Enterprise Rent-a-Car: We Creep You Out!

I’m not sure if what my wife and I experienced is a company-wide mandate.  I hope it is not.  It’s going to take me a while to recover from what I can only describe as unwanted touching.  

Sarah and I landed at Baltimore’s BWI airport.  We were in town to visit her parents and then head south to Fairfax, Virginia to see my Uncle Bruce.  Our next step from the airport was to pick up our rental car.   

We found a bus that drove us to the rental area.  I’m not sure how far away the rentals are from the terminal but the bus ride included a whole new set of safety instructions, “buckle up, no arms out the window, your cushion is a life preserver…”  This remote location was billed as one of the airport’s ‘improvements’.  I’d hate to have to travel to wherever the rental cars were before they made it ‘better’.  

But the new rental car facility is very nice and sparkly.  When we got there we were the only customers to approach the Enterprise counter.  A staff of three young men awaited our business.  Andy was the first to start the touching.

I’m not sure of all the symptoms of jet lag but one I experience is a fragile tolerance to loud things that leap out at you.  Andy was all that and more.  He towered beyond six feet.  His gelled blonde hair shimmered.  His face lit up like a giant baby playing peek-a-boo.  I don’t know if he had been told humanity had been destroyed but he was thrilled to see us.  He took to our arrival like a dog happy to see his master.  He may have piddled a bit.  

Four hours in a cramped flying cylinder relieved me of any mental toughness.  I cringed as Andy shot his open hand across the counter.  I shook it.   And then he held on to me like we’d written some vows. It made no sense to me.  I just wanted a car not join a fraternity.  I expected someone who was overworked and irritable.  We’re all used to miserable customer service and an airport is one place I expect it.  Andy was letting me down.  

“Welcome…Jared” and he looked down at my license while turning up his can-do with an over-the-top attempt at my last name.  “OK, here, I’m going to take a shot at your last name.  It’s…”

Not in the mood to play carnival games I cut him off with the answer, “Ee-wee.”

Undeterred, Andy joined the thousands of other customer service professionals that have trouble with Ewy.  It’s the same banter I’ve heard at every bank, grocery store and car dealership.  “Ee-wee?  Wow, never heard that.  I was going to go with—“

“Ewe-ee.” I stopped him short again with the common mispronunciation.  Anything to abbreviate the painful process.  

“Yah, like the sheep!”  He nodded and glanced at my wife for some approval of his zoological comparison.

After getting Andy to heel we had to wade through ten minutes of upsells for Pontiacs and Sebring convertibles and other cars I’m sure Andy really, really likes even outside of his work.  We settled on the Kia Spectra without the extra insurance that Andy assumed we’d want but more than doubled the cost.  Does anybody really insure a Kia?

We really wanted to get in the car and get away.  Andy wanted to shake my hand again.  As I walked away he extended like a heated groupie reaching for Neil Diamond.   I turned back and satiated his need to touch.  We thought we were on our way to the car.

Following Andy’s enthusiastic instructions that involved phrases like ‘take a tight rightee’ and ‘out of here and onto the road’, Sarah and I slunk away and towards what we hoped would be a shiny, new Kia.  

No.  It was Miss Pancake Makeup and a miniature Al Roker.  They caught us at the double doors to the garage—the portal to our freedom—and started the touching all over again.  The woman, petite and looking a lot like Marilyn Manson, was very interested in our safety.  Al junior was apparently her apprentice, paraphrasing everything she said.

“Did they treat you right up front?” began the interrogation.  She smiled like those happy stewardesses so thrilled to see you off the plane.  

Al junior offered his take.  “We hope you got the service you expected.”  

She launched another query, “Has our new location met your expectations?”   Junior appealed for attention with his version.  “Did you have any trouble finding us?”

I’d held out way too long. A plane roared over and I offered some dry wit.  “Yah, it’s nice, but right next to an airport?”  

Silence.  Another plane shrieked to its ascent.

“That’s going to hurt resale.”

Pancake looked at me.  Her face frozen, confused and squinting, her crooked smile looked like a snarl.  Junior took to my wife.

“You’re going to love the Spectra.  It’s red and real smooth.”  

Sarah had had enough attention and offered some direction.  “All we need is a map and we’re set.”  

