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

by Bobby Hutchinson

  So much for Steve’s bragging. But when I thought it over, of course technically Jane did work for the Sultan. From what I’d learned about the place, everybody in Brunei worked for the Sultan, because he’s the big kahuna who owns and runs everything.

  And everyone, come down to it.

  “You sing?” I recalled the bit about the teacher of voice.

  “Oh, yes.” She puffed up like a rooster ruffling its feathers. “I have studied voice for many, many, many years. I sing in the church choir, and I have a recital when I go home. Which is why I need to meet this very good voice teacher Steven knows.”

  I made appreciative, noncommittal noises. Another of Steve’s foibles was passing well known people off as his personal friends when all he’d done was wash their windows.

  But Jane was again waxing poetic about dear Steven.

  “Both of us 35, both single, both lonely.”

  Lonely? I doubted Steve had spent a lonely day in his adult life. He was terrified of being alone. Whenever he wasn’t with his posse or his latest conquest, he was on the phone to me.

  And 35? I knew for a fact that Steve was now 41, and that he’d taken out at least six other women (that I knew about) during that three month period, but I have a rule that I try to live by.

  There are only three kinds of business in this world. There’s my business, your business and God’s business. I have no business in two of those, even though I like to hear about them. I can listen, nod, express compassion, ask questions, but I’m not allowed to meddle. I’m certainly not supposed to judge.

  But migod, its’ such a challenge. I bit my tongue and tried not to choke on my tea as she went on about finally meeting a man with the same religious convictions she had, a man of high moral standards, who, like her, had enough self control to wait for marriage before having sexual relations!!!!!

  I said, “Is there a shortage of available men in Brunei?”

  She made a disparaging motion with her hand.

  “There are men enough, but they are interested in only one thing, sex, sex, sex.” She spat the word out as if it tasted bad. “There is no respect for a woman with principles, you see, not at all. Many, many, many men have courted me, but when I insisted on remaining chaste, they showed their true colors.”

  “Ahhhh, I see.” Steve, and a thirty five year old determined virgin. It was going to be an interesting week.

  I soon learned that Jane wanted what she wanted when she wanted it. She ordered breakfast for precisely eight fifteen, melon and whole wheat toast, lightly buttered, plain yogurt and café au lait, simple enough to prepare, but that didn’t mean I got to sleep in.

  The first morning of her stay and every morning thereafter, the entire neighborhood and I were yanked from slumber at five fifteen. She insisted on practicing operatic scales at the top of her considerable lungs with the upstairs window wide open.

  That performance took her until seven thirty to complete. I’m not tone deaf, but neither am I an expert on voice. She sounded loud and shrill to me, but hey, what did I know? Besides the fact that someone was certain to complain if this kept up, particularly because Sammy took it upon himself to sit below her window and join in. Between Jane and the damned cat, only someone as profoundly deaf as David could have slept.

  I suggested she close the windows. She insisted she needed fresh air if her vocal chords were to open in the proper manner. And could I please serve her guava juice instead of orange, which was much, much, much too acidic for her throat. And did I have a small space heater, it was colder here than she was used to. And, please, another blanket on the bed, not wool, she was highly allergic to wool, she preferred a goose down duvet. With a cotton cover. Oh, and the pillow, it was feathers, yes? She didn’t like feather pillows. She needed a soft synthetic pillow, if I didn’t mind. Three, actually. She always slept with one between her knees. Which might have explained how and why she’d remained a virgin all these years.

  That first morning, she used my phone to try and track Steve down. He’d unwisely given her numbers for both his cell and his home. Obviously caught off guard, he answered her call and she bullied him into taking her to Granville Island Market, and then to meet the voice coach, and then to the gardens at Little Mountain, a breathtakingly beautiful man made park on the top of a mountain in the heart of Vancouver.

  As the week progressed, Steve stopped answering his phones. Her recorded messages to him became increasingly strident and accusatory. She’d walk around my living room as she talked to his machines, banging her feet down, face purple with indignation.

