Sunday Archive XXIV: American Braves, Part Four of Four
And the end of the American Braves story. It’s really annoying when it’s spread over four weeks, eh?
We ended up at a crazy bar, which I must go visit again, run by the guy who wrote Rhyme & Punishment, which I’ve forgotten entirely. And who knows if he’s still around eight years later?
Is it ‘Bobby’?
Liam insisted that we find the worst and most dangerous place to spend the night – dirty sheets and blood-splattered shower stalls were the goal. We looked at several motels but were unable to find the examples of plague and brutality that would make Liam happy. We settled on the “Oh! Shaw” for several reasons. One was that it looked like it had survived several hurricanes and the other was the blank, slightly crazed look the owner’s wife gave us when we asked if they took credit cards. They don’t take them, silly.
When we first pulled into the Oh! Shaw’s parking lot, Liam and I were afraid to enter the dilapidated front office. Behind the office (which was also a home for a medium-sized family) was a run down L-shaped motor-lodge (about 15 rooms) and several Friday the 13th-style box cabins. We sent Donald and Teresa in to check on prices while Liam kept the car in gear and I watched for trouble.
The Spanish returned with pleasant smiles and invited us in. All looked okay and the Oh! Shaw’s owners were glad to talk to us. We spoke at length about the Amish and, though the owners said nothing outright, it became apparent that they had written the Amish off as communists long ago. Three exotic birds chirped and flicked sunflower seeds at us while we talked. A large cockatoo occasionally fluttered over to the owners arm, leaving only when he raised his voice (usually in the direction of, but not directly to, his wife).
The rooms hit $45 a night (the cheapest we found in the Dutch Country) and we spent a frenzied moment getting the cash together – handing over crumbled bills, rattling change and a few shirt buttons.
The rooms had no telephone and the TV’s looked as if they had just been added a few days ago – power cords and cable lines stretched across the walls and ceiling. We would have to sleep exposed to the night air since the windows facing the cornfield wouldn’t close.
Without a doubt, the “Oh! Shaw” was one of the most comfortable and refreshing motel stays I’ve had. The bed was soft, the shower had strong hot water and you could spend long hours of the evening on a swing watching the traffic jam on US30. I give the Oh! Shaw 5 out of 5 crazy Americana points.
We arrived at the Oh! Shaw motel in an exhausted, strung out state of mind. Our early morning start and several hours of backwater Americana adventuring had put all of us in a warped mood. Donald and Teresa, with a few muttered curses in Spanish, retreated to their room while Liam and I placed a quick call to our Lancaster County Guide, Maddie. Our plans had been a Lancaster City pub-crawl, perhaps a knock down fight with Amish youths and, certainly, some sort of action with Asian prostitutes. At least, that’s what I had on my “to do” list. In our current state of mind, however, we were more interested in sleeping for at least 18 hours. But Maddie, who would receive free beer in quantity for her guide services, refused to let us back out of our Saturday evening plans. She had an alternative in mind – a visit to what is destined to be a classic Americana stop, the Corn Crib Restaurant between Atlen and Gap, PA.
The Corn Crib is an instantly recognizable little roadhouse. The tail end of an airplane sticks out from the roof, a car and a fishing boat are smashed into the sides…a classic example of kitsch Americana. Inside, the place is covered with mementos from past customers – pictures, signs, hundreds of autographed one-dollar bills, condoms, and napkins with scrawled love poems. Every inch of the wall and ceiling is coated with this stuff. In fuzzy shape, the sun setting hard into the Pennsylvania countryside, we marched up to the bar and settled down to sample the microbrews. Absorbed by the décor we were barely prepared for complicated social contact. It was hard enough to answer questions put forward by the timid bartender. The poor girl was on shaky ground the moment she failed to understand Liam’s Australian accent and then she made the unforgivable mistake of offering Donald and Teresa too many options. I helped translate for Liam (“He said lager. Give him a Sam Adams.”). The Spanish were easy to work with, they were assigned lagers and the bartender was under orders to keep it coming till somebody mentioned “the Empire”.
Social contact was stepped up a notch when a woman in a black bowler stepped up to us and began to seethe insults – not only about the food and the Corn Crib in general, but eventually against us. We decided to move to a table, only to be hounded by this woman. In the dining area, however, she seemed to relax a little and surprised us when she viciously chased a waitress over to our table.
We watched her return to the bar, insulting whatever hapless patrons crossed her path. Quietly, we congratulated each other on avoiding what could have been a terrible confrontation. There was no time to enjoy this victory, however. A man in a matching bowler spun over to our table, grinned malevolently, and then asked us where we were from (the answer is always “Washington, DC” to avoid conversation, though Teresa answered formally in Spanish). The man rattled off some personal notes and proceeded to perform a series of long-winded but surprisingly adept parlor tricks.
This was the owner, A. Charles (“Chuck”) Artinian, author of Rhyme and Punishment. He and his wife, Mary, are there each night to entertain the customers. Both in black bowlers, Mary’s job is to insult you relentlessly. Charles, on the other hand, will perform countless magic tricks. As we would soon discover, neither of them will leave you alone.
I found myself silently wishing for my second wind, a reawakening of my alcoholic genes and a shot of adrenaline for all of my traveling companions. The Corn Crib lends itself to insanity and, if in the proper mood, it could have been a wild night. Between Mary’s catcalls from the bar and Chuck’s near-drunken monologues about the beauty of Spain (Teresa let the cat out of the bag after 45 seconds of direct interrogation) the Corn Crib proved to be the most exciting experience of our trip. It outranked baking in the sun at the Maize Maze and it cleared the dark and evil undertones the Indian Steps Museum had left. Liam, a hopeless skeptic, became obsessed with debunking every trick Chuck could think of. Finally, towards the end of our dinner, Chuck pushed a snarling Mary aside and handed a hardback book to Maddie’s husband.
“Open it at random and pick a word.” Chuck instructed. “Show the word to Donald but don’t show it to me.” Chuck went over to the bar and chatted with a few patrons for a few seconds while Maddie’s husband prowled through the book. He showed his selection to Donald and then closed the book, the signal for Chuck to return.
The Corn Crib’s magician called Mary over and had her stand in the center of the small dining room.
Chuck turned to our table, “I can guess that word. We’ll have Mary help us out – “ Turning to his partner, he began to order her about the room. Left, right, three steps forward. Finally Mary was standing in front of a small plastic Christmas tree. On the tree, in place of a star, was an English policeman’s hat. Chuck ordered Mary to put the hat on her head and, in triumph, turned to our table.
“Is the word ‘Bobby’?”
And so it was. Exhausted, half drunk, this was a profoundly religious experience. Chuck Artinian could read our minds. He was the Messiah. Liam, nearing desperation, told us it was light and mirrors. His protestations fell on deaf ears, the authority of skepticism crumbling with one word.
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To get to the Corn Crib just make a right onto Route 41 from US 30 at Gap, PA. You can’t miss it.