Hostel is a Homophone - an episode of the podcast \"RGH reads RGH.\"
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (US Midwest- Chicago, Great Lakes)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Hi, this is Robert Gerard Hunt. You're listening to R G H reads R G H. Today, I'm going to read to you a true story called the hostel is a homophone. Nothing just happens. Nothing just happens. Thundered the evangelizing voice of T D Jakes. As I gnawed on fried chicken from the comfort of my hotel bed, the congregation shouted its approval of their leader's assertion that there is no such thing as a coincidence. I pondered the idea for a moment, took another swig of cola and clicked the remote. Now, the Andy Griffith show flickered from the screen. It was an episode. I recognized the classic man in a hurry in which a stranded big city motorist finds his patients tested by the leisurely pace of Maybury as he waits for his car to be repaired. Ah, what luck I enthused before it occurred to me that T D Jakes would presumably disagree. I was determined to squeeze whatever enjoyment I could out of my accommodations as my room was costing me four times what I had budgeted perched high atop Harper's ferry at the edge of the Catholic Cemetery. My lodgings were in every way a far cut above my original reservations in order to justify the indulgence of attending a five day educational conference at my own expense along with opportunities to do further research for my historical novels set in the area. I had intended to stay a little further down the Potomac just across the river there at the base of Maryland Heights is the small community of Sandy Hook where a humble hostel offers shelter to Appalachian trail hikers assorted vagabonds and fiscally prudent educators. The idea of staying in a hostel held no appeal to me beyond its minimal cost, multi bunk barracks and community bath facilities are not what I would consider to be positive amenities. In addition, this establishment was only open in the evening overnight and morning hours outside of which the doors were locked. Still, I anticipated a busy week. And what more would I need for my accommodations? But a safe bed and a shower. As I was traveling alone, I did not need to consider the comfort of my family. I could handle roughing it for a few days. It might even make the whole endeavor more fun allowing me to assume the role of the itinerant writer, a rugged individual who cares not where he sleeps. So long as he may practice his craft, I arrived at Sandy Hook early on Sunday afternoon, pulling into the deserted gravel lot of the white two story house. That would be my hostile home for the week. It wouldn't open for hours yet. But the quiet surroundings looked like a nice place for a relaxing walk after my long drive. If I changed my mind, I could always drive into Harper's ferry and find something of interest. I shut off the engine and emerged from the stale cabin of my Saturn into a pleasant August breeze. Almost immediately. The gentle rustling of the trees was accompanied by a stirring in the grassy area beyond the lot. And I turned to see a lone figure emerge from a midday nap. A short middle aged man in rumpled hiking attire leaped toward me and extended a pudgy hand in greeting the graying hairs of his frizzy beard, offset a balding pat and his sad eyes stared at me from bulbous wrinkled sockets. I noted with amusement that he resembled the latter day, Billy Joel. Hey, he offered. Are you staying here tonight? Yeah, you too. Uh-huh. But they're not gonna open till six. I'm just hanging out till then. He peered more closely at me. You hiking the trail? Oh, no, I laughed. I'm here for an education conference at Hartford's Ferry. And plus I'm doing some research while I'm here. Hm. He nodded. I need to head into town myself. Maybe you can give me a ride on your way in tomorrow. Sure. Sure. I heard myself say as my head bobbed up and down affably, it disturbed me a little that I had just promised a ride to a total stranger, but I just, just quickly chastised myself for being so uptight and judgmental. This was all part of the hostile life, a casual community of good natured travelers who believe in random acts of kindness and paying it forward just because circumstances had afforded me the luxury of a car while Billy Joel had none. Did that give me the right to keep it all to my selfish self. I smiled, my whitest smile. My name's Bob. It's nice to meet you. The pleasure is all mine, Bob. You can call me Matt. Perhaps this was the genesis of a rich and rewarding friendship. There was an almost collegiate air about Matt that made me conclude that he probably had a few interesting stories to tell. I decided to give him an opening. So Matt, what brings you to Harper's Ferry? Well, Bob, I'm on my way back to DC, which is where I spend most of my time. I've been doing a lot of research in the libraries there and I've got files full of evidence to show every congressman and senator who listen to me and just what the government's been doing to me for the last 10 years. Really? I politely responded. What is that? He looked at me conspiratorially, Bob. Have you ever heard of directed energy, um directed energy. I'm ex-military Bob. The government's been experimenting with directed energy for years. Picture a microwave without the microwave oven. Imagine being able to torture somebody halfway across the world just by bombarding their body with hyper focused energy being by satellite. They've been doing this stuff to me for years. Bob. I didn't always look like this. He spread his arms to indicate his haggard frame. I used to be a specimen of perfect health. That's what directed energy will do to you. Hm. I muttered, trying to think of a good response while fighting my flight reflex. Why would the government want to do that to you? Because they don't want you to know the truth. He said matter of factly, I found out they put a damn chip in my head when I was in the army. I didn't even know it until years later after they started hitting me with directed energy. I didn't know what it was at first. But as