  She progressed to ever more furious messages, delivered in her loud voice. She’d slam down the receiver, demanding of me, “Why did he bring me this long distance only to avoid me? Not that he paid my fare, oh no, no, no, he is far too cheap for that, am I right? Not once does to take me to a decent restaurant, only that disgusting pizza place. I am beginning to suspect he is not a man of honor, do you not agree?”

  Of course I didn’t agree. I knew Steve probably had the first dollar he’d ever earned, but I’d never wanted him to pay for my pizza. Besides, I was having a hard time feeling compassionate towards Jane.

  She had some new complaint every morning, the toast was cold, the muffins gave her gas, the yogurt wasn’t sweet enough, the coffee was too strong. She was a difficult guest. I had to repeatedly ask myself what there was here for me to learn.

  It soon became evident that patience was the issue for me, because she tried mine in every possible way.

  By the fourth day, Steve was calling me at all hours, insisting that she was stalking him. He’d unwisely mentioned a window washing job he had on Granville Street, and she took a bus there and found him, and then proceeded to give advice for the next two hours on how he could best do his job. She’d even taken a taxi to his mother’s house, horror of all horrors.

  I knew from Eric that Steve never introduced any of his women to his mother. Jane simply looked up his address in the phone book, took the bus over, and knocked on the door when he was at work. Apparently she insinuated to Mother that she and Steve were all but engaged.

  Steve’s mother was incensed because he’d never mentioned this woman, and to top it off she was colored. It seemed Steve had come by his prejudices honestly.

  Just as I’d suspected, Steve had taken Eric along with him and Jane on nearly every outing, and now she began calling Eric at work to complain about Steve.

  So Eric called Steve and told him he’d have to make her cease and desist, Eric’s boss didn’t take kindly to fourteen personal calls before noon. Of course Steve then called me, frantic because Eric was mad at him. He couldn’t stand anyone mad at him. Not his men friends or his mother, at any rate.

  Other women, well, that was a different story. Plenty of them must have become mad enough to castrate him, but his solution was simply to avoid them and move on. Apparently none of them had shown Jane’s perseverance.

  Eric called me next, wanting to know what was going on, really?

  I told him it was more of the same old Steve, but a whole lot more than the gentleman had bargained for.

  When Steve phoned again, whining about being stalked, I not so gently reminded him that he’d encouraged Jane to come to Canada, and therefore he did have some responsibility towards her while she was here.

  “But she’s not a nice lady,” he wailed in my ear. “She’s not suitable.”

  Big surprise there. Mary Magdalene wouldn’t have been suitable either, virgin or no virgin.

  “She’s driving me crazy, I’m scared to answer my phone, she says she’s suing me for breach of promise, I didn’t promise her anything, honest. I’ve never met anyone like her before. She’s using me, treating me like her personal chauffeur, making me drive her all over the city, forcing me to take her out to eat. She even phoned the principal at my school and had him drag me out of class, claiming an emergency.”

  I believed him. Jane was as persistent as a case of hives, but nevertheless.
There were only two days left before he was taking her back to the airport. He was taking her back to the airport, right?

  Silence. Deep, martyred sighs. Alright, yes, he’d drive her to the airport. He couldn’t wait to see the last of her.

  The evening before her departure, Jane had a total meltdown in my kitchen. Steve hadn’t planned anything special for her last night in Vancouver, she wailed. In fact, he hadn’t planned anything at all. She’d phoned him over and over, and he didn’t return her calls—not too surprising, considering the blame, anger, dictatorial orders and outright nastiness in the messages she’d been leaving him.

  She cried and smashed one of my best tea cups in the sink. She threw a tantrum comparable to any two year olds, and I was thankful that there were no other guests in residence.

