After about twenty minutes that seemed an eternity, the Critter Ridder emerged from this subterranean snake farm empty handed. No writhing, slithering masses were clutched in his clenched fists, nor did he triumphantly hold up a squirming gunny sack.
“I can’t find a single snake. I looked all the way back into the deepest corner – no live snakes, no dead snakes. Whatever problem you had is gone now.”
“Well I suppose that’s good news.” I said; now for the tough part. “How much do I owe you?”
“$140.00”
“Per second?” I asked, praying like hell that he would say “No, per minute.”
“No, I charge $90 per call, plus any materials, and there’s a $50 fee for driving over from Kremmling.”
As I wrote the check, I worried that perhaps crawling around in the dank, moldy darkness had terribly skewed the poor mans cognitive ability, and during his drive home, reality would re-inhabit his skull, the car brakes would be slammed, and he’d steam “Wait just a minute. I only charged that repto-phobic bastard $140 to crawl around in the dark, under his house and look for snakes??” Never have I written a check so quickly, and never have I been happier to write one. Julie went back to sleeping in the house, and never again did we find a snake in the Riverside.
Portal Number Two, the middle portal to hell, contained the plumbing guts to the Riverside. All of the main valves that shut the water on and off were located in this space, along with the main sewage line, which when I inspected the space during the mechanical, had no threaded cap, but a few rags jammed into the open end. I was to learn later that quick access to the sewer line was needed so often, that taking the time to continuously and under duress wrench open a 3” pipe plug would get cumbersome. Again, these little red flags flew right by me, unnoticed, during the due diligence process.
I’ve told previously in this blog the best story relating to Portal Number Two, and for the six of you who’ve already read this story, my apologies.
The Second Portal of Hell
It was January 2nd, 2009, the butt end of a busy holiday weekend. I was back in our living quarters taking my shower, getting ready for the evening, when I noticed the shower drain wasn’t draining so well. Out of the shower, I then notice the toilet is also backed up. Our newly remodeled and re-plumbed living quarters had already had a few issues with the plumbing, so I cursed the plumbing issues and the half-assed contractor who did the half-assed job, quickly got dressed and told Julie I’d plunge later, as the dinner rush had started. I’m not long in the kitchen when I see that one of the sinks, one that is supposed to be used only for washing hands but is also frequently used by our cooking staff as a dump sink for food stuffs, has standing water and isn’t draining. I throw my first bona-fide fit in front of the help since owning the hotel – cussing, throwing things, yelling “how many times have I told you not to dump food in the sink!!” at everyone but no one in particular. They weren’t impressed. I then notice the floor drain isn’t draining. I was then quick to deduce that there was a pattern, a pattern that I’d seen once before – I knew we had a clogged main sewage line.
The State of Colorado Department of Health & Environment – the folks who oversee the safety and sanitation of our restaurant – have a pretty basic rule about not being able to prepare or serve food without access to a free-flowing water and waste disposal system. Damned pesky bureaucrats! I had no choice but to close the restaurant; a nearly full restaurant, with a nearly full bar waiting for tables, as well as numerous reservations for tables later in the evening. My hope was that I could get this problem solved in time to at least re-open in an hour and accommodate the evening’s second seating. But wait a minute….I suddenly remembered we weren’t in Kansas anymore. I remembered that you can’t get a plumber in Grand County to show up for a scheduled job at 10:00 on a Monday morning (unless maybe it’s to fix the dispensing valve on your beer keg), let alone answer an after hour emergency call on a Friday night. I tried my best, going alphabetically through all of the Grand County plumbers, all of whose ads touted “24 Hour Emergency Service”, and got not one, not a single one, who could make it to The Riverside that evening.
(Shortly after moving to Hot Sulphur, one of my neighbors told me a story about how they went to one of the local plumbers who lived across the street from them on a Saturday, and begged him to come fix a plumbing emergency. They promised double the amount, in cash, that he would necessarily get for such a job. “Please, Please, Pleeeeze” they begged of him. His simple and direct reply was “I’m not feeling it today.” I’ve come to learn that is pretty much the working man’s mantra in Grand County.)
I was left with no other option than to call my friend Tony, (who lives up the street and is an excellent plumber), of whose good and reliable nature I hate to take advantage. Tony is in Denver and unable to help, but as luck would have it, Tony’s company has a plumber, Ron, on call, and he also lives in Hot Sulphur. I call the number, but it goes to voice mail; I leave my pleading message with Ron, and then go to my second-to-last resort.
