How Not To Run A B&B: A Woman's True Memoir

by Bobby Hutchinson

I said the gerbils had to go, but I didn’t have the foresight to ask exactly where they’d gone. Shortly afterwards, summer came and the girls left for home, never to be heard from again. Obviously, the gerbils were another story.

  “We suggest live traps,” said the extermination man. “They should be easy to catch, with the right bait.”

  “Which is?”

  “Nuts. They love nuts.”

  Like pistachios. Honestly, Eric.

  “How long does it take gerbils to have babies?” I had no idea if the Norwegian’s gerbils were the right sexual mix, but it seemed likely the girls would have bought one of each.

  “Two weeks.”

  I calculated how many weeks the girls had been gone and multiplied by gestation days. The numbers were staggering, even to my mathematically challenged brain. I could now have enough gerbils in my walls to supply every kindergarten class in greater Vancouver, with some left over for Surrey.

  My voice wobbled. “Live traps, dead traps, poisoned pistachios, I don’t care. Just get rid of them, I’m trying to run a business here.” The men flinched and I realized I was shouting. So I was hysterical, I had good reason.

  It took two weeks, and several dozen live traps, during which time I had to tell prospective guests that I was so sorry, but I was fully booked. And the little devils had been busy, the final gerbil head count was eleven.

  They cost me loss of income, plus far more than the Norwegians and the French together had paid, but the day finally came when the rodent men declared my walls gerbil free.

  I’m not exactly sure what the message is here for the B&B hostess. Don’t rent to Norwegians? Beware of gerbils? Don’t trust Eric when it comes to pistachio nuts?

  Those, certainly, but also, always expect the unexpected. The truly great thing about running a B&B is the unpredictability of events. It’s similar to having someone ask what you like in bed. The answer, of course, is surprise me, bearing in mind that no one ever promised all surprises would be wonderful.

  JUST A NOTE ABOUT BEDBUGS

  Thanks be to the Universe and all the gods of hospitality, I never encountered these nasty little morsels in my beds—but a guest from Wales did before she stayed with me. She slept at an unfortunate abode in Calgary, Alta., after her long plane ride and was bitten. She and her friends washed every scrap of belongings and themselves before they came to me, but the bites infected and she was very ill. With the turnover of guests and the new influx of bedbugs in North America, one’s chances of encountering these tiny, flat, brownish red creatures is becoming more and more likely.

  There are products available to get rid of them, and procedures I pray I never have to follow. Research on the Net is enlightening. (And yes, you’ll scratch for days after reading it, but as we know, everything has a consequence.)

  Now, forget about that nastiness and make yourself a cup of

  FRENCH BREAKFAST CHOCOLAT

  (as interpreted by the Blue Collar)

  Into a saucepan, put:

  4 squares unsweetened chocolate (Caillibot)

  1 cup water

  Dash salt

  Stir over low heat until melted

  Cook 10 minutes, stirring a lot.

  Cool. Fold in 1 cup whipping cream.

  Refrigerate.

  When ready to serve, put about ¼ cup in fancy mug, add hot milk to fill.

  Let guests sweeten to taste (or not)

  CHAPTER SIX

  Louie, Louie, oh no, me gotta go--

  Having Louie creeping around the garden at two AM was certainly a surprise to my guests, and not a pleasant one. After he’d scared a timid little woman from England half silly, I once again tried to convince him he had to keep out of my garden.

  “But I can’t sleep without Sammy,” Louie whined, clasping his hands over his protuberant belly, watery blue eyes magnified by his thick spectacles, two days growth of bristly whiskers peppering his cheeks. He had remnants of something yellow stuck in the corners of his mouth.

  “Sammy goes out at night and I worry about him.”

  I took several steps back, distancing myself from his potent fishy breath. I suspected he and Sammy dined on the same tins of tuna.

  “I know that, Louie. But you can’t wander around my garden at three in the morning calling for him, it scares my guests.”

  “But I need Sammy. I can’t sleep without Sammy,” he insisted, chin quivering.