Pancake flashed us a map and just as quickly slid it back into her clipboard.  We were going to have to earn it.  

“First,” she said above her heels clicking on the concrete, “we need to do a walk-around of the car so you’re not held responsible for prior damage.”

Junior shook his head.  He’d known of many instances when innocent renter’s were brought down by another’s damage.  He launched into an anecdote about such a tragedy.  

Pancake toured us around the vehicle.  Junior chattered on.  It was almost like a square dance.  I could see the corner of the map in the stack of Pancake’s papers.  If I rushed her I could get it and frighten Junior into turning over the keys.   I was starving and tired and was almost desperate enough to do so.  

Then the inspection was over.  I plopped myself in the car.  I figured this would be hint enough that we wanted to go.  Junior needed to confirm that we did not want the extra insurance and that we were going to pay for gas.  

I concurred.  Sarah got in the passenger side.  Junior relinquished the keys and Pancake the map.  

I nearly ran over Al Roker’s protégé as we sped towards the exit.  We were free.  We wondered what they do when they come and pick you up.  Take you to dinner before some wild lovemaking?  

Three days later when we returned the car, another guy, Mike, was just as crazy.  Loaded with friendliness and, I think, crack, he jumped us as soon as we got out of the car.  Pancake and Junior were nowhere to be seen.  Perhaps they were in the basement, plugged in and recharging.

Nuggets and the Clippers

Not long ago had you told me that the Denver Nuggets and a pro basketball team in Los Angeles other than the Lakers would be in the playoffs together I would have told you to better ventilate your home.   Here we are today, round one of the 2006 post season, and LA's minor league NBA team has the Nugs down a game. 

I'm not sure who still watches the NBA.  Once Michael Jordan left it seemed anyone else was just a punk with a ball.  Today you don't get the leadership and grace of MJ.  You get people like Denver's Carmelo Anthony who, in his own words, wants to be bigger than John Elway.  In Colorado that's like John Lennon saying The Beatles are bigger than Jesus.    And is someone keeping tabs on the Eastern European invasion?  The roster for the Sacramento Kings reads like a Tolkien novel.  "Stojacavic and Divac journey to Turkaloo who leaps nigh the heavens and grabs the ring!"  

The one player I still follow is my personal favorite, Earl Boykins.  He's 5' 5"  and very cool.  I once told him that he was the spark the struggling Nugget's offense needed.  He said "Really?  Thank you!"  Modesty and appreciation all in one sentence!  I'd like to think it was because I towered over him and intimidated him.   But then again if some seven-footer from Middle Earth doesn't deter him then he must genuinely be a cool guy.

One reason I still respect the Nuggets is that they never quit.  For years people were pleading with sports empire Kroenke Entertainment to pawn the Nuggets for even better Avalanche hockey players.  They stuck it out even when they had to pipe crowd noise into the arena and the only reason people went to the games was either to get out of the cold or watch their incredible mascot, Rocky.  He's money from half court and a flying wonder off of the dunking trampoline.  When a guy in a tiger suit is making more shots than the team it's time to make some changes. 

Finally, when you call yourself a 'Nugget' you really can't expect instant admiration.  I remember the first time I was hit by the strangeness of that moniker.  I was watching a Bulls game and the announcer said that "Rodman's covered with Nuggets!"  

Of course remembering Rodman's fetishes maybe he wasn't refering to Denver Players.   Oh, but those were the days.

Crossroads Tavern

Last night was my initial foray onto the Lafayette comedy scene.  So being my first time in town I was not quite sure what to expect from the Crossroads Tavern.   At least that was until I walked in and ran into a monster with the tattoo of a human skull covering his shaved head.  I relied on my lightening intuition and after seeing the sixty-foot Harley Davidson banner across the bar surmised that Crossroads caters to bikers.  Indeed it does. 

My first line of the night was "well there goes my NASCAR set."   But I went with it anyway.  And I even laid out my theory as to why bikers are gay.  Somehow I'm still alive.  One woman, a Hispanic gal at the bar, didn't see the sarcasm in my immigration jokes and started to leave early.  However I think I regained her confidence by asking detailed questions of her sex life.  This is a biker bar and they usually like it nasty.   And so it went, the frightened kid from the burbs regaled the Sturgis set with an anatomical acumen normally reserved for biologists and bored prisoners.  We all got along fine.  The Hispanic Kenny Rogers--there really is one and he was working really hard on the Native American Cher--even kept me mostly submerged in Patron shots.  I may have to get a few other inoculations as well.

