“As far as I know, I don’t snore. How about you, Thurm?
“Not me,” Thurm said. “I’ve never been a snorer.”
“Then it’s settled. We’ll be the no-snoring room tonight.” Then Harry continued, loud enough to make sure Bob Stevens could hear him up front. “That’s right. We’ll be sleeping like babies tonight in the No-Snore Zone.”
I could see Bob’s eyes in the rearview mirror as they narrowed. Most of the other staff members just tolerated Harry, but for some inexplicable reason, Dr. Jorgensen loved the man. If not for this crucial fact, Harry would’ve been gone a long time ago.
“Hey, Harry,” Thurm hollered over the noise of the van. “Tell Elmo about the time you forgot to bring your song lyrics to that wedding for your solo.”
Harry threw his head back and laughed like a wild animal. His eyes grew big and animated. The man had the world’s largest mouth. I’d seen him put a whole unpeeled orange in his mouth with room to spare.
He reached over the seat and slapped my leg. “Elmo, you wouldn’t have believed it unless you’d been there. See, when I sing solos for weddings, my assistant Carlene places the selected sheet music in a designated blue Weddings folder for me. When I arrive at the church for the wedding, I simply swing by my office, pick up the folder on my desk, then take my position on the platform and wait for my spot in the program to sing. I’ve sung all these wedding songs so many times I know the melodies by heart. I just need the lyrics, particularly for those second and third verses.
“Well, at this wedding last year—” Harry paused to keep from laughing, “At this wedding, I’m standing at my position, and it’s my turn to sing; the music starts, I open the file folder, and voila—no sheet music! I actually said ‘uh oh’ out loud!” Harry then paused for dramatic effect.
Impatiently, I asked, “Well, what did you do?” I glanced at Thurm, who had one of those pre-laugh smiles on his face.
“Elmo, I’ve been doing this a long time, so I decided just to wing it. There was no problem through the first verse and chorus, but from that point on, I just made up the words as I went along, faking it all the way until I finished the song like a pro. The wedding party was so caught up in the event, they didn’t even realize anything was amiss. I thought I’d fooled everyone until one of my choir members approached me at the wedding reception. With a wry smile, she said, “I never realized that song had a verse about tadpoles, butterflies, and sand in your eyes.”
His eyes widened even more. “They played a tape of that performance at the annual choir banquet, and people literally fell out of their chairs laughing.”
We all shared a good laugh. Harry even had tears in his eyes. I admit it was funny and wished I’d been there to hear it live. Harry’s life was a continuous string of outrageous episodes like that, one right after another. I think Dr. Jorgensen kept him around just for comic relief. Harry turned his attention to the front of the van to spend some quality time bothering Fran and Bob.
I dialed down my voice so only Thurm could hear me. “So tell me, what’s the deal between Fred Snooker and Dr. De Villa?”
“Oh, that goes way back, and it’s really kind of ugly. How’d you find out about it?” Thurm asked quietly.
“Dr. DV is my faculty advisor for the First Church internship.”
“Ooh, that’s unfortunate.” Thurm frowned. “Whose dog did you run over to earn that privilege?”
“It’s actually turned out to be a blessing because he’s rarely there for our appointments. Most weeks, I’m in and out in less than a minute. I’m there just long enough to wink at Bess, his graduate assistant, and sign in.”
Thurm smiled. “You know she’s—”
“Whatever it is I don’t want to know,” I interrupted, holding my hand up. “Just fill me in on the Snooker/De Villa Conflict of the Titans.
“Okay, but I’m only giving you the short version since we’re almost to the retreat center. Plus the long version is just plain boring.”
“Fine with me,” I said, sliding down in the seat and propping my knees up on the back of the seat in front of me.
Thurm turned sideways to face me and started the grand tale. “Fred and Augie go way back, maybe even as far as high school. They were both very bright and competed for everything along the way. If Fred was Student Council President, then Augie was Captain of the Debate Team. If Augie dated the head cheerleader, then Fred dated the homecoming queen. They both graduated from Cornell, then both attended Harvest Morgan Seminary. They weren’t really friends, but it was a good-natured competition, and everyone played fair and by the rules.