I send my son Scott up to the Barking Dog Pub in search of another local plumber who has the same name as a deceased rock star, (first name rhymes with “Jan” and last name rhymes with “Hogleberg”), and is known to frequent the Barking Dog. More to the truth, he lives at the Barking Dog and is occasionally known to frequent his house. (I don’t mean to malign that un-named plumber, as he has saved our plumbing bacon on more than one occasion, and were he to read this blog and figure out who I’m talking about, I thank him for his past fine efforts on our behalf.) Scott triumphantly returns with good news – no, the deceased rock star-named plumber isn’t there, but there was another plumber sitting at the end of the bar who volunteered his services, and he would be down shortly. And who says only the Irish have such fine luck?
In walks our Johnny-on-the-spot plumber, Ron; this would be Tony’s Ron who was on call that evening. Did I say “in walks”? Perhaps I should say in reeled, in staggered, in swayed, in teetered, in lurched, in weaved; Mr. Roget doesn’t yet have a synonym for the one word you would use to aptly describe Ron’s’ mode of locomotion. I direct Ron, with great effort, back to the kitchen, where he immediately spots the backed-up hand sink. Without saying a word, he plops himself down on the floor and begins to attempt to dismantle the P-trap under the sink. I say to Ron, and I was being very dramatic at this point by raising my voice, waving my arms about and pointing in all directions, “It’s not the P-trap! We’re backed up in our bathroom, we’re backed up in the bar, we’re backed up in the kitchen; WE’RE BACKED UP EVERYWHERE. THE MAIN IS BACKED UP!!” Ron looks up at me and, uttering his first words of the night, says “Shlow down a minute, will ya?” He then turns his glazed eyes back on the P-trap, which he successfully dismantles, and watches as the turbid water rushes from the sink drain into his lap.
I help a very wet and still very drunk Ron up from the floor, and lead him to the main hotel lobby, where the entrance to the crawl space, which contains the main plumbing lines, is located. Down into the space we go, and I point out the main sewage discharge line. Ron looks all around the crawl space as if he was looking for an “Easy” button, or perhaps a detonator that would blow this plumbing problem into the next county. Remember, he’s having a tough time with his equilibrium, so the sight of this man half hunched over in the 5’ tall crawl space looking and pointing at the pipes all about him took on the appearance of a drunken sailor swatting at bees below deck in a violent sea.
Ron finally gets his bearings, and faces me with his assessment of the situation. He also delivers this assessment in a dramatic fashion, similar to my aforementioned dramatic outburst in the kitchen. “Everythings backwards down here. Thish pipe ish running backwards, thish pipe should be goin th’other way. Whoever built thish thing got it all screwed up!” He then proceeds to crawl slowly and carefully up the steps, and sits on the edge of the crawl space, his legs dangling over the abyss, his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. He doesn’t move for 15 minutes. When he finally stirs – I wasn’t there to see this but heard it second hand – he gets up, says not a word to anyone present, then staggers/reels/teeters/sways/weaves/lurches his way out the front door and into the cold, dark, January night.
In walks one of our kitchen employees, who happens to have a drug connection who is also a plumber. (This drug connection thing is not uncommon in Grand County, or in the restaurant business.) I previously mentioned that the dead rock star-named plumber was my second-to- last resort – this drug connection plumber was indeed my last resort. That story about “I’m not feeling it today,” - that might also be this guy. But then I figure, “What do I have to lose?” At the very least, I’ll have more fodder for the blog.
Enter Plumber #3, the most unreliable plumber in Grand County. That’s like being the worst sinner in Las Vegas or the biggest drunk at Mardi gras, or…..you get the point.
Not only am I stunned that he showed up when summoned, but he’s bright eyed, he’s clean, he’s sober, and he’s ready to tackle the problem. All those present, at least those who knew this gentleman and his predilections, could’ve been knocked over by a puff of bong exhaust.
Four hours and $400 dollars later, our local hero has the lines flowing free. He worked down in that fetid crawl space from 8:00 until midnight, flushing the line with a high pressure “jetter”, and then cleaning up the offal responsible for the clog. This was a job so nasty and so incredibly filthy, that the Dirty Jobs guy on TV would’ve hired it out; and our man did it with a smile. No matter what Plumber #3 didn’t do before, or what he may yet not do in the future, the night of January 2nd will forever be known in local lore as the night that Grand Counties most infamous slacker plumber, actually plumbed, and in doing so, saved our bacon and allowed The Riverside to continue to serve some of Grand Counties finest food in a sewage-free environment, per the State code.
