Availing Asheville by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

The number on the Asheville hotel door was 415. It was my old area code from when I lived in San Francisco, California. As I stared at the plastic numerals, my mind went into rewind mode. Man, that was a long-azz time ago. 1992. Two decades over the dam. Almost another life ago. 737 Hyde Street. Apt. 405. Was that the number? Think so. And I thought I was going to be the next Andy Warhol … or something. Foolish illusions of art-world grandeur. Ha-ha. That sure didn’t happen. Just ended up on the walls of a coffeehouse. What was the name of that joint? Oh yeah, it was called Café Soma. And what was my phone number? Can’t remember it now. [And even if I did, would I want to have it printed here?] BART didn’t go to SFO back then; had to jump on a MUNI bus or pay a hefty cab fare. Ok, back to Asheville. Let’s focus on the here and now before we have an accident.

We, Monique (an alias for Agent 32, my Filipina wife) and I (Agent 33) were staying at the Downtown Inn, a five-story older hotel undergoing some sprucing up. A local artist had painted a lurid mural on the wall around the ground-level pool. This patio pool was closed, as it was late December and a wee chilly. It was December of 2012. But for some reason we would wander out there. Oh, yes, it was for the free continental breakfast. Not a bad spread. Bagels, flavored coffee, fresh fruit. It surprised me for a two-star (I would venture to guess) hotel.

Ah, but back in the room, the sheets looked clean and the mattress was bedbug-free. And the view – now isn’t that why you go to the mountains? – was majestic. We would later watch snow squalls scrape the southern flank of Beaucatcher Mountain.

It was one of those exterior-entrance, corridor-out-in-the-weather hotels. Motel style. What differentiates a hotel from a motel? John said that exterior doors = motel; interior corridor doors = hotel. But, I always thought that motels were only one or two stories; three levels and above = hotel. Hotel, motel, no-tell, show-and-tell, the big tree fell, oh, well.

Well, this is where we were, agents 32 and 33 of Psecret Psociety. [a group on facebook] Agent 32, her alias this week is Monique Siquijor, and she calls me ‘Parker’ for sport. Parker, go do some parkour in the park. [Pritchard Park, that triangle in the middle of downtown Asheville where the homeless congregate and break bread. And break and make bad, sometimes. Usually stayed clear of it. The aggressive panhandling turns me off and seals my wallet shut.] C’mon, do a trick, dude. Make yourself disappear. Ok, that was harsh. Just do something creative. Use your bean. Let it ferment. Don’t be another obnoxious oxy-drunk with an out-of-tune acoustic guitar trying to be the next Bob Dylan. Listen, you sing worse than me … and that’s saying something … terrible!

Yes, I failed my 9th grade final chorus audition. In fact, my choral teacher just said: Let’s just stick with the academic grade. Still remember that humiliating line. The class laughed. Had to smile. It was that bad. So, I know bad singing firsthand. I can detect it, like really quick … as in five notes or less. Thus, we stayed clear of the terrible triangle.

Of and on course, we ate at Laughing Seed on trendy Wall Street.  Good veggie fare. A wee pricy, though. The waitress wasn’t too kewler-than-thou. You know, some call it the Asheville attitude, rather than the Asheville altitude. Hey, just relaying what I hear in C-towne. Hope they can’t read my thoughts in here.

So, anyway, we stayed at the Downtown Inn in room 415 for two nights. Shot some pics that we used in a 70-second artsy video-short. I think it’s up to 9 views on youtube. Maybe 12 now. Not exactly going viral. Oh, well … that’s fine. Psi’s record is safe.

In the elevator on the second night, we met a vagabondish dude. He said that he and his buddy drove up to Asheville on the spur of the moment … from Mobile! Yes, from Mobile, Alabama. That’s like a 9-hour drive! Gosh, and I thought the two and a half-hour drive from Charlotte to Asheville was long.

We saw the famous Biltmore House on day one, as Monique had never been there before. We left clues in the salons. Rode bikes on the estate grounds. A little 4-mile loop. Then we did the wine-tasting thing. Bought a three-bottle box-pack.