  She would sue him for misrepresentation, she shrieked. He’d misled her, she’d believed he was in love with her. She’d spent money on a plane ticket and new clothes and taxis, she wanted full compensation for every single expense, she wasn’t a wealthy woman. He was a liar, he was cheap, he was a user of women, he was not going to get away with this, no, no, no.

  This money talk didn’t make me too comfortable, partly because she hadn’t paid me for her week’s stay. I’d never had a guest leave without paying, but I had a feeling it was about to happen. I’d noticed that she, too, rubbed every penny twice before spending it. She and Steve had more in common than they realized.

  “And you,” she hollered at me. “He says you are his friend, how can you be a friend to someone like him?”

  I’d given that a lot of thought. “What is, is. He’s doing the best he knows how,” I tried to explain. “All of us, at any given moment, are doing the best we know how. If we knew better, we’d do better.” And I was at that moment struggling hard to apply this to Jane.

  She snorted, gave me a look and stomped off upstairs.

  But the next morning, she’d calmed down. She paid me, counting it out to the last penny, and thanked me for her stay.

  Steve, true to his word, although more than a little stone faced, had come to take her to the airport. He was at the curb, waiting with the passenger door open. He’d stowed her luggage in the trunk. He was wearing a brimmed cap. I thought he was overdoing the chauffeur bit just a little.

  “Come to Brunei and visit me,” Jane said as she walked out the door. “I left my address on the table in my room.”

  It took me a moment to regain control of my jaw.

  “Thank you, Jane. That’s very sweet of you.” Of course I had no intention of ever doing so—I was about as relieved to see the last of her as Steve was--but I was touched that she’d invite me.

  She jerked her chin at him. “To think I had dreams of marrying him and moving here. How could I have been so foolish?”

  And suddenly I felt terribly sorry for her. I knew about dreams and how much it hurt when they didn’t materialize. So I gave her a hug and my best advice about romance and life in general.

  She waved as they drove off. I collapsed on the couch, thinking that after all, it was a shame Jane wasn’t the Sultan’s personal assistant. Things would be a lot better organized in Brunei.

  Haji Hassanal whatever would have way less toys, and only one wife at a time. His children would be better behaved. He’d probably have his billions intact, earning interest, although there’d be a much higher entrance fee for Jerudong Park.

  But one thing was certain. The Sultan certainly wouldn’t be having quite so much fun, no, no, no.

  Just ask Steve.

  BLUE COLLAR ADVICE ON DREAMS AND RELATIONSHIPS

  Dreams—and significant others-- are like buses. There’s always another one coming down the street. And if this one didn’t stop for you, it just wasn’t your bus. By ranting and raving and flagging it down, you’re blocking the way for yours, which is trying to pull up in front of you, but can’t because of the obstruction. Let go, smile, and start watching for the next one.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Money is like water.

  One thing the aspiring Bed and Breakfast host should keep in mind is that this is no way to get rich.

  Running a B&B will certainly augment your income, and you can legitimately deduct a certain percentage of expenses on income tax returns, food, bedding, toiletries, electricity, and the like. But your rooms won’t be rented a hundred percent of the time. In fact, they might sit empty while you chew your toenails to the quick wondering how to pay this month’s Visa.

  Which is pretty much why I decided to develop the basement and rent it out on a regular basis. It was already semi developed, and with Eric’s help, several visits to the Goodwill and a few coats of paint he and I turned it into a modest furnished three bedroom suite, complete with tiny kitchen. I added a secondhand washer and drier and put an ad in the paper.

  There were drawbacks, however, and I was anxious about them. There was an electric toilet because the city sewer line came in too high to allow for an ordinary flush type, and anything except body waste and plain toilet paper would ruin the motor.

  My electrical panel was in one of the downstairs bedrooms, and each time I blew a fuse upstairs, I’d have to bother whoever was down there to re set the breaker for me. And, as always, there was Louie and Sammy.

  My renters would have to be compassionate and patient. It would also help if they liked cats, because Sammy had a habit of sneaking in whenever the basement door was open. And Louie’s curiosity knew no boundaries.