“Sometime during the ‘60s, the screws started loosening a bit in Dr. DV’s brain. It was subtle and almost no one noticed, but Fred had spent his entire adult life trying to best the man, and he knew something wasn’t right. Fred was the Associate Pastor at First Church at the time and also on the Board of Trustees at Harvest Morgan. When the head of the Theology Department at the seminary retired, the board was considering Dr. DV for the position. Augie was brilliant, and this was the job he coveted. He had the requisite tenure, academic credentials, national reputation, and respect of the rest of the faculty. He was a shoe-in, but Fred intervened and convinced the board that Augie was not the right person. Fred suspected Augie might be in the beginning stages of something like Alzheimer’s, but he chose not to mention his suspicions to the board. Instead, he passionately argued for ‘new blood from outside the seminary’ to reinvigorate the program, and he succeeded in persuading the rest of the trustees.
“Fred’s actions came out of kindness. He didn’t want to embarrass Augie by questioning his mental stability in front of the board. But Dr. DV felt as though he’d been denied his dream job by the jealous machinations of his old rival Fred Snooker. The Great Feud had begun.
“Several years later, Fred served as Interim Pastor at First Church. He was also a candidate for the permanent position. Dr. DV worked the phones tirelessly, calling in all his markers to kill any chance Fred had to ever be Senior Pastor. There’s been bad blood both ways ever since.”
Thurm sighed. “And that’s just the short version. They haven’t spoken directly to each other for twenty or thirty years.”
I sat up in my seat. “Let me get this straight. You have a tenured department head at one of the most highly esteemed seminaries in the country, and you have the second-ranking pastor at one of the most renowned churches in the country, and these guys have refused to speak to each other for almost thirty years?”
“That’s the facts,” Thurm said shaking his head. “And both are brilliant Bible scholars.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“Tom Applebee gave me the long, boring version last year when we were on a three-hour flight to California.”
An exclusive retreat getaway, the Golden Stallion Stables and Spa catered to the privileged few. Privately owned by a dozen of the more well-heeled individuals from our state, its board was chaired by Smitty Fitzsimons, who served as the driving force behind the whole development. Famous for its riding stables, the Golden Stallion served as home to a former Kentucky Derby winner and several other championship horses. Also available on the prestigious grounds—first class tennis facilities, twenty-seven holes of manicured Jack Nicklaus designed golf, a skeet shooting range, and of course, a full-service spa. The bylaws required all buildings, including the Main Lodge, support structures, and any private cabins built by the club members, to be of luxury log cabin design. The entire property had a rustic ambience to it, though once inside the Main Lodge it felt anything but rustic. Think Daniel Boone meets Dubai.
Club membership was limited to three hundred families, but the waiting list numbered in the thousands. Many of the members had built cabins around the property for weekend getaways and summer vacations. The word cabin doesn’t really do justice as a description for these part-time domains. Some of these log homes were seven or eight thousand square feet in size. Many had huge floor-to-ceiling wi
ndows spanning two stories, overlooking the golf course with spectacular panoramic views. Most included separate garages housing up to half-a-dozen vehicles. These were big money, old money, new money, family money, and foreign money people; the operative word here—money. And lots of it.
And each year, the primary staff of First Church held their annual staff retreat at the Golden Stallion. I thought it rather ironic that the theme for this year’s staff retreat was Sacrifice.
Harry, Thurm, and I were assigned to a spacious and nicely appointed room in what I would call a neo-woodsman motif. No mounted animal heads on the walls, but a weekend hunter would feel right at home. (A mere assumption on my part since I’d never hunted or fired a gun.) The room had only two beds; a full-size bed that matched the other furniture and a single Murphy bed that pulled down from the wall. Harry quickly threw his bag on the full-size bed even as Thurm pulled down the Murphy.