 I also met a woman with the most remarkable name.  Angela May Hammer.  Now I've known people with names that make you wonder how parent's could be so mean.  There was a Dick Flesch in my hometown and I once worked with an Anita Moore.  They might have made a great couple.  But Mrs. Hammer once was an Angela May Aragon and married into the innuendo.  And I love it.  Her name is not only risqué but I think it's nearly a complete sentence.  Very cool.  Unlike what my parent's did to my brother--Peter Ewy.  That's not all that bad until like him you're in the Navy and they start the role call.  "Ewy.  Ewy, Peter.  Report to the bridge." 

When I get a moment I'll post some of the video.  There you'll find that the only Ewy thing about me is my judgment.  

Back From DC

I'm so into blogging it's sad.  There I was visiting my uncle who was part of the elite Underwater Demolition Team of World War II.   Then after a stint in the Pentagon with the Joint Chiefs of Staff he became an accomplished artist and writer, and there he was sharing with me combat stories that could curdle dirt and I'm thinking "crap, I haven't updated my website in three days." 

Uncle Bruce's life and stories are incredible.  When I'm 82--heck 42--I hope to be half as active.  He even remembers more about my last visit than I do.  Apparently I was a hit at a party he took me to.   The reason I was the life of the party may very well be the reason I forgot it, but Uncle Bruce even described my reaction to the undercooked chicken he served me in 1997.  Amazing.   While  he's a pioneer of today's Navy Seals and was an active player in most of the major American wars of he 20th century, the most amazing thing about him is that he was born in 1924 and isn't afraid of dvd's or computers.  He has a Dell with dial-up and accesses the Internet without consulting AARP or Andy Rooney.  And how many 82-year-old sailors with an accent from somewhere near Nantucket take daily trips to O Street in downtown DC?  That's where his artists studio is located...across the street from a soup kitchen.   His street name--I kid you not--is Santa Claus.  He's pretty loose with his change and that may very well have kept him alive on a block that once had five homicides in a year.   When Sarah and I got out of his Volvo station wagon we walked to the entrance of his studio with the trepidation of a cow in a drive thru. 

So it was a nice trip and we even got to spend time with Sarah's parents.  They live in Baltimore with two cats.  The pets, Jolly and Trumpet, exist so that the two humans can communicate through them.  "Jolly, tell daddy that he's smelling up the house," might be a suggested cat-related comment.  It works.  Sarah's dad goes on lots of long walks.  

I spent some of the in-law time in the back yard chopping blocks of wood.  I grew up in a wood-heated house and even though I was always the smelly kid who never had friends over because my dad would put them to work stacking wood, I've grown to miss the chopping.  It's good therapy.  

And I think one of the cats told me to stop fidgeting and go do something with myself.

Sauna Talk 04/11/06

Today’s sauna conversation was fairly uneventful.  I shared the room with only one other guy and he was reading the paper.  However, he kept commenting aloud about things he was reading.  I would just look over and wonder if I was supposed to respond.  Usually not.  One item that did lead to a brief discussion was the NFL’s flexible scheduling.  Here’s one story on why they’d like their TV lineup to be more dynamic.

But yesterday’s saunversation is a completely different story.  The little sweat chamber contained a southern, conservative guy, a bitter blue-collar guy, and a quiet, hunched over fellow who rarely says anything but when he does it’s usually very thoughtful and poignant.  Oh, and me.  

When I squeezed in, doing my best not to keep the door open too long, the intense discourse was already underway.  The southern, conservative guy was going on about the United Nations but I'm sure of the specifics. 

He looks a little bit like an actor.   I don’t know which one, but maybe a pudgy Ed Harris.  Anyway, he shall now forever be known by his Playhouse name, Southern Conservative Guy.   And you really have to give him credit.  No matter what’s being discussed, perhaps lunchmeat, he’ll worm his agenda into the conversation.  

“Yah, pimento loaf is a treat but you know those liberals will screw it up.”

