation point from them that I have evinced from you." He actually said "question mark-exclamation point."
He was on a roll now but then all of a sudden, out of left field he inquired, "Jeremy, do you happen to have John Rockefeller's phone number?"
I was caught off guard. Was that the reason he called? Was this all a ruse so he could try to weasel out a phone number once my head was spinning over his verbal discovery? I find this hard to believe since he seemed so earnest about this worrisome problem but it did cross my mind. Perhaps he wanted to get John's money to fund research into his discovery.
I told him I did not have the phone number so he ended the phone call with a parting shot. "Jeremy, it has been a sincere pleasure talking to you. I am drunk as a fish but it's because I'm trying to get this message out. Good night."
For the next hour I was a much happier fellow. This insane phone conversation put a spring in my step and reminded me of why I'm so glad to work at this Inn.
Jeremy Paquette resides in Manchester, Vermont. He's sorry for the time we crank called that girl in 1987 and made her think she had won Bon Jovi tickets.
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