To be concluded........
Friday, July 23, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
The Three Portals of Hell....Part III
Sorry for the cheap suspense, but there was no body or human remains under the hump in the floor; just a big heave-ho of expansion and contraction in the floor boards. However, knowing Abe as I did, it would not have surprised me if some unsuspecting visitor to the Riverside ended up bludgeoned and buried under that floor – particularly a sales tax collector from the Colorado Department of Revenue.
The building contractors, Farson & McBytemee, were hired to renovate the Riverside living quarters; while they came with a few good recommendations, truth had it they were two bartending ski-bums who, during a normal Grand County night of drunken debauchery (probably a Tuesday), set a friends deck on fire, burning it to the ground, then in a fit of soberness, rebuilt the deck. Rumor has it that the deck rebuild was true, level and square; they then deemed themselves building contractors.
25% over budget and one very expensive month behind schedule later, we had our new living quarters. Caveat Emptor, again.
It was Labor Day weekend, 2008, and the hotel was full for the entire three days. Full hotel means non-stop busy; up at 5:30 AM making endless pots of coffee, chatting with and checking people out, starting laundry, cleaning rooms and changing sheets, more laundry, helping with lunch-prep dishes, more laundry, lunch service, doing lunch dishes, cleaning the dining room and setting up for dinner service, more laundry, chatting with and checking guests in, helping with dinner prep, more laundry, grabbing a bite to eat on the fly, a quick shower, doing dinner prep dishes, dinner service, bartending, closing down the kitchen, bartending until 12:00 AM, closing down, locking up……then to bed.
It’ll start all over in four hours. This was our dream job. WTF were we thinking???
It was Sunday evening of Labor Day weekend, maybe 10:30ish, when Julie came back from our living quarters into a fairly busy bar to announce, in a slight panic, that there was a snake in our bedroom. As I was pretty damn busy manning the bar, I was unable to manhandle that snake, as would have been my normal duty. Yes sir, I would have normally jumped right in and handled that sort of task. Fortunately our good friend and neighbor, Tony the sober plumber, was quick to step in, and went back into our living quarters to slay the monster. After playing a little bit with Julie, telling her that it was a poisonous copperhead, he dispatched the 8” long, pencil thin snake. There’s one nice thing about the Hot Sulphur Springs 7700’ altitude and the long winters – it allows for no snakes or big hairy tropical spiders. The only snakes to be found at that elevation are small, non-poisonous black snakes, and the 9-month winters never give them the opportunity to grow much beyond 12” in length.
But let’s be honest here – a snake is a snake, and you damn sure don’t want them crawling around in your bedroom; not even a tough guy like me likes that sort of thing. Julie calmed down a bit, as I tried to assure her that this was an anomalous occurrence, and I doubted very much she’d see another snake in the living quarters. With the busy day we’d had, doors open and closing all day with people coming in and out, the slinky little fella had probably slithered his way in to get out of the blistering high-altitude afternoon sun, and found a nice, cool quiet place to lie on our closet floor. So back Julie went to bed, and back I went to tend bar.
It wasn’t five minutes before Julie was out the door of our living quarters, looking anxiously into the noisy, crowded bar for the specific purpose of getting my attention. While I’d actually never before seen Julie’s “Holy shit! There’s another snake in the bedroom!” expression, I was pretty sure that I was seeing it now. And in fact, there was another small snake in the bedroom, and another, then another. They were crawling through ¼” gaps between the floor and the trim that our crack deck builders had left open and unsealed. What was strange was why, all of a sudden at 10:30 on this Sunday night, were the snakes coming through all at once, right before our eyes? They even began crawling through another gap in the floor in the back bathroom. Was it a simple game of follow the leader – one snake made it through and then yelled back down into the crawl space, “Follow me boys, I’ve found some people up here to scare the shit out of!”
Most of the snakes were really small, not much bigger than your average fishing worm. But they had that big snake head that a worm doesn’t have, and they glided along the tile floor in that ssssnaky manner that makes those of you wussies that are afraid of snakes even more afraid of them. No question, this was not a good situation, and there was only one thing that could put a temporary halt to this situation – duct tape. I grabbed the roll that I keep on my bedpost for night time emergencies, and began taping the gaps in the floor, temporarily holding the little devils at bay. With the living quarters secured for the evening, Julie finally settled down enough to go to bed; I think she slept in the car.