The wine is actually not that bad. We especially loved the Century white. Good stuff. Goes down easy. Nice flourishes of Pisgah piquancies with a florid finish fit for framing. Oh, those wine descriptions. Walking in adjectival wonderlands. A fennel-maple aftertaste is regally relinquished.

Any of ways, we took a city bus – an ART bus, mind you – to West AVL on day two. Scored some deals at the Goodwill store. It was a cold rainy day. One where you just wished it would snow. Well, maybe after we were off the asphalt, back in our hotel room … which it did … a little.  Some light flurries. But then there would be these bursts. Snow bursts.

There were times when I thought back to when I lived off Charlotte Street. No, not the ritzy north end, but the south end. Had a view of City Hall off the front porch and a view of Mt. Pisgah out the back deck. But I was with the wrong woman then (the first wife) and it all collapsed. Like a house of shards.

But Monique is here now, and things are going swimmingly … even if it is a bit cold outside. The heat in the room was strong; it heated the room up pronto. The fan motor may have had a loose bearing. But, other than that, a good deal. No real complaints.

We walked the streets of downtown Asheville on night two. Even in foul weather, many curious folks stirring about. We were distributing copies of previous works like this (like what you’re reading now). The format: little colored quasi-literary bifold booklets. Bifocals not included. Have to keep the print small and compact. No time for paragraph breaks or quotation marks. It made it appear like a puzzle at times. But you’ve made it this far (in this more normal alignment). We’re almost to the back page now where things get re-inchoated. There’s a neologism.

We carefully descended the wet brick steps to this basement bar. I think it was on College Street. The name escapes me at the moment. In.Sip.Id Lounge. Yeah that was it. Well, we open the door and there are about a dozen hipsters just lounging around. Kewl trance music in the background. But when we get closer, we hear:   … somewhere … it is all here … somewhere … did you hear? … somewhere … it is all here … [the audio track kept looping]

I felt a bit awkward, and I could tell that Monique was feeling uneasy. I thought, maybe just order a drink to get in the groove. The blue elixir relaxed us in no time. Soon we were all a-buzz with the sights and sounds of this modern speak-easy kind of joint.

Then, yes then, it got strange. Our thoughts were being projected onto the walls with sound.  Holy cow! What a multimedia show! I could see Monique’s thoughts, and I knew it was time to go back to the hotel room. With dueling smiles, we got up to leave.

The beret-donning hipster-owner asked if we enjoyed our time. I told him that we did indeed, but we had to go now. He seemed kind enough, and his smile slid onto the wall as we turned to leave. Wipe that smirk off your brick face, lad!

Once out on College Street, I wasn’t sure how long we had been in Asheville, or even how long we had been in that subterranean bar. A pleasant disorientation. I was lucid of my impairment, yet I often thought: Somewhere, it’s all there, not where all the sums are. Yeah, some kind of nonsense like that. It was the line in my head that night, all night. It was in repeat mode. The phrase that pays on a rainy day.

Anyway, we marched ourselves back to the Downtown Inn without incident. When we arrived at the door to room 415, we saw a note on the door that read: Must have just missed you. Enjoy the town. –Ed

Monique snatched the taped-on note off the door and asked me who the hell Ed was. I told her that I wasn’t sure, but that it may be an editor who I fired about eight years ago. Of course she then asked how he would know that we were in Asheville – at this very hotel room, no less.

I started thinking about the woman at desk, the one who was working when we left. She looked familiar. I relayed this to Monique. She demanded that we take the note down to hotel management. She was scared. I told her that Ed could be a real joker, and that, even if it was the Ed that I had to fire some time ago, he would not do us any harm. He wasn’t that type of guy.

As we walked to elevator, on our way to the front desk, we passed no other than the Ed I spoke of in the 4th floor enclosure. My head was kind of down as we crossed paths, so when I heard him say, “Give me an honorable mention,” I had no time to reply.

He was quickly around the corner and gone, just like that. Monique gave me a shocked expression. She thought I set the whole thing up. I told her that I didn’t. Over and over.  Well, she didn’t sleep so well on night 2. But nothing further happened of note, save a bump on the wall at 4:15 AM.

We drove back to Charlotte at 10 AM in short-story mode. 

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[written in January 2013 by Mike Bozart]