Abio Episode 16: Freshman Summer - Wildwood Working Vacation March 31 2024

For Sunday, March 31, 2024 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 1,215 words

Abio episode 16: Summer vacation in Wildwood

For my freshman summer, my roommate Dan landed me a day-clerk spot at a hotel-motel-restaurant on the boardwalk in Wildwood, New Jersey, the Eisenhower Hotel and Golden Shores Motel, which offered the European plan – no free food – or the American plan – three meals included. Full restaurant.

The Savory Seasoned-Salt family owned the business, and their mom ran the place. She opened for nine weeks each summer, then closed, took the proceeds and flew back to Europe with her assistant Sarah. In the summer she hired college students to run the place, plus a freelancing accountant and chef for the money and food.

My job was at the front desk welcoming guests with my partner Mike. We’d check them in. Offer to carry their bags. We had no elevators and four floors. We’d record their money in the ledger as received or pending departure. We answered the phone and accepted all reservations except one-night requests on weekends.

Mike was handsome, an articulate ladies’ man, chiseled jaw, blonde hair, blue eyes, a sense of humor, adventuresome, a good dose of modesty, and a mother who was a model.

The resort crew of a dozen lived on the fifth floor. We all shared bathrooms. Mike had a habit of turning his shower to ice cold for a half-minute before getting out. He said his mother taught him to do it – closes the pores. I still do it.

Mike and I were day clerks. It was the catbird seat. No dirty dishes or sweaty kitchens. We checked in all the pretty girls and learned a bit about their interests and intentions for their holiday. What clubs were they going to? If they asked us, we’d recommend clubs that we frequent as locals with weeks of night-scene experience.

It was amazing how often we bumped into each other downtown, employees and guests. It also made it easy to walk each other home safely.

Four of us clubbed together – Mike, his long-time pal, Gary, who looked like a backstage Elvis, Jose the bronze Brazilian Adonis dishwasher, and me.

The best Boardwalk-area clubs in Wildwood were within walking distance, all top-flight, colorful bars with music and dancing; however, they were pricey for four guys who frequented them often.

Our trick was to bring cocktail glasses from the Eisenhower and buy a bottle of Mad Dog 20 20 fortified wine at the liquor store. We’d fill up our glasses and sip at them all night at various clubs. One evening, while exiting shrubbery where we just filled our Mad Dog tumblers, we bumped into three foot-patrol policemen. “Evening, boys. What’s in the glasses?” said one officer. Any one of us could have answered.

Gary said, “Grape juice.” We nodded. The officer leaned forward and took a full whiff of our rotgut 20-proof grape juice. Instead of hauling out the handcuffs, he stepped back and tapped the bottom of Gary’s tumbler with his baton. “OK, boys. Bottoms up.”

He indicated all four of us. We had to either chug a full pint of wicked wine or pour it out. We chugged. The officers gestured for us to proceed into town and walked the other way. We loved those guys, and swaggered a bit from the scene, feeling jolly.

Two blocks closer to the nightclubs, as our buzz was kicking in, a miraculous thing happened. Folks, I can’t make this stuff up. It’s too bizarre, too unbelievable. You’ll just have to take my word.

Moving our way were four women dressed hot for a night out, sparkly dangles, hair dolled up, a couple in heels. As we got closer, one girl called out, “Oh, my God!” and came running toward Jose, the bronze Adonis. The other girls got the same realization and hurried in our direction. All four were guests at the Eisenhower and so happy to see us.

The girl who grabbed Jose’s arm turned him right around and started him walking directly back toward the hotel. Two girls grabbed Mike and Gary and turned them toward the hotel. The fourth and shyest girl, who did not grab me, walked beside me, and we all headed for the hotel. The party that night proceeded on the fifth floor.

This boardwalk vacation was more memorable than any sociology class. To be immersed in a youth-infused summer beach free-for-all will always be a cherished collection of memories for me.

Mrs. Eisenhower kept the fifth floor locked except for staff with keys, and she never came upstairs. The attic was private. It had multiple bedrooms and generous open space. “Live as you like, just come downstairs well dressed and ready to work.” That was her one command.

Our staff of a dozen consisted of all sexes from all parts of the world, everyone with a different job. Some were athletes who spent their free time running and swimming. Others came for the beach. Others like me were vacationing college students. Four of us preferred the nightlife. Dan got us both private rooms in front. It was a madhouse with employees with hotel guests coming and going.

Lack of attic air-conditioning kept people from hanging out there during the days, but our poor maid, Josie, went daily at noon to vacuum and clean up after us. She was a Jamaican athlete, frank and bold, and damned if she was going to work in that heat.

“Leave your windows open, or they will be open when you return.” She refused to sweat up her maid uniform, so she removed it each day and cleaned the fifth floor in bra and panties. No one complained.

It was a nine-week holiday in paradise for about three weeks. Then reality set in. The Eisenhower Resort was falling apart.

It became evident that Mrs. Eisenhower was not only a lush, but she did no resort work. By week two her accountant quit. Mrs. Eisenhower was so angry she refused to hire another. Instead, she turned management of the business over to Mike and me.

I’d had some bookkeeping in high school. She figured that was good enough.

Then our weekly towel delivery stopped. Customers were dripping. We hadn’t paid our bill in a month. “We sent several statements,” the towel clerk said. The mail came to Chef Phil’s desk in the kitchen, not the front desk. “I’ll look into it,” I committed. Next the butcher shut us off. No breakfast sausage was a catastrophe.

I talked with Phil, head chef, at his usual spot, asleep in a chair in front of the cashier, in the middle of the dining room, with a cigarette ash about to give way. He knew nothing about it. “I cook,” he said.

Cashier said, “He sits out here every day, and he snores.” Ashes on the carpet showed Phil had been there awhile, an no one had vacuumed.

With Mrs. Eisenhower, we three talked. Chef Phil admitted he had narcolepsy and refused to change. She fired his ass and he accepted. No replacement. The cooks did Phil’s job, as usual.

I cleaned out Phil’s desk, piled with unopened bills. We owed money all over town. Phil had just tossed bills to the back. Finances were not his job, and the accountant quit. With high school bookkeeping, I cleaned up the mess in a couple days and gave Mrs. Eisenhower a balanced summer ledger. Profit $90,000.

Hello, Gay Paree.