Get Your Kicks : In Honor of the Centennial Year of Route 66

 I jerked awake as the car slammed to a stop.

“Where are we?” It was dark and a thick fog surrounded the car. I could barely make out the stop sign in front of the car.

“I don’t know. I was following the edge line in this fog and must have followed it down an exit.” Dick peered through the windshield. “Can you see what that street sign says?”

“Not from here,” I said. “I’ll have to get closer.” I got out and walked up to the pole holding the sign. I squinted up at it through the fog.

I slid back into the car. “It says Route 66. We might as well keep going. We should come to something along here.”

We slowly drove through the fog until we saw a neon sign, “Aruba Motel” and another, “Tiki Restaurant,” on the south side of the highway.

“Should we stop the night?” Dick asked. “We can’t go much farther in this fog and it’s got color t.v.” He grinned at me.

I laughed. “And dig those crazy tiki masks! Someone’s done a great job of renovating it. I like the looks of that Tiki Restaurant, too. The Sputnik lights on the diamond-shaped sign would be enough, even without the promise of seafood, steak, and hamburgers. I wonder what it cost them to replicate that sign.”

Dick turned the car left and pulled into the parking lot. “Strange. There’s no fog here. It ends at the road.”

I shivered. “Must be a microclimate.”

“Must be.”

He drove around the kidney-shaped pool to the office and stopped. Through the windows, we could see a young man with a crew cut sitting behind the desk.

We went inside. I looked around. “Someone has gone to a lot of trouble with the decor,” I murmured to Dick. “It looks just the like motels we used to stay at when I was a girl.”

“Welcome to the Aruba,” the desk clerk said, smiling. I was amused to see he wore a white, short-sleeved, button-up shirt and tie. They were going all out to create a retro vibe. Dean Martin had just started crooning “Everybody loves somebody sometime” from a twelve-inch portable television on the desk. I wondered what channel it was streaming or maybe it was closed circuit.

“We’d like a room for the night,” Dick explained.

“Sure thing. Just fill out this card. It’ll be fifteen dollars with tax.”

How were they staying in business charging 1960s prices?

“Do you take cards?” Dick asked with a wry smile.

“Yes, sir. We take BankAmericard, Diner’s Club, and American Express.”

Dick gave me a facetious look and I gave it back. I knew he was thinking that this was taking authenticity a little too far.

“That’s ok, sport,” Dick said, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket. “I’m pretty sure that I have that much in cash.” He sorted through his billfold and pulled out a ten and a five. He handed them to the clerk.

“Here’s your key,” the clerk said, handing him an actual key on a diamond-shaped plastic key ring with ‘Aruba Motel’ and the address engraved on it. “It’s room 13, down at the end there.” He paused, “I hope you’re not superstitious. It’s the only room we have left.”

“We’re not,” I said. “Room 13 will be just fine, I’m sure.”

“Oh, good. Well, you two have a pleasant stay. And don’t forget, check out is before eleven. On the dot. Just leave the key on the dresser in the room”

“Will do” Dick said. “Oh, one more thing. The restaurant? Any good?”

The clerk nodded. “Oh, yes, sir. It’s excellent. I’m sure that you will both enjoy it.”

“Thanks again,” Dick said, opening the door for me. As we left, I heard Dino introduce “The lovely Joey Heatherton.” There’s a name I hadn’t heard in decades!

As we drove through the lot to our room, I noticed that the other cars were all vintage models, most in mint condition, including the fire-engine red Mustang coupe of my dreams.

“What say we head over for dinner first?” Dick asked as he parked at our room.

“Sounds good to me.”

We walked across to the lot to the restaurant. Whoever was responsible for the office decor had been busy here as well. A carved tiki pole stood just inside the entrance.

“Where do you think they got that?” Dick asked, looking it up and down. He ran a hand across the carvings. “This feels like real wood. Must have cost a pretty penny.”

In the light from the recessed amber fixtures, I made out a dimly backlit waterfall running down a faux rock face and into a pool, where tiny lights in the sides revealed several koi swimming. The walls were covered with fishing nets, glass floats, diver’s helmets, star fish, the usual flotsam. The Beach Boys were singing about the attractions of “California girls” over the sound system.