The next day brought an end to the busy holiday weekend and a trip to the hardware store for a tube of clear silicone caulk to seal the gaps in the floor. I wasn’t sure what I’d see when I removed the duct tape; i.e. would the little buggers start flying through the cracks in an Omaha Beach sort of onslaught? Fortunately that wasn’t the case, as there was no evidence of snakes when they tape was removed, and I quickly went to the task of caulking the gaps, hoping it would dry quickly enough to offer the resistance necessary to forestall another PM snake blitz.
Caulk one up for polymer science and the fine folks at Dow Chemical, as the silicone cured and the reptilian onslaught was abated. That was good enough for me; but not for my business partner.
“Do you seriously expect me to live in a house that’s built over a set from an Indiana Jones movie?”
“Well of course not dear, but, who’s gonna, I mean, how would I……there ain’t no way I’m going down into that crawl space after a nest of snakes. In fact, I wouldn’t go into that crawl space after a treasure chest full of gold coins…..and we could damn sure use some gold coins!”
The internet was perused for methods of getting snakes out of your crawl space. I read numerous links, with a myriad of suggestions – from the ASPCA green, organic, non-kill recommendations (reason with them; tell them in a soothing tone that a better life awaits them in the neighbors crawl space), to the toxic – Ted Nugent’s web site suggested a modified flame thrower, which, coincidentally, he had for sale, free shipping included. Without a doubt, the best method involved hiring someone else to do the dirty work, and I found a business in nearby Kremmeling, CO; the “Critter Ridder”.
The Critter Ridder showed on time, with an assistant, equipped with flashlights, ladders and glue traps. When I explained the situation, the man quietly went to the truck, and returned with a TyVek jumpsuit, a respirator and a miner’s hat.
“Where’s the crawlspace?” he quietly asked.
I took him to the first portal of hell, the entry to the crawl space under our living quarters with the three full feet of headroom; the crawl space I’d never been in, and was certain I’d never have any reason to enter, in spite of the possibility of it containing a fortune in gold coins.
Mr. Critter Ridder donned the jumpsuit, strapped on the respirator, and topped it all off with the miners hat. He switched on the miners hat light, switched on his kick-ass big-time halogen flashlight (the kind most guys would kill for), and slowly descended into the first portal of hell. Off he crawled, without a “wish me luck”, into the inky darkness, in search of this nest of vipers.
Two things immediately occurred to me as our brave servant disappeared beneath the floor joists. One, suppose he finds the snake nest, he appears to be totally unarmed; what will he use to eradicate them? He had no flame thrower, no AA-12 automatic shotgun, no light saber – what in the hell would he use to kill these slinky little bastards? Two, how much was he going to charge us to do what he was in the process of doing? We didn’t discuss this before his descent into the abyss, and it quickly occurred to me that I wouldn’t climb down there, and LOOK FOR SNAKES, for a penny less than $500,000. While I didn’t have that sort of ready cash, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he would have emerged from beneath the floor, the flashlight between his teeth, and hundreds of writhing, tiny snakes clutched in his fists, saying through clenched jaws “You owe me $500,000!” Let’s be honest; any guy that would be man enough to crawl under your floors and capture live reptiles would have no problem shaking you down for cash.
To be continued……..
The building contractors, Farson & McBytemee, were hired to renovate the Riverside living quarters; while they came with a few good recommendations, truth had it they were two bartending ski-bums who, during a normal Grand County night of drunken debauchery (probably a Tuesday), set a friends deck on fire, burning it to the ground, then in a fit of soberness, rebuilt the deck. Rumor has it that the deck rebuild was true, level and square; they then deemed themselves building contractors.
25% over budget and one very expensive month behind schedule later, we had our new living quarters. Caveat Emptor, again.
It was Labor Day weekend, 2008, and the hotel was full for the entire three days. Full hotel means non-stop busy; up at 5:30 AM making endless pots of coffee, chatting with and checking people out, starting laundry, cleaning rooms and changing sheets, more laundry, helping with lunch-prep dishes, more laundry, lunch service, doing lunch dishes, cleaning the dining room and setting up for dinner service, more laundry, chatting with and checking guests in, helping with dinner prep, more laundry, grabbing a bite to eat on the fly, a quick shower, doing dinner prep dishes, dinner service, bartending, closing down the kitchen, bartending until 12:00 AM, closing down, locking up……then to bed.