  I sighed, sorry for all of us.

  “He’s a tomcat, Louie. Tomcats are nocturnal.” I saw the incomprehension in his eyes and amended, “They tend to wander around at night. Maybe you should lock him inside.”

  “Oh, no, no, I can’t do that. Sammy needs his freedom, and he thinks he owns both of our places, so he comes in your yard. He goes out his cat door, but then I need him to come home and sleep with me,” Louie reiterated.

  I’d had this circular conversation at least twenty seven times in the past two months, and I should have learned by now that it never resulted in any viable solution. I’d spoken again to Louie’s guardian, Caroline, and she’d promised to speak to him, as she had before. Obviously, her success rate was on a par with mine.

  There were things I could do, such as call the Animal Protection people and make a complaint. There was a by law about animals running loose in the city. They’d come by and pick up Sammy, and it would cost Louie a considerable sum to get the cat back. After three infractions, the animal would be put down.

  Of course I couldn’t do that. Louie was old, and since his mother died ten years ago he’d lived alone, with Caroline watching out for him from her house across the alley. He had no immediate relatives, no friends I knew of besides me and Eric. He was lonely and mentally challenged.

  Bad tempered, horribly spoiled Sammy was his beloved and only companion. He’d arrived at Louie’s door as a bedraggled, starving kitten that someone had dumped off, and he’d hit pay-dirt. He was the old man’s child in all but species.

  I could choose to live trap the damned cat. Maybe being locked up for a few hours would convince him to stay within the boundaries of his own garden. But the thought of Sammy caught in the trap and caterwauling in the middle of the night was just as bad as having Louie wandering around calling for him.

  “I’ve decided not to get married,” Louie stated now, tipping his chin up and giving me a sly, rebellious look.

  “Good thinking,” I sighed because we’d been down this rocky road plenty of times before as well. It was his usual rejoinder to my keep Sammy in your own yard speech, his way of letting me know that I’d had a chance at matrimony with him and blown it.

  “Women are too much trouble,” he said. “It’s better to just have girlfriends. I had lots of girlfriends when I took pictures of women in their underwear.”

  Knowing this was leading straight to some heavy breathing on his part, I headed into the house.

  “Got to make an important phone call, Louie. Talk to you later.”

  It was hopeless. I’d just have to go on warning guests about Louie and Sammy, and apologizing when he woke them up. A few of them thought the old man and the cat added to the whacky ambience of my B&B, but I was pretty sure the majority didn’t find it amusing. I certainly didn’t.

  Two nights later I was jolted out of a deep sleep at two fifteen by the ringing of the telephone, the flashing of lights in the alley from the top of a police cruiser, and the frightened voices of my young guests, a honeymooning couple from Oregon.

  The call was from one of the cops in the alley. He confirmed my name and address, and then said, “We have a man here who insists he knows you. He was in your garden, we were called because a neighbor saw him and reported a prowler.”

  Louie. For just an instant I flirted with the idea of saying I didn’t know him. Being taken to the cop shop would scare the bejesus out of him, and maybe he’d make more of an effort to keep Sammy at home. But I couldn’t do it.

  The cop said, “He wants to talk to you. Is that all right with you?”r />
  “Put him on.” Maybe I could scare the bejesus out of Louie myself, threaten him with some charge, enough to keep him and Sammy out of my yard at two in the morning.

  “Bobby? It’s me.”

  It took me a second to figure out that the frightened voice on the phone wasn’t Louie’s. It was Eric. “Could you come out and tell these guys I’m a friend of yours? I was just dropping by to leave you some stuff.”

  I threw on a housecoat, reassured my guests who were huddled at the top of the stairs that there was nothing to worry about and went out and assured the cops that Eric was a good friend, and yes, he frequently dropped things off in the middle of the night.

  I could tell they were thinking hanky panky as I thanked them for their presence in the neighborhood.

  When they drove off and Eric peddled shakily away on his bike, I collapsed on the back steps, still trembling from being jerked out of a rather nice dream.