I turned and grinned at Dick. “I didn’t know places like this still existed.”

Dick shook his head. “Neither did I. Looks like we lucked out. Now, if the food’s as good as the interior design.”

We walked into the bar area. Nearly ever seat was taken. Most of the women wore sheath dresses, large clip-on earrings, and pearl chokers. Nearly all had bouffant hairdos. The men either had crew cuts or pompadours and all were in suits and ties, except for the men behind the bar, who all wore bright Hawaiian shirts.

“Do you think this is a theme night?” I asked Dick.

“Must be.” He shrugged. “It’s the centennial of Route 66 this year, so, makes sense.”

I looked down at my Costco women’s travel pants and top. “I feel completely under dressed. And I’ll bet they’re all wearing heels and stockings.”

“What about me?” Dick said, glancing down at his polo shirt and chinos. “It could be worse,” he added. “I could have worn one of my Hawaiian shirts.” I grinned at him.

“Help you folks?” One of the men asked from behind the bar.

“Table for two,” Dick said.

“There’s be a wait,” the bartender said. “Hope that’s ok? Coupla’ seats at the end of the bar, if you wanna’ have a drink while you wait.”

“Sure thing.” Dick nodded and guided me toward the end of the bar to the two empty seats next to an older couple. She was wearing a printed shirt-dress with a gathered skirt and a single string of pearls around her neck. Her grey hair was in tight curls and a pair of cream-colored gloves were on the bar in front of her. The man’s grey hair was cut short above the ears and neck, and the thin strands were brushed back over his balding scalp. He wore an ill-fitting suit and tie.

We smiled and nodded at each other as we took our seats.

“What’ll ya’ have?” The bartender asked.

“It has to be mai tais, right?” Dick said, looking at me. I nodded. We find them cloying, but when in Rome …

“We’re the Prices,” the man said. “I’m Glen and this is my wife, Irma.” The woman smiled at us. I smiled back.

“We’re the Smiths,” Dick replied. “Someone has to be,” he said in response to their looks of skepticism. They both looked slightly ashamed. “And,” he continued, “to make it worse, I’m Dick and this is my wife, Jane.” We all laughed.

“Well, as you say,” Glen said, “Someone has to be. You folks goin’ far?”

Dick shook his head. “We’re heading back home to Albuquerque, but we got lost in the fog.”

Glen furrowed his brow. “Musta’ come up after we stopped. Mother and I are on our way to Long Beach, in California?” He paused and looked at us. We both nodded to show that we knew where he meant.

“We’re going to visit our grandkids. We haven’t seen them since last Christmas,” Irma interjected excitedly. “We’re spending a month there! I can’t wait to take them to Disneyland! It’s the tenth anniversary, you know, so it’s going to be special. And we’re going to that new SeaWorld, in San Diego. Have you heard of it?” Dick and I nodded. These people had really done their research. “Father and I are also looking forward to the San Diego Zoo. There’s nothing like that in Topeka.”

“No, there sure isn’t,” Glen agreed. “Our son has a job at Douglas Aircraft. He’s an engineer. Got his degree on the GI Bill.” They both looked proud.

“Vietnam?” Dick asked.

Glen furrowed his brow again. “Korea. Enlisted right toward the end, but he stayed in long enough to qualify.” He shook his head. “He’s too old for the draft now. Besides, he’s married with kids.”

Dick and I looked at each other. These people were really staying in character. The drinks arrived then, just as the Beach Boys began begging Rhonda for help. Dick grimaced at the ceramic tiki cup with its skewer of pineapple and cherry. He took a sip and his eyes grew wide.

“Wow! This is the real thing. Careful, honey. It’s pretty potent!” he warned. He was right. Nothing too sweet about it. We sipped carefully at the drinks. We might not be driving any farther that night, but I did have to walk from the bar to the table.

“Table’s ready, folks,” one of the Hawaiian-shirted men said. I was having trouble keeping them straight, with their identical shirts and crew cuts. We followed him to a secluded, high-topped booth. He set two menus on the table and we slid into the seats.

“Another mai tai?”

I shook my head. “Not for me. One was enough. Water will do me.”

“Yeah, believe I will,” Dick said.