As the reality of the situation slowly sank in, Harry chuckled. “Jenkins, it’s a good thing you don’t snore since we’re gonna be sleeping cheek to cheek.” He stepped into the bathroom closing the door behind him.
“Well, at least one of us will be getting some sleep,” Thurm said with a smirk.
I winced. “Oh, you’re good, Thurm. You sized up the bed dilemma the minute we walked in and staked your claim to secure the best option.”
He smiled. “I am fast on my feet, but this time I merely had the advantage of remembering last year’s retreat. I’m sure you’ll do fine. After all, remember Harry said he doesn’t snore.”
“Yeah, but a full-size bed for two adult men? That’s just wrong.”
“Elmo, just give Harry a kiss on the cheek before we turn in, and I guarantee, he’ll stay on his side of the bed all night long.” Thurm laughed at his own retelling of that tired old joke, then headed back to the lobby.
Whoever invented the full-size bed was a moron. When two adults sleep in a full-size bed, they’re basically shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip. There’s no room to turn over, so you have to more or less levitate and spin. Otherwise, you either land on top of the other person or fall on the floor.
I wasn’t looking forward to the experience one bit. This had nightmare written all over it.
We had free time all afternoon, so Thurm and I played some tennis. I neglected to warn Thurm ahead of time that I’ve been banned from playing tennis in forty-five states and Puerto Rico; mostly for my own safety. Meaning, I dutifully chased around his “winners” for an hour while he scurried after my “losers.” But he was a good sport about my lack of tennis acumen. I only heard him laugh out loud a half-dozen times or so.
That evening’s dinner was impressive. We sat at tables covered in starched white linen, adorned with expensive European china, Waterford crystal, and real silver cutlery. I shared a table with Tom Applebee, Fran Bruker, and Doreen McGinty, the Children’s’ Ministry Director. We were given two entrée options: prime rib or spring pheasant. I chose the prime rib which arrived as a thick slice, seasoned and cooked to perfection. Each bite sent my taste buds on a two-week all-expense paid trip to some far-off land. This fine piece of beef was accompanied on my plate by new potatoes marinated in some type of olive oil concoction, then lightly broiled and sprinkled with a spicy Cajun seasoning. Rounding out this exquisite course, fresh steamed kale grown organically right there on the grounds in the Lodge’s own garden. Waiters were all about attending to our every dining need. Unaccustomed to this type of attention, I felt a bit pampered, almost embarrassed by all the fuss.
“Well, Elmo,” Tom said, breaking the silence, “are you enjoying our staff retreat so far?”
I took two or three more good chews on the beef in my mouth and washed it down with some very sweet iced tea. “Yes, I am. This is one unbelievable facility.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed. “When Smitty approached me about having our staff retreat here each year, at first I was hesitant.”
“Because of the wrong impression it might give to the First Church membership?” I asked sincerely, though naively.
“Oh no,” he chuckled. “I hesitated because of the cost. This elegant meal we’re all enjoying is about $75 a plate. And you don’t want to know what the accommodations run.”
“What changed your mind?”
“That’s easy.” He laughed again. “Smitty decided to pick up the tab, at no cost to the church budget. A tax write-off for either him or the Golden Stallion, I suppose. Bob worked out all the details.”
“That’s amazing.” I reached for another croissant.
Tom smiled at Fran and Doreen. “It’s a well-deserved perk for our primary staff members. These folks work long, hard weeks, often with unreliable volunteers, under challenging conditions, and usually with little or no appreciation. Most lay people have no idea how hard it is being a church staff member.”
“I’ve learned that much already,” I said confirming his statement. “I even heard a church member ask Thurm the other day what he did for a living during the week. Never mind that the poor guy usually works six days a week, burning the candle at both ends just trying to keep up with the hundreds of teenagers in this church.”
“You’re right, Elmo. I’ve always said church staff work isn’t for slackers, cowards, or wimps.” Both Fran and Doreen nodded their heads in agreement. Tom waved the dessert cart over to our table.
