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appeal for travelers. But now, with the advent of ultramodern resort motels on every corner of every major highway, places like the timeworn Chambers Bay struggled just to hold their heads above water. |
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On balance, it was clean, comfortable and reasonably well kept, but it was evident that the ravages of time were exacting their inevitable toll. Next to the entrance was an old-fashioned, carefully lettered welcoming sign complete with cuddling bluebirds that proudly proclaimed Bert and Polly Johnson to be the owners since 1957. |
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Kelto wasn't behind the desk. Instead I was confronted by a smiling, open-faced man with large horn-rimmed glasses and friendly brown eyes. For the most part he was bald. He had a grease smear on one cheek and busied himself trying to repair an old mechanical calculator. He looked up at me expectantly. "Can I help you?" |
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"You can if you can spare a moment or two." |
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"Need a room?" he asked hopefully. |
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"Nope. I'm already registered. The name is Wages, E.G. Wages. My partner and I checked in last night." |
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The man wiped his hands on an oily rag and reached across the desk to shake my hand. "My name's Bert Johnson. Me and my wife Polly own this place." |
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"Nice place. We like it." Some white lies are good for the soul. |
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