But SCG’s persistence can be a bit overwhelming.  He’ll follow you anywhere to make sure you get his point.  While I smile and nod and say innocuous things like “yah, evildoers are bad” he’s followed me into the pool, strode the elliptical next to mine and even joined me in the showers.   There are no curtains or stalls in the men’s locker room of the Englewood Rec Center and I can only think that two naked guys soaping up and chatting is anything but conservative.  

Hunch gets a mention in this saunversation because when it gets ugly, and it will get ugly, I look to him as bastion of reason.  

What’s funny about political saunversations is that no one ever actually says names of people or parties.  Participants dance around certain events or ideas, offering gesticulations of acceptance or anger.  For example, during yesterdays partisan perspiring Bitter Blue Collar Guy demonstrated with his hands “that guy’s house of cards falling.”  ‘That guy’ he explained “has all these fratboy friends like the FEMA guy who screwed up New Orleans and now this Homeland Security pedophile!”  

I knew who ‘that guy’ was.  Hunched Over Guy nodded agreeably, if not somewhat reluctantly, during BBCG’s sermon.  So he knew, too.  SCG might have but you could tell he wasn’t listening.  He’d long ago clocked out and was formulating a new plan off attack.  He would get to us; he’d somehow bring all of us together on his side of the line.  

SCG posed a question.  “Did you see that black congresswoman hit that cop and now because she’s black she’s going to get away with it?”  He’d gone ahead and torched the old house made out of the political deck.  Now he was building with race cards.  

Hunched Over Guy (I’d give him an acronym but it’s HOG) began his slow descent off the upper bench.  There are two levels: the lower bench for sauna rookies and the higher bench where it’s much hotter.  He scooched off his perch.  His hunch was extreme.  It bent his point-of-view to the floor so he had to peer out of the corner of his eye to see his way out of the saunversation.    

He was gone.  I was a bit nervous.  SCG had just tossed a really hot button into the conversation and was hoping someone would push it.  I tried my best to wriggle away from it by saying “anyone in congress thinks they can get away with anything.”

Bitter Blue Collar Guy balled up his towel and dabbed his bald spot.  He was getting ready to speak.  I was hoping he’d go with my suggested “all congress people are bad” instead of SCG’s “black people get away with violence” angle.  I did not foresee how much he’d enjoy pounding SCG’s button.  

BBCG jumped all over it.  He started with the Katrina disaster, which is about where he’d left off, but then went on to elaborate on “hordes of black people invaded nearby cities” and how “those Mississippi cops did their best to keep them out of their towns” but “they just expected to be given cars and houses and food.”  He even did this very rough Uncle Tom impression and all I could do was watch and wonder if I was on camera.  SCG lit up like his dream girl had just said ‘yes’ to prom.  He and BBCG had found common ground.  They’re conversation grew in volume and speed as they raced (no pun) to beat each other to the next depressing revelation.  I felt like I was involved in something dirty and didn’t want anyone walking in and thinking I was an accessory to this love session.  

I stood up and headed towards the light.  But I have this problem of not being able to leave a room without trying to drop some kind of memorable message.  Usually I go for a funny line but in this situation I hoped to leave these two with some shred of doubt.  Some statement that for just a moment would make them pause and think.

I stalled while I searched for something brilliant.  “Well, it’s getting hot in here,” I said thinking very little of the actual temperature.   Neither of them was fazed.  SCG scooted closer to BBCG.  The two were like first dates finally breaking the awkward silence.  Oh the relief!  Racism brings harmony!  

As I opened the door to leave I couldn’t think of anything that would break their passionate verbal intercourse.  But having nothing to say rarely ever stops me from speaking.  

“That new Spike Lee movie is pretty good, ” I blurted.   They looked up at me like I’d just shouted something in Mandarin.  I should have left then.  But I continued.  “It’s not like a lot of his other stuff.”  Then I backed out through the door and into something fleshy.  It was a woman waiting for me to get out so she could get in.  

She gave me a pleasant but kind of condescending smile.  I imagined it as more of a smirk really.   She didn’t say anything.  She just moved to an upper bench.  SCG and BBCG exchanged pleasantries with her.  