The others selected cheesecake artistically drizzled with raspberry sauce and a sprinkling of dark-chocolate shavings. I topped off my dinner with a smooth piece of French silk pie, and as Bob Stevens would say, a cup of snooty coffee.
After dinner, we were informed that Dr Jorgensen was running late, so our evening session was scrapped. We would start in the morning and incorporate the missed agenda items into the morning’s meetings. This worked out great for me on two levels. First, I’d get to spend some time that evening getting to know the other staff members a little better. And second, much to my delight, due to the schedule change my Friday morning presentation to the group was cancelled. Momentarily forgetting about my lousy sleeping arrangements, I thought—now I can get a good night’s rest. I was jarred back to reality by Harry Simpkins’s loud howling across the room over something Lois Estrada said.
Most of us just hung around in the great room for several hours sitting in the cushy chairs and telling ministry anecdotes. We had a good time. Just after 9:00 p.m., I did notice the 50-and-older set start slipping away to their rooms. By 9:15, just us younger folks remained along with Tom and Harry. I also knew from experience that these “early to bed” senior adults would be up at the crack of dawn ready to change the world. They’d be making all kinds of racket while the younger generation was trying to sleep in until the last possible minute.
At about 10:00, Tom stood up, stretched, and announced it was bedtime. Lights out in thirty minutes. We all dutifully headed toward our rooms. Harry proudly reminded everyone he was sleeping in the No-Snore Zone this year. Fortunately, Bob Stevens and Fred Snooker had already retired for the night. Sure enough, you could hear them cranking out the hits as we walked by their room.
This led Harry to do a little victory dance as he turned into our doorway. “What did I tell you? The Righteous Brothers are already in there performing their double live album.” He let out a boisterous laugh as he grabbed his toilet kit and disappeared into the bathroom.
Thurm and I were lying on our beds and talking when Harry padded back into the room in his stylish silk maroon pajamas with matching eyeshade pushed up on his forehead. For some reason, he reminded me of Ernest P. Worrell. Maybe it was the dim lighting in the room. I was going to spend an entire night in a full-size bed with this guy. An intense shiver shot up my spine. Jumping off the bed, I settled into the one chair in the room.
Harry pulled back the covers and climbed in. He fluffed his pillow then eased onto his back, simultaneously pulling the eyeshade down over his eyes. “Now remember boys, no snoring.”
“Good night, Harry,” I said, smiling at Thu
rm.
Thurm and I lowered our voices and continued our conversation. In a few moments, Harry let out a sigh and began breathing deeply.
A minute later he began to snore. At first quietly, but then he floored the pedal, and the rafters began to shake.
It was going to be a long night.
The Black Toe Enigma
I arose from bed early. Notice I did not say I awoke early. In order to wake up you have to have been asleep. Harry was indeed a master snorer, but that wasn’t the problem. I came prepared for that possibility because I always carry foam earplugs when I travel.
I’m from a large family of snorers. Both my parents were robust snorers, and after forty years of marriage, they would actually harmonize as they sawed logs side-by-side in—that’s right—a full-size bed. Neither my siblings nor I ever got any sleep on family vacations. My parents would then have the gall to wonder why we were always cranky on those long car rides.
No, I was ready for Harry’s snoring. After washing up for the night, I simply jammed in my earplugs and settled in for what I hoped would be a good night’s sleep. All went according to plan, and I had just entered into that fuzzy pre-sleep transition zone when—WHAM! Harry kicked me right above my left ankle! It jolted me wide awake, though at first I didn’t remember where I was since the room was totally dark. Had there been an emergency like a fire or something? I jerked out my earplugs only to find everything calm and quiet. Except for Harry’s snoring, of course.
Man, that was weird. I lay back down, replacing my trusty earplugs. Again I quieted my thoughts and was about to fall asleep when—WHAM! Harry kicked me again! Surely he’s not playing some type of sophomoric prank, I pondered. I checked. He was still sound asleep.
This happened numerous times during the night at random intervals. I would get thirty or forty-five minutes of sleep, then Harry would kick me through the uprights for yet another three points. I never quite made it to stage five REM sleep.
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