The Jameson Inn

I don’t know what it is about this place! Nothing ever goes smoothly at the Jameson Inn. If the hotel wasn’t located, literally a stone’s throw from our customer’s plant, I’d consider relocating to a finer establishment… like the Hawkinsville Super 8, or perhaps the Bleckley Correctional Institute.

They had no record of my reservation. Producing my itinerary didn’t help any. The two desk clerks… let’s call them Betty Jean, and Shaniqua… looked at the document like I’d asked them to decipher the Dead Sea Scrolls, or something. They asked if my reservation could be under another name. “I don’t know. Who hasn’t checked in yet?” Apparently sarcasm ends at the Dodge County line because they simply responded with, “We can’t tell you that sir!”

Recovering nicely, I inquired, “Okay, do you have any rooms available for tonight?”

“What kind of room?” C’mon, this has to be a trick question, right?

“Is the Honeymoon Suite available?”

“We don’t have one of those”, Betty Jean tittered.

“Then, how about one that no one is already in, shaped roughly like a rectangle, clean and with a panoramic view of the back lot?”

Shaniqua, apparently the brains of the operation, now knew that I was a wise-ass, and came back with, “King or two doubles, smoking or nonsmoking?”

“King and nonsmoking but what about that view?”

They ignored me. “Have you stayed with us before?”

“More times than I care to remember.”

Betty Jean requested my name, which hadn’t changed since we checked for my elusive reservation a few minutes ago and Shaniqua asked if I was still a member of AARP? I think that there’s only one way to leave that club, but I produced my card as proof nonetheless. “And which credit card will you be using?”

“How about the one that’s in your left hand?”

“Oh, right.”

Betty Jean photocopied my license and my AARP card… one at a time… at a Xerox machine located in the nearby office. All of these precautions had me wondering if maybe I took a wrong turn and this is actually the Correctional Facility.

After the intake processing, I was handed back all of my belongings and a key to room 210. I waited a moment to make sure that I wouldn’t be given orange prison garb and shower sandals too.

Just as I was about to make good on my getaway, Betty Jean called out, “Do you know about our breakfast?”

“Oh my god yes, it’s why I drive three hours from Atlanta to stay here. Is it still scheduled for the morning?”

“Good night sir!”

210 turned out to be on the backside of the Inn, overlooking the pool. A small gathering of men in baseball caps sat around the cement pond drinking and rubbing bellies that flooped over their swim trunks like deployed airbags. A glance at a line of nearby rigs left me thinking that the Jameson caters to a long haul clientele. I’ll bet they come for the breakfast too.

I don’t think my new neighbors were much impressed when I slid my tiny Toyota Prius into an empty slot and started unloading my matching luggage.

The room met my exacting specs and I flipped on the TV while unpacking my stuff. I turned on my computer and waited for it to come alive. Unfortunately, and in a final demonstration of ineptitude, I learned that the internet was down at the Inn, limiting the kind of work that I could accomplish.

They next morning, I explored the Jameson’s world renowned continental breakfast. I’ve got to hand it to them... it was the best instant oatmeal I’ve ever tasted!