All that awful stuff pouring out of those other two and all she heard was my very loaded phrase.  She heard that I didn’t like it when Spike Lee tried to change the world.  No I only liked him when he entertained whitey.  That’s what she heard.  This stupid statement that I really didn’t even mean; it was merely a concession to keep the other guys interested.  I’d compromised.  I was sure she’d heard me.  I watched her face as she sat down.  Was she disgusted?  Did she even care?  

“Hey, buddy,” oozed with the drawl of SCG.  “Close the door.”  And that was one thing that all three could agree on.  I was the idiot letting out all of the hot air.

Oh the joy of bringing people together.

An Unlikely Perfection

Last week we threw a birthday party for my Grandma Colleen.  My wife and I, my aunts and uncles and several friends all gathered at my grandma’s new home, a memory impaired facility in Boulder.  We were all aglow and feeling good about ourselves for throwing grandma a party.  We had everything in place, the food, the presents, balloons and cake.  The one thing that we didn’t have was grandma.  She'd boarded a tour bus and was spending the day on the town.  The home's activities director provided us with her approximate whereabouts.  When we found her she was enjoying dinner with strangers at a Macaroni Grill.  

Alzheimer’s is considered a most horrible disease but I'm thinking it's more like a little vacation after years of putting up with jobs and kids and life in general.  

I mean how often have you just wanted to forget about your birthday?  Everybody wants to make a big deal out of your journey to antiquity and you just want to go hide.  If I were to sneak away from my birthday party everyone would think I was a jerk.  My grandma gets away with it.

Last night we had a birthday soiree for my deceased mother.   I’m beginning to think we just like an excuse to party.  Not anything, not death or degradation, will stop us from doing so. 

It was a year ago yesterday that my wife and I had planned a big surprise to-do for my mom.  Crappy weather left the three of us stranded at home.  

Out of some kind of insane generosity I had purchased ten gallons of cookie dough to support my nephew’s preschool.   A quick estimate had us in hock for about two hundred dozen cookies.   We could live snowbound for several years.  And at least for one day that’s what we did.  April snow showers pounded the city and Sarah made a huge cookie cake.   I fixed the entree, a family favorite called Welsh Rarebit.  

I was feeling bad that my mom wouldn’t get the big party we’d planned.  She said it was perfect.  

Last night we all gathered at my sisters for dinner.  Again, the birthday girl was the only thing missing.  We wouldn’t be finding her at an Italian restaurant.  Unless of course the Christians are wrong.  

We moved around stiffly, hugging each other and eating barbecue.  I looked for distractions.  The two dogs doing their cute dog thing and my aunt’s donation of some party noisemakers were sufficient.   We ate pie and made fun of the 1976 version of King Kong.   Tyler had insisted upon watching it.  He’d since surrendered to sleep.  So had his mom who was curled up on the carpet.  It was time to go.

Sarah and I drove the hour it takes to get from Loveland to the city of Englewood.  Our Toyota’s missing window invited the scent of fresh farm fertilizer.

We gagged and laughed simultaneously.  

My mom would have sworn it was another perfect evening.   
  

Irony. What fun.

So we're at Red Rocks with my wife's brother and his wife when we are approached by some folks with a TV camera.  They are from Italy.  They are filming a show called "Thirty Days in Colorado" for an Italian travel channel.  They had overheard us bantering and thought we might be good guides for their shoot.  They all seemed pretty cool so we agreed. 

Sevina, the hot host of the show, interviewed Sarah and I about Denver.  She asked if we come to Red Rocks to 'do gymnastics' which we took as a rough translation for 'exercise' yet I was flattered as I've never had anyone look at me and ask if I do gymnastics.  Or excercise for that matter.   I think once I got a concerned "do you excercise" from a doctor but he followed that with "moderation" so I'd have to say this hot Italian lady is the first. 

During our Q & A she asked if Denver was a safe place.  Immediately an image flashed through my mind of the Denver Nugget randomly shot three times just the night before.  I said "yes, it's very safe."   At about this exact moment someone was smashing my Corolla window and stealing my sister-in-law's purse.  One of the items in her handbag was her passport.  We don't know who has it now.  But the world's next heinous terrorist act could be commited by a nervous man who goes by 'Ruth Anne'.  If you're suspiscious of his true identity casually ask 'her' how many steps 'she' used to have to climb to get to 'her' apartment in Boston.  If 'she' says anything but 44 then please request 'she' return to Colorado and fix my flippen window.