Once Upon A Time In My Life: February 2007
I'm driving north on Route 1, halfway to Rockland, listening to some Midnight Oil. It is late February, but I need to get out of my apartment. Being watched is driving me crazy, and I decide to head to Acadia National Park, taking a chance that any new snow will hold off during my trip.
Midnight Oil was a popular band for a couple of years in the 80s, and in my head Ellen DeGeneres thinks they'd make a good guest on the upcoming Oscar telecast, as a sort of retro throwback to when I, the most popular blogger on the planet, was young and thin. She tells me this during my drive, on the camera/speaker in my Corolla that I can never locate when I look for it. In addition, there is a collection going on in Hollywood amongst the rich and powerful so that I will never have to work again and be able to write whatever suits my fancy on Apartment404.blogspot.com. They hope to raise a million bucks or so, which is the number I believe will buy my freedom from slaving away at another crappy job and living off my disability checks. Ellen is busy, but so nice about it all. She and her important friends want the best for me, and I am glad for their help. The woman talks to me like she knows me. That's amazing.
I arrive in Rockland and check in to the Hampton Inn on the main drag. I am excited to be alone for the first time in weeks, maybe months. After renting the room, I eat dinner at the Applebee's next door, buy some Coronas and candy bars, and head upstairs to chill. College basketball, as always, is on tv. I suck down a few beers, watching the game with the sound off. It's unbelievable, but I am quickly made aware that I am being watched here, too: I can hear the employees in the lobby discussing how famous I am and how much they like my writing. I am on one of the upper floors of the motel, so it doesn't make sense to overhear conversations seaping into the room from under the door, and I realize that, just as in in my apartment back home, there are cameras and microphones hidden somewhere in the ceiling of this fucking Hampton. There is no escaping this crap. It's disappointing, mindblowing, and enraging. But also thrilling.
How can people get away with this? I had no idea how deep the secrets and conspiracies lie. There are fucking cameras in every motel room around. Wow. How come no one ever talks about this? How is it possible that no one has ever written a book on ths subject? This is huge. I am staggered at the audacity people in power have, listening to and watching me and, I guess, anyone else they want to. The world is such an evil place. People are rotten to each other, and things always get worse, never better. It is nearly overwhelming.
Thoroughly battered, I still muster the energy to drive to the Farnsworth Museum downtown in the am. I can hear Jamie Wyeth's voice as I wander through the exhibits. He is encouraging me not to give up, complimenting me on my taste as I linger in front of some pieces that I like. He seems a kind man, and a friend to me. I go to the gift shop and buy some prints of Jamie's work. The clerk makes a fuss over me, and before she can ring me up she excuses herself to attend to something in the back of the store. She must be getting instructions from someone important. I pay for my stuff and leave the museum. The day is not halfway over and I have nothing much to do. Noticing a toy store next to the museum, I decide to browse, and quickly notice an oversized lion stuffed animal on a shelf in the corner. That dude would make a great travel companion. I buy the lion, overpaying, but I've gotta have it. Glad my sense of humor is intact, I return to my Toyota and prop up the toy in the backseat on the passengers side. Now I have a friend. Giggling, we are off.
The forecast that night is for snow, several inches worth. I arrive in Ellsworth just ahead of the storm. The only cheap motel open at this time of year is a Comfort Inn. Once again, after renting the room I go out for dinner and to buy beer and junk food for the night. This time I am ready for the watchers. They don't catch me off guard. I have become such a cause celebre that Jack Nicholson makes his presence known. He talks about getting me a prostitute for the night. She will be there any minute according to him. I wait.
I wait some more. After an hour or so or being told that the hooker is just about to arrive, I begin to get frustrated and a bit angry. The voices, Nicholson's among them, claim that the girl got lost looking for the out of the way motel, but she is here now, parking in the attached parking lot. More waiting. Where is she? There is no knock on the door, no phone call to my room. Is she watching me through the window? I hope that is so, and attempt my best nonchalant pose, though my heart is about to beat through my chest as I watch more basketball while perched on the bed.
The night is passing and nothing is happening. No girl, no nothing. I have been had. Why do these people play games on me? This is just sick, and mean. I fall asleep around midnight, not convinced that the girl will not arrive but still hopeful before my eyes close.