It’ll start all over in four hours. This was our dream job. WTF were we thinking???
It was Sunday evening of Labor Day weekend, maybe 10:30ish, when Julie came back from our living quarters into a fairly busy bar to announce, in a slight panic, that there was a snake in our bedroom. As I was pretty damn busy manning the bar, I was unable to manhandle that snake, as would have been my normal duty. Yes sir, I would have normally jumped right in and handled that sort of task. Fortunately our good friend and neighbor, Tony the sober plumber, was quick to step in, and went back into our living quarters to slay the monster. After playing a little bit with Julie, telling her that it was a poisonous copperhead, he dispatched the 8” long, pencil thin snake. There’s one nice thing about the Hot Sulphur Springs 7700’ altitude and the long winters – it allows for no snakes or big hairy tropical spiders. The only snakes to be found at that elevation are small, non-poisonous black snakes, and the 9-month winters never give them the opportunity to grow much beyond 12” in length.
But let’s be honest here – a snake is a snake, and you damn sure don’t want them crawling around in your bedroom; not even a tough guy like me likes that sort of thing. Julie calmed down a bit, as I tried to assure her that this was an anomalous occurrence, and I doubted very much she’d see another snake in the living quarters. With the busy day we’d had, doors open and closing all day with people coming in and out, the slinky little fella had probably slithered his way in to get out of the blistering high-altitude afternoon sun, and found a nice, cool quiet place to lie on our closet floor. So back Julie went to bed, and back I went to tend bar.
It wasn’t five minutes before Julie was out the door of our living quarters, looking anxiously into the noisy, crowded bar for the specific purpose of getting my attention. While I’d actually never before seen Julie’s “Holy shit! There’s another snake in the bedroom!” expression, I was pretty sure that I was seeing it now. And in fact, there was another small snake in the bedroom, and another, then another. They were crawling through ¼” gaps between the floor and the trim that our crack deck builders had left open and unsealed. What was strange was why, all of a sudden at 10:30 on this Sunday night, were the snakes coming through all at once, right before our eyes? They even began crawling through another gap in the floor in the back bathroom. Was it a simple game of follow the leader – one snake made it through and then yelled back down into the crawl space, “Follow me boys, I’ve found some people up here to scare the shit out of!”
Most of the snakes were really small, not much bigger than your average fishing worm. But they had that big snake head that a worm doesn’t have, and they glided along the tile floor in that ssssnaky manner that makes those of you wussies that are afraid of snakes even more afraid of them. No question, this was not a good situation, and there was only one thing that could put a temporary halt to this situation – duct tape. I grabbed the roll that I keep on my bedpost for night time emergencies, and began taping the gaps in the floor, temporarily holding the little devils at bay. With the living quarters secured for the evening, Julie finally settled down enough to go to bed; I think she slept in the car.
The next day brought an end to the busy holiday weekend and a trip to the hardware store for a tube of clear silicone caulk to seal the gaps in the floor. I wasn’t sure what I’d see when I removed the duct tape; i.e. would the little buggers start flying through the cracks in an Omaha Beach sort of onslaught? Fortunately that wasn’t the case, as there was no evidence of snakes when they tape was removed, and I quickly went to the task of caulking the gaps, hoping it would dry quickly enough to offer the resistance necessary to forestall another PM snake blitz.
Caulk one up for polymer science and the fine folks at Dow Chemical, as the silicone cured and the reptilian onslaught was abated. That was good enough for me; but not for my business partner.
“Do you seriously expect me to live in a house that’s built over a set from an Indiana Jones movie?”
“Well of course not dear, but, who’s gonna, I mean, how would I……there ain’t no way I’m going down into that crawl space after a nest of snakes. In fact, I wouldn’t go into that crawl space after a treasure chest full of gold coins…..and we could damn sure use some gold coins!”
The internet was perused for methods of getting snakes out of your crawl space. I read numerous links, with a myriad of suggestions – from the ASPCA green, organic, non-kill recommendations (reason with them; tell them in a soothing tone that a better life awaits them in the neighbors crawl space), to the toxic – Ted Nugent’s web site suggested a modified flame thrower, which, coincidentally, he had for sale, free shipping included. Without a doubt, the best method involved hiring someone else to do the dirty work, and I found a business in nearby Kremmeling, CO; the “Critter Ridder”.
