Back from Walnut Creek, a charming little suburb in San Francisco's East Bay. We took I-5 north through the Imperial Valley, passing miles of orange groves and vineyards. Huge steel power pylons stretched into the distance like Martian war machines.
My wife's cousin was successfully wed and I had the opportunity to encounter the strange hospitality of Embassy Suites.
We arrived at the hotel on Friday night. Because of my broken foot, I passed on the rehearsal dinner. My wife left to meet relatives at a local restaurant while I settled in to order room service.
But I couldn't find the Black Binder.
These are the room directories listing hotel services along with phone numbers and room service menus. No problem. I called the front desk and asked to have one sent up. A harried clerk said, "You mean the Black Binder? I'll get to it."
Fine. I'll watch
Seinfield reruns.
My phone rings ten minutes later. A different clerk asks whether I've gotten my Black Binder yet. I reply 'no' and he cheerfully assures me one is enroute.
On
Seinfeld, Elaine has played a practical joke on Jerry. She's left a hot, steamy message on his answering machine, but no name or phone number. Unaware it's Elaine, the message's unfulfilled promises drive Jerry crazy.
Knock on the door. A short, balding man asks if I need assistence.
"You bet. I need a Black Binder."
"Oh, the room directory."
"Yes, the book with the room service menus. If you have one, that would be great."
He leaves to get one.
I hobble back to the couch. Jerry plays the answering machine tape for George. George is instantly aroused, hearing sexual innuendo in every woman's most casual utterance.
Knock on the door. A man from Room Service wants to be of service.
"Do you happen to have a room directory with you?"
"Oh, the Black Binder. Sure."
He leaves to get me one.
Back at Jerry's place, George is on the phone to China trying to contact a clinic that promises to give him a "head of hair like Stalin." Jerry is explaining the answering machine tape to Elaine when Kramer bursts in with a video camera. Kramer starts filming everyone as if he were doing a documentary on porn stars.
Knock-knock.
I hobble to the door. The short balding man has returned. He hands me a thick phone book — Yellow Pages for the East Bay. I thank him, saying that now my room has
two phone books.
"This isn't what you wanted?"
"No. I wanted a Black Binder, a room directory."
He sighs. "That's what I thought you wanted. But they told me to bring you this."
He goes to get me a room directory.
Elaine confess to George that she is the answering machine voice, but swears him to secrecy. George tells Jerry, who vows silence. Elaine admits to Jerry that she is the voice. Jerry says he already knows. George told him.
Knock.
Up again on my crutches. There is a new employee at my door. We've never met. He hands me a plastic room service menu. By now, I fear to ask for a Black Binder or a room directory. They will bring me up deck chairs or artwork from the lobby.
My wife always overpacks in the food department. I find apples, a bagel, almonds and a black cherry soda. I dine and watch the first Austin Powers.
The next morning my wife calls the front desk and asks for a room directory. Within five minutes, someone has delivered her a Black Binder.
She smiles, "A woman's touch."
Perhaps. I felt the whole incident was life imitating art.
For five years I studied Yang family t'ai chi at a little studio in Burbank. Recently I was thinking about the differences between my martial arts classmates and the Team in Training runners.