soon as I found it, you can bet I started raising a stink about it. I've got enough evidence in my files to put half of them in jail once they knew I wasn't going to stay quiet. That's when they started using the chip. Oh, yeah. They use voice to skull technology just to harass me. Really? They'll wake me up in the middle of the night. Sometimes just one guy, sometimes three or four from talking at once. It doesn't matter where I go voice to skull works anywhere. I've had nights when I haven't had a wink or ram sleep because they won't let me just to harass me. They'll tell you things like your wife is having an affair or go jump off a building, anything to drive you crazy. But that's just mind games. It's the directed energy that's caused me so much pain. I've had days when I can't even walk. Wow. I managed trying to look and sound sympathetic to the plight of this madman. A short pause ensued, Matt staring at me intensely while my relatively normal brain searched frantically for a swift and sure escape. After a few quick calculations, it returned the following insights. One do not give Matt a ride to Harper's Ferry tomorrow or to anywhere at any time for that matter. Two do not stay at the hostel unless you're ok with being the victim of ax to skull technology. Three, get away now and do not return. And now the va wants to cut my benefits. He started in again. His rambling speech became an oral blur as I smiled and nodded, compassionately waiting for the right opportunity to announce my departure. It was essential that I not imply in any way that he was welcome to come with me. I contemplated my options while paying scant attention to Matt's concerns. Though I was careful to display every social cue that would indicate my complete engagement. That's incredible. I dead panned at one or another of Matt's implausible revelations and he continued unabated as a lonely man might if he were delivering a monologue to his wide eyed cat, my legs were starting to ache. When at last I thought I could endure no more. Matt gave me the great gift of proclaiming his intention to take a walk and invited me to accompany him. I'd love to, but I have a few errands to run before the hostel opens. I beamed at him, willing myself to look like someone who just couldn't wait to get back and listen to more tales of covert government torture. Oh, he reacted pleasantly. I'll see you later. Then, within the hour, I was calling my wife from my locked hotel room explaining that the sting of our forthcoming credit card bill might be trumped by the comfort of having me alive to pay it. And as it happened, staying at that location was quite advantageous expenses. Notwithstanding, the Catholic Cemetery was home to headstones relevant to my research and I was only a few minutes away from the conference site. The hot sausage gravy and biscuits each morning didn't hurt either. By the end of the week, I was almost grateful to my psychotic friend for scaring me away from the hostel. I left Harper's ferry as soon as the conference ended around noon on Friday, I was looking forward to returning home, especially because an uncommon alignment of the planets that is both of our daughters spending the night somewhere else was about to provide my wife and I with a rare evening to ourselves. But halfway across West Virginia, my Saturn lost all power and I glided to a stop on the Berm along route 68. A call to AAA and one long tow truck ride later, my vehicle and I were deposited in the crowded lot of a Morgantown mechanic. I begged the owner to look under the hood and replace my battery before he closed up shop for the day. It ain't your battery. He informed me after a quick diagnostic inspection. It's your alternator. I could try to charge your battery up a bit, but you won't get too far on that. Where did you say you're from? Ohio right now? You'll never make it out of West Virginia, I'd say. And our supplier is, he looked at his watch just about to close. We can get to it first thing tomorrow morning though. I sighed heavily as the promise of dinner and a movie with my wife vanished like a swirling Eddie of vaporizing exhaust fumes. Add an expensive car repair to my list of Harper's ferry debits and another night in another hotel. But wait, as they say, in the notorious TV merchandise offers, there's more. I am so sorry for you. Draw the mechanic's receptionist as she returned the phone to its cradle. She had offered to help me arrange a room for the night. But after a few calls around town, her fear was confirmed, there wasn't a room to be rented in Morgan Town that night. Not when parents were bringing their college kids back for another year at West Virginia University. Not when the mountaineers were playing at home tomorrow afternoon. And so the bitter truth became all too clear. I would be spending the night in my car with the prospect of an uncomfortable night's fitful sleep ahead of me. I decided that a good head clearing leg stretching walk was in order as I ascended the hills toward downtown, a grumpy pessimism got the better of me and I began to resent the very land upon which I trudged of all the places to break down. Why was I stuck in a little college town where a lousy football game can fill every hotel room? What kind of a hick garage? Can't lay their hands on an alternator on a Friday afternoon. How long will it be before I can get out of this place? I soon tired of looking down at my shuffling feet and raised my gaze to the horizon. That's when I saw the billboard for a car dealership, unremarkable in every detail but its location. Don Knotts Boulevard, my ire rose again. Don Knotts Boulevard. What kind of a town would have? A Don Knotts suddenly a tattered fragment of trivia broke loose from an inner recess and tumbled into my awareness. I was stranded in Morgantown, West Virginia, the home town of Don Knotts. I was the man in a hurry. You are free to make of this what you will, of course. But I know what T D Jakes would say. Thanks for listening. R G H reads R G H is written performed and produced by Robert Gerard Hunt. All rights reserved G reads R G H One true read G H.