The Critter Ridder showed on time, with an assistant, equipped with flashlights, ladders and glue traps. When I explained the situation, the man quietly went to the truck, and returned with a TyVek jumpsuit, a respirator and a miner’s hat.
“Where’s the crawlspace?” he quietly asked.
I took him to the first portal of hell, the entry to the crawl space under our living quarters with the three full feet of headroom; the crawl space I’d never been in, and was certain I’d never have any reason to enter, in spite of the possibility of it containing a fortune in gold coins.
Mr. Critter Ridder donned the jumpsuit, strapped on the respirator, and topped it all off with the miners hat. He switched on the miners hat light, switched on his kick-ass big-time halogen flashlight (the kind most guys would kill for), and slowly descended into the first portal of hell. Off he crawled, without a “wish me luck”, into the inky darkness, in search of this nest of vipers.
Two things immediately occurred to me as our brave servant disappeared beneath the floor joists. One, suppose he finds the snake nest, he appears to be totally unarmed; what will he use to eradicate them? He had no flame thrower, no AA-12 automatic shotgun, no light saber – what in the hell would he use to kill these slinky little bastards? Two, how much was he going to charge us to do what he was in the process of doing? We didn’t discuss this before his descent into the abyss, and it quickly occurred to me that I wouldn’t climb down there, and LOOK FOR SNAKES, for a penny less than $500,000. While I didn’t have that sort of ready cash, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he would have emerged from beneath the floor, the flashlight between his teeth, and hundreds of writhing, tiny snakes clutched in his fists, saying through clenched jaws “You owe me $500,000!” Let’s be honest; any guy that would be man enough to crawl under your floors and capture live reptiles would have no problem shaking you down for cash.
To be continued……..
Friday, July 9, 2010
The Three Portals of Hell................Part II
The arrival of the automobile brought about the departure of the livery stable. I don’t know the exact year that the Riverside converted the stable into additional hotel rooms, but I have to think by looking at the pictures that it was in the early 1920’s. The transformation from horse house to guest house - (horse house to whore house would have been more alliterate, and possibly more accurate) - gave the hotel 11 additional guest rooms and new living quarters for the owner or manager. In subsequent years, two of the downstairs guest rooms were converted into the laundry room and tool room, while the remaining two downstairs guest rooms were seldom used by the paying public.
When Abe owned the hotel, the living quarters were separated from the hotel lobby by two doors, always closed and somewhat foreboding. It was a bit of a mystery as to what was actually behind the doors, as Abe himself was….uh… a bit of a mystery; but Abe is for another chapter. It’ll be a long one.
During our tire-kicking phase of deciding whether or not to buy the hotel, we made four visits over the course of the spring and summer of 2007. We never saw the owner’s quarters, the place where we would live the next X years of our lives, until the fourth and final visit. The truth was, we were both afraid of what lay beyond those doors – afraid that it would be so despicable that it would immediately squelch our desire to make this radical lifestyle change in this idyllic setting on the banks of the Colorado River. While we wanted a change, we didn’t necessarily want to leave our house in Kansas City – a beautiful house that we built and in which we raised our family.
At the end of that fourth visit, our cars packed and goodbyes being said, Abe finally asked if we’d like to see the owner’s quarters. With just the slightest bit of trepidation (I’m being sarcastic here) we headed through the foreboding doors, back into the unknown world of Abraham Rodriguez. We were accompanied by friends from KC who went with us on this trip to see, as they couldn’t help but believe, if we’d totally lost our minds.
In we went, me in front with the others lagging behind. I didn’t spend much time in the place, and didn’t talk or discuss with the others what we were seeing. I had no questions for Abe, who kind of stood back, very quietly, with a sheepish look on his face that said “I sure hope they don’t notice that 500-pound turd sitting in the middle of the room.”
When we got in the car to leave, Julie started peppering me with question after question – “did you see this”, “did you notice that”, “could you believe what was in that one room”, etc. The truth of the matter was, I didn’t see or notice much of anything, as I walked through that place much like you’d walk through a busy hospital emergency room trauma ward – with your eyes straight ahead, not looking to either side for fear of what horrific thing to which you might be a witness.