  “Bobby? Are they gone?”

  I bleated and jumped, but it was only Louie, wearing his blue flannel pajamas with the gaping fly. He had on sporty tartan slippers, and he was cradling Sammy in his arms like a baby. The lousy cat raised his head and gave me a sly look.

  Louie was puffed up with importance. “Lucky I saw him, Bobby, he was sneaking up your steps. I called 911, that’s what Caroline said to do if we had a prowler.”

  The thing was, Louie knew Eric. He was also jealous of him, as he was of any gentleman caller I had. It was pretty certain he’d known exactly what he was doing when he called the cops. The whole episode came clear to me.

  I said, “So, where were you when you saw the prowler, Louie?”

  Sure enough, he pointed to the end of my garden by the pond. “Sammy was over there fishing, I was just trying to get him to come home to bed, wasn’t I, little boy?” He tickled the cat under the chin, and Sammy hissed at him.

  Mavis had just billed me for the six exotic Koi she’d brought for my pond. I eyed Sammy’s bulging belly and wondered if I had any left.

  “I saw him and sneaked home and called 911,” Louie declared in a triumphant tone.

  “Didn’t you know it was Eric?”

  Louie shook his head, and then blew his defense by adding, “He shouldn’t come here in the middle of the night like that, should he?”

  “Nobody should.” I blew out an exasperated breath, said goodnight and went inside. Back in bed, I lay awake trying not to listen to the headboard in the upstairs bedroom banging rhythmically against the wall. My guests were consoling one another in the best possible fashion. I tried to remember which set of sheets I’d used on their bed.

  The flannelette set washed up easily, but I thought I’d used the high thread count silky cotton ones, which would require more pre treatment.

  At least I still had that damned toothbrush.

  And if there’s anything to be learned from this episode, it totally escapes me.

  BOBBY’S GREEN ENERGY DRINK

  (for mornings after nights like the one just mentioned)

  Toss into a blender in any random order:

  1 banana, 2 cups water, 2 heaping tablespoons Hemp protein, 1 tablespoon Greens (many different brands available, found in health food stores), 3 tablespoons Flax oil (the high lignon kind), and about 4 thin slices of fresh ginger. Blend. Drink. Feel yourself becoming indomitable enough to cook breakfast. Or feed to your guests and know that whatever crap they put in their bodies after they leave your table, you’ve done your damndest to give them a head start towards great health and the happiness that comes from feeling good. Even if they’ve devoured your Pain Perdue.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  And you know that she’s half crazy

  But that’s why you want to be there--

  (Suzanne, by Leonard Cohen)

  “My son’s sixteen,” my next guest confided. “And he’s living with a woman of thirty six. They’ve run off together, and I’m afraid she’s on drugs. They have a three year old kid, my granddaughter. I need to find them, I’m worried sick about the baby.”

  I did the math and did a double take. Her son had fathered the baby when he was thirteen?

  “What makes you think they’re in Vancouver?” I poured her another coffee and sat down at the breakfast table. She was from Wisconsin. She’d driven all the way to Canada with her son’s battered old guitar in the trunk. She said it was his most precious possession, and leaving it behind had convinced her that maybe he hadn’t wanted to run away. Maybe he’d been abducted.

  She looked severely stressed, dark circles under pretty hazel eyes, stained white sweat shirt, yellow fingers from nicotine. The smell of cigarettes oozed from her pores.

  She’d been with me for four days, and she’d told me she was a psychiatrist. Her husband made carved wooden boxes for human ashes. She’d shown me the catalogue. The boxes were beautiful. I wasn’t in the market for one at the moment, but I assured her that if the time came—.

  She said, “Her father lives here. She told me once that this is where she wants to live, too.”

  “Isn’t it statuary rape, an older woman and such a young boy? Maybe you ought to get in touch with the cops.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to get my son in trouble. He doesn’t have a passport, they must have lied at the border. He’d be arrested as an illegal alien.”

  I had no idea if that was accurate, but I knew someone who would know. “My daughter in law specializes in family law. If you like, I’ll call her and maybe you could talk to her.”