The next morning I wake. Thankfully, no hangover. There is half a foot of new snow on the ground and I know Acadia will be closed. This was a waste of a fucking trip. I head back to Portland, making the drive in half a day. But there are still the Oscars to look forward to.
Midnight Oil was a popular band for a couple of years in the 80s, and in my head Ellen DeGeneres thinks they'd make a good guest on the upcoming Oscar telecast, as a sort of retro throwback to when I, the most popular blogger on the planet, was young and thin. She tells me this during my drive, on the camera/speaker in my Corolla that I can never locate when I look for it. In addition, there is a collection going on in Hollywood amongst the rich and powerful so that I will never have to work again and be able to write whatever suits my fancy on Apartment404.blogspot.com. They hope to raise a million bucks or so, which is the number I believe will buy my freedom from slaving away at another crappy job and living off my disability checks. Ellen is busy, but so nice about it all. She and her important friends want the best for me, and I am glad for their help. The woman talks to me like she knows me. That's amazing.
I arrive in Rockland and check in to the Hampton Inn on the main drag. I am excited to be alone for the first time in weeks, maybe months. After renting the room, I eat dinner at the Applebee's next door, buy some Coronas and candy bars, and head upstairs to chill. College basketball, as always, is on tv. I suck down a few beers, watching the game with the sound off. It's unbelievable, but I am quickly made aware that I am being watched here, too: I can hear the employees in the lobby discussing how famous I am and how much they like my writing. I am on one of the upper floors of the motel, so it doesn't make sense to overhear conversations seaping into the room from under the door, and I realize that, just as in in my apartment back home, there are cameras and microphones hidden somewhere in the ceiling of this fucking Hampton. There is no escaping this crap. It's disappointing, mindblowing, and enraging. But also thrilling.
How can people get away with this? I had no idea how deep the secrets and conspiracies lie. There are fucking cameras in every motel room around. Wow. How come no one ever talks about this? How is it possible that no one has ever written a book on ths subject? This is huge. I am staggered at the audacity people in power have, listening to and watching me and, I guess, anyone else they want to. The world is such an evil place. People are rotten to each other, and things always get worse, never better. It is nearly overwhelming.
Thoroughly battered, I still muster the energy to drive to the Farnsworth Museum downtown in the am. I can hear Jamie Wyeth's voice as I wander through the exhibits. He is encouraging me not to give up, complimenting me on my taste as I linger in front of some pieces that I like. He seems a kind man, and a friend to me. I go to the gift shop and buy some prints of Jamie's work. The clerk makes a fuss over me, and before she can ring me up she excuses herself to attend to something in the back of the store. She must be getting instructions from someone important. I pay for my stuff and leave the museum. The day is not halfway over and I have nothing much to do. Noticing a toy store next to the museum, I decide to browse, and quickly notice an oversized lion stuffed animal on a shelf in the corner. That dude would make a great travel companion. I buy the lion, overpaying, but I've gotta have it. Glad my sense of humor is intact, I return to my Toyota and prop up the toy in the backseat on the passengers side. Now I have a friend. Giggling, we are off.
The forecast that night is for snow, several inches worth. I arrive in Ellsworth just ahead of the storm. The only cheap motel open at this time of year is a Comfort Inn. Once again, after renting the room I go out for dinner and to buy beer and junk food for the night. This time I am ready for the watchers. They don't catch me off guard. I have become such a cause celebre that Jack Nicholson makes his presence known. He talks about getting me a prostitute for the night. She will be there any minute according to him. I wait.
I wait some more. After an hour or so or being told that the hooker is just about to arrive, I begin to get frustrated and a bit angry. The voices, Nicholson's among them, claim that the girl got lost looking for the out of the way motel, but she is here now, parking in the attached parking lot. More waiting. Where is she? There is no knock on the door, no phone call to my room. Is she watching me through the window? I hope that is so, and attempt my best nonchalant pose, though my heart is about to beat through my chest as I watch more basketball while perched on the bed.
The night is passing and nothing is happening. No girl, no nothing. I have been had. Why do these people play games on me? This is just sick, and mean. I fall asleep around midnight, not convinced that the girl will not arrive but still hopeful before my eyes close.
The next morning I wake. Thankfully, no hangover. There is half a foot of new snow on the ground and I know Acadia will be closed. This was a waste of a fucking trip. I head back to Portland, making the drive in half a day. But there are still the Oscars to look forward to.
posted by joe sweeney at 5:24 PM
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