“The Academic Conference” by Dan Thompson

I.
Midwestern Late-Night Taxicab Ride

Years ago, during that primeval period of American history whose years we designate nowadays as “BU” (Before Uber), I was attending one of those annual scholarly meet-and-greets—papers read, contacts made, interviews held—that descend upon different American cities every year. That year’s conference was held in a university town that, although located in what Americans denominate as “the Midwest,” is in fact located a long distance eastward of the central point of what our nation’s Alaskan citizens refer to as “the lower 48” and what the Hawaiians call “the mainland.”

A friend and I—we were both enrolled in the same academic program at the same East Coast university—were two of the unlucky attendees who were unable to get a room at the conference site. Nor, strangely enough, were there any vacancies at the other nearby hotels that normally accommodate out-of-town visitors involved in events hosted by the university—a condition most likely due to our early October’s annual conference coinciding with the school’s homecoming weekend. In fact, for the first night of this academic extravaganza, we could find a room only at a Motel 6, which was far enough away from the conference proceedings as to be somewhat inconvenient.

Late in the evening of the first day of this annual assemblage of Big Thinkers—which is to say, after the lengthy but necessary schmoozing and boozing that followed the first day’s official business—my roommate and I emerged from the conference hotel to find that the local area was experiencing light precipitation. I wondered how long we would have to wait for a cab, since we car-less Manhattan boys were now in a part of the country where everyone over the age of sixteen owned 1.4 automobiles (thereby obviating any acute need for local taxicabs, even in those pre-Uber days), and so I was pleasantly surprised when a car showed up almost immediately.

My impression of the cab driver was not entirely positive. In truth, he seemed a bit “sketchy” to me, so, to avoid his possibly taking a “long cut” while the meter was running, I asked him ahead of time what the fare would be. He named a figure that, based on my own (very rough) estimation of the distance to Motel 6, seemed reasonable enough—with the result being that my friend and I were soon motoring down the road with a driver who could probably best be described as “very local” …and in no particular hurry. After a few minutes, the cabman asked my roommate and me if we’d mind if he took a brief detour for just a minute or two; it wouldn’t take long at all.

Although the request was a little unusual, the meter wasn’t running, so I was fine with it. I looked at my friend, who simply shrugged, so I told the driver that it was alright with us. (Full disclosure: Neither my roommate nor I was impatient to get to Motel 6. In fact, we were probably in less of a hurry than the man behind the wheel.)

Soon after receiving our A-okay, the driver made a right-hand turn and began descending a very gradual hill. He drove onward for notably longer than what I would have called “a brief detour.” Further down we went. After a while, the streetlights disappeared. There didn’t seem to be any houses around, but it was so dark that it wasn’t possible to be sure. Other than the headlights of the taxi, there was no light anywhere at all. Wondering how my friend was reacting to this unexpected expedition, I looked over at him, intending to catch his eye and send him a questioning glance. But whereas I had begun to take an active interest in our unplanned route, he was simply staring blankly out the rear window and into the void, apparently “somewhere else” mentally.

For the sake of my curiosity, it was fortunate that I was sitting on the passenger side, which allowed me to see through the windshield more easily than he did. However, my more panoramic perception of our progress was of limited value since on this particular evening the headlights gave me a fantastic view only of the rain—by now a vigorous and steady downpour – which in turn did a great job of reflecting the vehicle’s headlights back at those of us inside the car, making visibility even poorer than the nighttime usual.

Perhaps I was being too polite by not speaking up sooner (this being the Midwest and all), but even Mellow Mr. Me had begun to feel that this had gone on long enough—this was, after all, during that ancient era before everyone had a smartphone to play with when they were bored – and was about to ask the driver where the heck we were going when he suddenly stepped on the brake and began to slow down. Through the driving rain, I could make out a figure up ahead on the right-hand side of the road—just standing in the rain, out there in the middle of nowhere. The headlights illuminated nothing other than the black road and the falling rain and this wet, spectral figure. The driver pulled over and stopped the car, upon which the specter abruptly pulled open the passenger-side front door. He was a tall, imposing character, and he partially leaned his wetness over into the car and exchanged some words with the driver, the thrust of which revolved around the driver’s not wanting this guy to get into his car, and this guy’s not wanting to continue to stand out in the rain. After a bit of this back-and-forth—and to my utter astonishment—the dripping-wet fellow abruptly plopped himself down on the front seat, and closed the door. At this point, both he and the driver leaned their heads together and lowered their voices to quiet murmurs, none of which I was able to decipher, but which ultimately took several minutes.