  The first evening the ad appeared, a sweet voiced woman asked if she and her husband could come and see the place.

  Miriam and Tal were a strikingly handsome young couple newly arrived from Israel. They were orthodox Jews. He was a rabbi, wearing a black suit, white shirt and yarmulke. She wore a headscarf covering every bit of her hair, a long sleeved, plain dress down to her ankles, and sturdy boots, but the frumpy clothing couldn’t disguise how beautiful and delicate she was.

  They had four adorable children, the oldest a somber girl of eight, the youngest a cherub of four months. Miriam nursed him while we talked.

  I told them I wasn’t sure about renting to anyone with young children, not because I didn’t like kids but because the garden wasn’t suitable as a play area. There was a fish pond where a child could drown. I explained about Louie and the cat. I showed them the electrical toilet and went into detail about the dangers of toys or diapers accidentally going south.

  I showed them the location of the breaker box, and described the inconvenience when I blew a breaker.

  Tal assured me the toilet was acceptable, they’d be ultra cautious about unsuitable waste. As for my pond, the children were supervised constantly, he insisted. Miriam didn’t work outside the home, and she wouldn’t mind resetting the breakers when I blew them. Louie wasn’t a problem, or Sammy either. Their religion stipulated compassion. They’d be exceptional tenants, quiet, well behaved, clean.

  I sensed that they were desperate. They were staying with a friend who had a small house, and the friendship was being strained. Please, would I rent to them? They offered numerous references, all members of the nearby Jewish temple.

  I had serious reservations. Four small children could mean noisy chaos as well as plugged drains. I had only the fuzziest concepts of traditional orthodox Jewish practices. What would happen if I had Moslem guests?

  But I looked at Miriam and saw the dark circles under her lovely brown eyes, the strain at the corners of her mouth.

  They moved in on Wednesday. On Thursday, Tal took the stove burners outside and purified them and all the kitchen utensils with a blowtorch, narrowly avoiding setting fire to the deck supports. We had to hose them down to stop the smoldering. It was my first faint hint that he wasn’t the handiest guy on the planet.

  On Friday, I started learning about Shabbat, which apparently meant that from sundown Friday until sundown Saturday, things downstairs came to a total standstill. No turning lights on or off—electricity was verboten, which was difficu
lt, considering it was a basement suite, to say nothing of the cursed electric toilet. I’d been worried about this contraption, concerned that it might not stand up to five people using it. I’d never even considered the horror of five people using it and not flushing it for twenty four hours.

  I told Tal something would have to give in that regard, so he prayed over it and finally proclaimed that the second youngest child could flick the switches for the lights and press the flusher on the toilet. She was apparently too young to be affected by whatever the ban on electricity meant. She was too tiny to reach the breaker box, however, and all I could do was hope I didn’t blow a fuse Friday evening or Saturday till sundown.

  Apparently water usage was also strictly limited on Shabbat. All bathing and laundry had to be accomplished before the sun set on Friday, which meant the hot water supply for the entire house was exhausted by noon. All cooking had to be done ahead of time. The outside light was a problem, because it was on a rheostat and went on automatically. Could I turn it off from Friday evening until Saturday night, Tal asked? It was a security light, so I said a firm no.

  They invited me for dinner on Saturday evening. The suite was gleaming clean, the children charming, the food delicious—Miriam must have spent Friday before sundown working her ass off.

  I noticed that one bedroom, the largest one, contained only a desk and a computer. The kids informed me that this room was daddy’s office, they weren’t allowed in. So all the children occupied bunks in the medium sized bedroom, and Miriam and Tal had the smallest space, a tiny bedroom off the kitchen.

  While we ate, Tal did most of the talking while Miriam served us and fed the children. He told me they had a house in Jerusalem, but because of the war and the bombing, they’d made the decision to come to Canada. He’d been born in Vancouver, so emigration wasn’t an issue. He had dual citizenship.