  She nodded. “Thanks. That would help.”

  I called, and Trudy saw my guest that very morning. She called me afterwards.

  “There’s something about that woman’s story that doesn’t sound right. I think she’s a nut case. And she says her son and this older woman lived with her for six months. I ask you, what mother condones a relationship between such a young kid and an older woman?” Trudy made the sound that signifies exasperation with her. “She’s fuckin’ batty, you want my opinion.”

  The same thought had crossed my mind. “She doesn’t seem the sort to go mad at night with a butcher knife, though. You figure?”

  Trudy thought probably not. “Put a chair under your bedroom door just to be sure. I’ve got a friend on the police force, he’s running her name and her son’s name through the system to see what comes up.”

  Nothing did. The lady stayed for another four days, and the story got stranger and stranger. She said she’d visited the address she had for her son’s girlfriend’s father, and they wouldn’t talk to her.

  “I have to find the baby,” she kept insisting. “It’s too late for my son, but that baby—I have to find my grandbaby.”

  The morning she was leaving, she told me her son’s guitar had been stolen from the back of her car, which was parked out in front of my house. I’d parked there myself for years, and hadn’t heard of a single car being broken into on our street. There’s always a first time, though.

  Again, I said we should call the police. Again, she refused. I went out with her and looked at the car. There was no sign of damage.

  “How did they get the trunk open? Usually they use a crow bar or something.”

  “They must have just popped it and taken the guitar.”

  “Was there other stuff in there?”

  “Yeah, all my files, and some stuff I bought at a boutique yesterday. But they only took the guitar, which makes me think it was his girlfriend’s family. Who else would do such a thing?”

  I couldn’t guess. It was all starting to sound more and more like the twilight zone to me.

  I gave her a hug, packed her a lunch and sent her on her way with a sigh of relief. I then burned sage in every room in my house in a cleansing ceremony, to rid the rooms and myself of her sad, mad energy.

  I’d almost forgotten about her two weeks later when a notice came from Canada Customs. Apparently I had a parcel which required a hefty amount to be paid in duty, sent to me from Wisconsin by my disturbed gu
est.

  I went to the post office and paid, expecting a small carved box in which my kids could store my ashes when the time came, although why it cost so much in duty I couldn’t imagine. Maybe they’d carved it from ivory?

  Instead of a small box, the wooden crate was large and flat and mysterious. I couldn’t wait to get it home and use my hammer on the nails.

  Inside was a sizeable oil painting of a white haired woman in profile, who looked eerily like me.

  A note was included from the gallery that had shipped it, suggesting I insure the original piece, as it was valued at well over a thousand dollars.

  Another note arrived several days later. My guest had seen the painting and decided to buy it for me as a token of her gratitude, because it looked like me.

  All I’d done was listen to her and agree with Trudy that she was fuckin’ nuts. I felt humbled and guilty.

  I phoned to thank her for the amazing gift, but she wasn’t there. I asked the gentleman who answered the phone to convey my thanks, and he said he would.

  “She’s gone off to Little Rock,” he sighed.

  “Did she find her son? And her little granddaughter?”

  “What son?” he said in a puzzled voice. “We don’t have any kids.”

  I mumbled something about it being my mistake and hung up.

  I never saw or heard from her again.

  I hung the painting on my dining room wall, and guests constantly asked who the artist was who’d caught my likeness so exactly.

  The Bible, in Hebrews 13:2, says, “some have extended hospitality to angels without ever knowing it.”

  And some have extended hospitality to disturbed psychiatrists from Wisconsin and been gifted for it.

  I sent her good thoughts and hoped she found whatever it was she was searching for.

  CEREMONY FOR CLEANSING

  It would be best to gather sage in nature, but few of us have that opportunity. This is not the domesticated, garden sage (Salvia) but rather the plants botanists identify as wormwood or mugwort, the various members of the genus Artemisia. The root syllable “art” means bear, and the bear is a universal symbol of healing.