Once upon a time, when I was a much younger Helena, my brothers and I invented a game called ice basketball. This game could only be played in hotel rooms, and only when our parents weren't paying that much attention. Whenever we went on any sort of journey or vacation that involved staying somewhere overnight, we got all parental units out of the room -- usually to buy us food -- so that we could play our favorite sport.
Ice basketball is this... One person (or sometimes two, and occasionally three, depending upon whether or not we'd been left with the room keys) would dash downstairs, or down the hall, or wherever, to the ice machine to fill up the ice bucket with as much ice as possible. Then, we took turns standing in the doorway of our hotel room's bathroom, and tossing ice cubes into the toilet. A player was not allowed to pass through the door frame of the bathroom. And he or she was only allowed to throw one piece of ice at a time -- until, of course, we got bored of that. And eventually, we'd just make a bunch of trips to the ice machine and fill up the whole damned toilet with ice.
Needless to say, this got water ALL over the floor, all over our persons, and usually all over the hotel room, although we never could say how the hell the bedspreads got fucked up.
Now, usually, our dad came back from wherever, plopped down some food for us to eat, and went into the bathroom. Occasionally, he'd sit down and we'd hear a yelp from behind the bathroom door. It wasn't that we'd filled the entire bowl to the rim; it's just that a blast of icy air isn't exactly pleasant in all cases. I don't remember exactly what excuses we came up with. Probably something lame like, "it was like that when we got here." That sounds like a Helena-style excuse.
It has been a very long time since I've played ice basketball.
Now, the last time I was in a hotel room, I placed chairs on the top of the bed just before checking out. It just seemed appropriately absurd. I wish I could have seen the look on the face of the cleaning person. Oh well. It was a little bit of a sleazy hotel -- the kind that features, ahem, "EXTRA movies" on channel 90. They probably see some awfully weird crap in that little place. They probably just thought it was some sort of kinky sex game. It probably didn't surprise them in the least.
I figure, in any case, that's what you get for explicitly telling me about "extra movies" and then not explaining what's "extra" about them.
Stealing keys from hotels is also a good pasttime. I had a pretty good collection for awhile, before my wallet got lost.
I especially liked the one that said "welcome" in half a dozen languages.
Once, I stayed in a haunted lodge. It seriously was haunted. The lights flickered and at least one of my articles of clothing was lost, only to be found a few minutes later in an area I'd searched thoroughly.
I asked the desk clerk about any strange occurrences she might have heard of in the lodge, and she asked if I was staying in such-and-such wing. When I replied in the affirmative, she smiled and said, "oh, that's Beverly."
Weird.
Common theory is that the song "Hotel," by Tori Amos, was written about the Hotel Deville on State Street in Binghamton. That particular hotel was rumored to be ridiculously quaint and old-fashioned, but it was absolutely gorgeous. When it was having trouble filling up all of its rooms, it advertised for monthly renters. Out of sheer curiosity, I went to visit their rooms, and was absolutely delighted. Except that the wallpaper was intolerably ugly (bright green and red floral pattern with flowers approximately the size of a human head), and they wouldn't remove the furniture from the rooms. And I didn't need a furnished room. They were asking too much money, anyway.
Anyway, Tori Amos supposedly wrote a song about it. At least, she promised she would. She stayed in it, complained about how old-fashioned it was, and said that her fans should expect a song about that hotel. And then on her next album she had a song called "Hotel." She didn't bother writing a song about my coffeehouse, Java Joe's, which was right across the street, and where she supposedly had breakfast. But whatever. At least she immortalized the hotel -- albeit in completely ambiguous Tori-esque lyrics that basically don't make any sense at all.
I stayed in a hotel in Vestal once, all by myself. Apparently, my father's girlfriend's ex-husband had blown a gasket and had come over to our house freaking out about the over or something, and had made some sort of threat to hurt us or something. So, my dad picked me up as I was walking home from work, commanded me to get into the car, and without a word, drove me out to a Howard Johnson in Vestal. It is worth noting, if only briefly, that the entire drive was peppered with comments about how I, and my safety, were not worth the money my dad would have to spend on a hotel room.
Happily, that day, I had purchased a brand new outfit with my paycheck, and still had it in my bookbag. So, when my dad dropped me off, I took the world's longest, hottest shower, and played dress-up all by myself. For some reason, I had all of the necessary components for a game of dress-up, and spent the remainder of the evening costumed as a little goth princess. The blouse to said outfit has since disintegrated, but it was a lovely outfit all the same. And it was a wonderful, solitary evening, despite the fact that I'd been deeply insulted and still basically had no idea why I was where I was.
Now, as I said in my entry yesterday, a gentleman of my acquaintance -- a friend of several of my friends -- passed away in my hometown yesterday. And so I read the online edition of my hometown paper, the Press & Sun-Bulletin, to see if there was an obituary. There was a brief editorial piece, and...
...And a story about a Virginia man who had pleaded guilty to criminal mischief in a hotel room in Binghamton.
The story was so strange that Yahoo News picked it up for their "Oddly Enough" section.
The last time my hometown was mentioned in "Oddly Enough," it was because a mall employee tried to torch a spider with a can of hair spray, and ended up burning down, like, four stores. Genius, I say.
But this was weirder...
Weirder, even, than ice basketball, chairs on the bed, ghostly inhabitants, and goth dress-up.
The man in question apparently checked into a hotel room, smeared EVERY object in the room with Vaseline -- including himself -- checked out, and checked into another hotel, where police caught up with him.
The man did not say why he had smeared the room, and himself, with Vaseline.
Part of me REALLY wants to know. Part of me is content not to.
I wonder if he stole the key...?
~Helena*