There was a simple answer to this hell on earth, this fetid collection of cobbled-together rooms, shelves, nooks and crannies that was the Riverside living quarters – “don’t view it as it is, view it as what it can be.” That philosophy, adopted before I ever set foot in the place, was what allowed me to walk through and not be affected by the horrors contained in this sub-human dwelling. If only there had been a 500 pound turd to be affronted by; trust me, it would have been a classy addition to the actual contents of Abe’s inner sanctum. Pure and simple, the place had to be gutted down to the studs. Any vestiges of the previous owner had to be banished, burnished, bazooka-ed, burned, banned, bulldozed and buried; then fumigated.
The Riverside was purchased, and a contractor hired to literally strip the living quarters to the studs and the bare earth below, down to the floor of the crawl space. This would be the first time in 130 years that the earthen floor had seen daylight. And although Geraldo has moved on to less risky stunts, there was a little bit of ‘what would we find??’ when we exposed what lay beneath those floors. The biggest question came from a noticeable hump – a hump shaped suspiciously like a human body in repose – from a floor section in Abe’s bedroom. No lie; to the right of Abe’s bed, in an open spot of floor in front of the entry door – conspicuously hidden under a throw rug – was an 8” hump that was 6’ in length and 2.5’ in width. Poe’s vulture-eyed antagonist surely would have fit nicely in such a space. What could be the cause of this unnatural protuberance?
To be continued…………..
When Abe owned the hotel, the living quarters were separated from the hotel lobby by two doors, always closed and somewhat foreboding. It was a bit of a mystery as to what was actually behind the doors, as Abe himself was….uh… a bit of a mystery; but Abe is for another chapter. It’ll be a long one.
During our tire-kicking phase of deciding whether or not to buy the hotel, we made four visits over the course of the spring and summer of 2007. We never saw the owner’s quarters, the place where we would live the next X years of our lives, until the fourth and final visit. The truth was, we were both afraid of what lay beyond those doors – afraid that it would be so despicable that it would immediately squelch our desire to make this radical lifestyle change in this idyllic setting on the banks of the Colorado River. While we wanted a change, we didn’t necessarily want to leave our house in Kansas City – a beautiful house that we built and in which we raised our family.
At the end of that fourth visit, our cars packed and goodbyes being said, Abe finally asked if we’d like to see the owner’s quarters. With just the slightest bit of trepidation (I’m being sarcastic here) we headed through the foreboding doors, back into the unknown world of Abraham Rodriguez. We were accompanied by friends from KC who went with us on this trip to see, as they couldn’t help but believe, if we’d totally lost our minds.
In we went, me in front with the others lagging behind. I didn’t spend much time in the place, and didn’t talk or discuss with the others what we were seeing. I had no questions for Abe, who kind of stood back, very quietly, with a sheepish look on his face that said “I sure hope they don’t notice that 500-pound turd sitting in the middle of the room.”
When we got in the car to leave, Julie started peppering me with question after question – “did you see this”, “did you notice that”, “could you believe what was in that one room”, etc. The truth of the matter was, I didn’t see or notice much of anything, as I walked through that place much like you’d walk through a busy hospital emergency room trauma ward – with your eyes straight ahead, not looking to either side for fear of what horrific thing to which you might be a witness.
There was a simple answer to this hell on earth, this fetid collection of cobbled-together rooms, shelves, nooks and crannies that was the Riverside living quarters – “don’t view it as it is, view it as what it can be.” That philosophy, adopted before I ever set foot in the place, was what allowed me to walk through and not be affected by the horrors contained in this sub-human dwelling. If only there had been a 500 pound turd to be affronted by; trust me, it would have been a classy addition to the actual contents of Abe’s inner sanctum. Pure and simple, the place had to be gutted down to the studs. Any vestiges of the previous owner had to be banished, burnished, bazooka-ed, burned, banned, bulldozed and buried; then fumigated.
The Riverside was purchased, and a contractor hired to literally strip the living quarters to the studs and the bare earth below, down to the floor of the crawl space. This would be the first time in 130 years that the earthen floor had seen daylight. And although Geraldo has moved on to less risky stunts, there was a little bit of ‘what would we find??’ when we exposed what lay beneath those floors. The biggest question came from a noticeable hump – a hump shaped suspiciously like a human body in repose – from a floor section in Abe’s bedroom. No lie; to the right of Abe’s bed, in an open spot of floor in front of the entry door – conspicuously hidden under a throw rug – was an 8” hump that was 6’ in length and 2.5’ in width. Poe’s vulture-eyed antagonist surely would have fit nicely in such a space. What could be the cause of this unnatural protuberance?
To be continued…………..
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