I have to admit that if I had been traveling alone, it would have been at this point that my inner “red alert” signal would have been flashing, but probably because there were “two of us and two of them,” I instead found this bizarre late-night encounter somewhat intriguing. Although I thought that Mr. Soaking Wet’s unexpected ingress into the taxicab was really “going some” (as people in select parts of the country used to say), the entire ordeal had become so preposterous that it was beginning to turn into an adventure, which made me hesitant to terminate it because I was curious about what might happen next; and in any case, my friend and I were still in no great rush to get to Motel 6.

Eventually, Mr. Wet got out of the car, closed the door, and walked off, into the darkness and the pouring rain. For no more than probably three full seconds, I was able to see him before he was swallowed by the night as he walked in a straight line 90 degrees away from the direction of the road and into the darkness. Our driver pulled away and continued down the hill. Then he made a couple of turns, and we began to ascend. This ascension took far less time than the descent, and after only a comparatively short time, we were again making passage on a street that had some streetlights, at which point the driver suddenly burst out with, “Ya know, some folks around here are okay, but there’s a whole bunch that ain’t worth a shit.”

I glanced over at my friend, but he appeared to be doing his best to pretend he hadn’t heard this pronouncement, so I uttered a somewhat noncommittal grunt in reply. I wasn’t looking for a response, and fortunately, the taximan didn’t offer one. Nor did he provide us with any additional sociological observations about the natives of the area. In fact, other than his question asking us if we’d mind if he took “a brief detour,” this one-sentence judgment of the character of some of the locals constituted the entirety of his speechifying during the trip. Not too long after this, we arrived at Motel 6.

Our driver, however, had one more surprise in store for us. Upon reaching the hotel, his demeanor changed immediately and completely. He seemed exuberant that the journey was finished—jumped out of the cab and sprang back to the trunk of the car, helping us with our bags, thereby exhibiting an energy I would not have thought him to possess. I couldn’t really understand why he was suddenly so happy—although it did occur to me that at least part of the reason may have been due to the fact that we hadn’t made a fuss about all the time it took for him to confer with the fellow who wasn’t worth a shit.

As soon as we entered the motel room, my roommate and I both dropped our bags and threw ourselves down onto our beds. Nothing was said for quite a long time. I think we were both processing this unlooked-for experience. My friend, who hadn’t said a word since before we got into the cab, finally spoke up.

“That was kind of weird.”

II.
The Two Ladies from “Housekeeping” 

The academic conference, out there in the middle of Midwestern America, was proving to be a drag, but at least I was able to get a room in the conference hotel beginning with the second night of the convocation. This was fortunate because during the mid-afternoon of the following day, I was hit with a powerful wave of fatigue (probably due to the more-or-less constant and pronounced thespian exertions that such professional shindigs require of their participants—to say nothing of the afore-mentioned after-hours boozing), so I figured I’d rest a bit before the commencement of the evening festivities. Needless to say, this shrugging off of professional protocol would have required risking another taxicab adventure if I still had been residing at Motel 6.

When I got back to my room, my entrance surprised the two ladies from Housekeeping who were busily making up my bed. In those long-ago days, I was still something of a youngster, and it was the first time I had ever seen two members of a hotel’s housekeeping staff working in tandem in the same room at once—or at least in any hotel room in which I had ever done time.

I said Hello and plopped myself down at the desk in the corner, well out of their way, while they stripped the bed, one on each side. It looked as if it wouldn’t take them long to finish, so I figured I’d sit there and busy myself with some paperwork while they were working, and then maybe get a quick nap after they’d left the room.

Aside from the fact that one woman was Black and the other White, they appeared to have much in common: both were middle-aged, both were obviously from the local area, both wore the same light-blue employee uniform, and both undoubtedly performed exactly the same tasks every day in the same low-status and poorly paid position in the “hospitality” industry. It also immediately became apparent that they knew each other quite well —perhaps a little too well—because soon after resuming their chat, which had been interrupted by my arrival, their gossiping became an argument.

And then it got a little more serious.

And then it became vigorous, as they stopped working and simply stood there, facing each other across the bed.

And then a few insults were exchanged.

And then “family” got involved, with each of the women pointing out that the other’s son had spent time in jail.

This was apparently a red line of sorts because the altercation ceased abruptly, as they stood there in silence, arms akimbo, glaring at each other. I decided to take advantage of the ceasefire, so I stood up and said, in my best flat Midwestern accent, and with just a touch of Southern drawl, “I ain’t gettin’ in the middle of THIS one,” as I shook my head and made my way to the door.

In perfect unison, they erupted in laughter, not only at what I had said, but also—or so it seemed to me—because they had temporarily forgotten that I was sitting there in the corner as their argument had escalated.

Whatever the case, they ceased their combat on the spot, and immediately returned to making up my bed as I left them to their task and made my way down to the bar, hoping to find a less rambunctious environment—someplace where I could sit in peace and hold a drink and count the hours until my return to the comparative sanity of New York City.