My Ultimate Humiliation... My First Experience With A Scooter (Sort Of)

I am occasionally required to do something in the way of serious writing to pay the bills and put comestibles in the old nose bag. Yet there was a time when I had my choice of jobs. Two avenues of labor beckoned to me as a young man. One was to become a piano layer in a bordello. I had the job for two days, but was discharged for not having the vaguest idea how get noise out of the ivories, and for dipping into the profits. The second was to become a public relations writer, which is still pretty close to whoring, though in the literary sense. My skills as a practitioner of the black arts were called into play by the business travel industry down in Washington, D.C. this past week, which accounts for my absence from this forum, and my irregular response to clever statements published elsewhere.

My travel arrangements were similar to those professed by the late Hunter S. Thompson. I drove my own vehicle, surrounded by the things that keep me sharp and comfortable (fifty cups of coffee, a box of cigars, and fresh pack of teki maki from the sushi place down the street.) Consequently, I arrived in DC looking like a bag of rumpled laundry that escaped from a prison hamper. The hotel parking valet scorned my 14-year-old Suburban like it was shit. A cloud of cigar smoke drifted out the open driver’s window, causing him to cough like a shop steward from a coal mine.

“Will the door come off if I open it, sir,” he asked.

“Fuck you, Rinaldo,” I smiled, pocketing the two dollar tip he would have had. “Don’t scratch the rust.”

The hotel was a sprawling affair, spanning three towers, two conference centers, and about 60 meeting rooms. A famous designer used a floor plan based on a prairie dog colony to lay this place out. With a rack rate of $300 a night (which nobody pays anymore), it is exactly the kind of hotel I really hate. Registration was a mere 200 yards from where Rinaldo picked up my truck with distaste.

I was early for the event and noted, with smug satisfaction, that I had beaten the usual crowd to the desk. It was then I noticed there was no usual crowd. This was my first taste of the devastation that has hit my industry. A bellman was ready in an instant, another symptom of the state of the industry, and after another brief 900-yard walk, I was in my room.

The sweat poured out out of me.

My regular readers are aware that I am the world’s largest living mammal, dwarfing the legendary supersaurus. (It is reported that this huge creature had one brain in its head and another in its ass. There are those who feel I may have more in common with this creature than size.) I am fairly crippled with arthritis, and the sweat comes from dealing with pain in my hips and knees. Still, walking around this hotel at all was a major improvement for me as I couldn’t walk more than 25 feet in any direction last November. I have been losing weight, and Doctor Williams from Orthopedic Associates of Bethlehem (Pa) has been working wonders for me.

I am most often compared in size with the supersaurus.

The appendage at the back is not a tail, but a prehensile penis (another reason for my popularity in certain circles; I can find the "G" spot in a fog with my eyes closed, and tickle it with a toothbrush).

(Ilustration courtesy of Wikipedia -- Click to enlarge)

Business travel industry events used to be total pissers 15 or 20 years ago. Now they are like attending reunions at someone else’s school. The best line I heard at this event was “flat is the new up.” That’s like looking at me and saying “55 is the new 30 and thin.”

Losing weight has helped me enormously. But I wasn’t ready for some things. For example, I picked up my dress clothes at the cleaners and threw them into a bag. When I put them on, they were all one size too big. I found myself limping down hallways with my cane in my right hand, and holding up my pants with my left.

I managed to walk the halls of this place for two days. Every office I needed to hit was three quarters of a mile from wherever I was. Still, I was determined to cover the ground without giving in, even though that “God-Help-Me” look was plastered on my face and my shirts were soaked with sweat by 10 am.

Until Sunday.

The press office was located at the farthest perimeter from the center of the action. I paced it. It was about 9 football fields from my room. I did the distance once, and heard my left hip pop.

“Fuck this room, and fuck this hotel,” I said. Then I offered a passing bellman $5 to ride me to the press room on his luggage cart. He hesitated, looking around. There was probably a rule against this. I raised the ante to $10.

“Sir,” he said with a trace of a Latin American accent, “There is a little electric car at the bell stand that I could let you use. Please wait here.”

He returned five minutes later with a little red scooter/chair. Now I have seen fat, stupid-looking dopes, riding around supermarkets in these things, and I swore I’d die before I ever got on one. But at that moment, it looked like Nirvana. I eased my huge fat ass into office chair on the back, and heard my hips sigh.

“Do you know how to drive such a vehicle,” asked the bellman, pocketing the tenner.

“Hold my beer. Watch this,” was my reply.

I took off down the hallway at about 40 miles per hour. Pressing the horn button made a noise like a bugling elk -- and flashed the headlights. Chambermaids, conference participants, waiters, and presenters ran screaming for their lives, or flattened themselves against the wall as I buzzed by.

The device above is close in design to the vehicle produced by the hotel bellman.

(Photo courtesy of the internet -- Click to enlarge)

For the first time in 31-years, Jack Riepe felt the wind in his hair -- in a hotel. Hearing me yelling as I approached, a reporter from USA Today swung open the door to the press room and I arrived in style. (This is absolutely true.) I am among my own in the sanctity of the press room. These guys know me and anything goes.

I used that scooter four more times before I left for home. Parked outside the press room, it became an object of interest for a bunch of kids attending some youth event. They changed all the settings on the machine. When I went to ride it for the last time, it appeared to have no power. It was then I noticed a knob with a indicator that would point to either a tortoise or a hare, or any point in between. My esteemed colleague, Kate Farrell, who often introduces me to others with the preamble that I am mildly retarded, explained that this was the universal language for illiterates.

"See if switching the knob from the turtle to the rabbit makes a difference," said Kate.

It did.

I still wouldn’t use one of these things in a supermarket. But walking close to a mile carrying 30 pounds of crap is a bit ambitious for me. In the meantime, the weight loss will continue. I hope to be riding "Fire Balls" in a couple of days. But this is my ride report for today, and I am sticking to it.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2009
AKA The Lindbergh Baby (Mac-Pac)
AKA Vindak8r (Motorcycle Views)
AKA The Chamberlain -- PS (With A Shrug)