The waiter nodded. “Be back with that drink and for your orders,” he said, walking away.

We perused the menu. It looked like a facsimile of an actual 1960s tiki restaurant menu, from the tikis, palm trees, and faux South Seas font to the menu items.

“I can’t decide! It’s all too much! What do you think, Dick?”

“I feel the same. How about we order the pupu platter? We can try a little of everything, and if there’s something we don’t like, we won’t have much to finish.”

I closed my menu. “Great idea! Let’s do it.”

When the waiter returned with Dick’s second mai tai, we ordered the platter. While we waited, I eavesdropped on the adjoining booth where, from what I could hear, two couples were finishing their dinner.

“Soon as we get to Vegas, we head for the Flamingo. Ann-Margret’s there,” a male voice said.

“Va-va-va-voom!” added a second male. “And then the showgirls at the Stardust! What’s that called? Leedo dee Paris?” It took me a minute to realize that he meant “Lido de Paris.”

“Don’t forget, you promised we could see Phyllis Diller,” a female complained. “I told all the girls back home that I was going to see her in person.”

“And I wanna see Frankie! He’s at the Riviera,” said another demanded. She sighed loudly. “That’s where they made ‘Ocean’s Eleven,’ you know.”

“Yeah, we know,” the first male replied. “We’re the ones took you to see it, remember?”

“Don’t worry,” the second male added. “We got two whole weeks and we’re stayin’ at the Hacienda, right in the middle of everything.”

These people were really in character!

Sinatra was assuring us that “It was a very good year” when our food arrived on a carved monkey pod platter. I immediately turned my attention to the egg rolls, crab rangoon, Chinese-style spare ribs, teriyaki beef skewers, chicken wings, and coconut shrimp. We laughed as we each tried to sneak more than our fair share of our favorite pieces. When nothing was left except a few rib and chicken bones and bamboo skewers, Dick signaled for the check.

“You can pay me when you’re ready,” the waiter said, he handed Dick the check. He picked up the platter and walked away.

Dick’s eyes grew wide as he looked at the check, and he handed it to me without a word. I raised my eyebrows and looked at him. The mai tais were a dollar each and the pupu platter was four dollars. The entire meal was a mere seven dollars. What surprised me more was that the sales tax was only three percent!

“How do they stay in business with these prices?” I asked.

“Probably charge through the nose to participate in the theme night,” Dick said, shrugging. “I guess the fog brought us luck — or a silver lining.”

Dick signaled for our waiter and handed him a ten, saying “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, sir! And come again!”

As we walked back to our room, Dick said, “I felt kind of cheap giving him less than three dollars for a tip, but …”

“But it was nearly forty percent,” I finished for him. “And tips in those days were, what five? Ten percent?”

Our room was retro as the rest, with turquoise chenille spreads on the two twin beds, linen drum lampshades, a rotary dial phone, a clock radio, and a retro-look television set. Dick flipped the t.v. on as I went into the bathroom. I heard Julie Andrews declaring that the hills were alive in an ad for “The Sound of Music” as I brushed my teeth.

When I came back into the room, Dick was lying on the bed watching Barbara Eden cavorting in harem pants.

“Honey, we’re going to have to find out what streaming service this is,” he said.

“Yes, I can see that.” I nudged him. “Your turn in the bathroom.”

When he came out, I was lying on the bed watching Robert Conrad in skintight pants and bolero jacket. I don’t remember what he was doing. “You’re right, we’re going to have to find out what service this is,” I said, grinning.

It had been a long day and was getting close to midnight. Despite the allures of the vintage streaming service, we both decided to call it a night.

“Those cosplayers are sure getting their money’s worth,” I said as we switched off the lights.

We slept late the next morning. We showered and dressed and packed our suitcases as quickly as possible, but it was still almost five minutes to eleven when we left the room. Dick carried the suitcases to the car as I looked around to make sure we hadn’t left anything. It was a couple of minutes to eleven when I put the key on the dresser and shut the door behind me.

Dick started the engine as I buckled my seatbelt. The clock on the dash showed eleven o’clock as Dick backed the car away from the room. He slammed on the brakes.

“Jane …” He slowly turned his head forward. I turned to look at him. “Do you see …”

I nodded, dumbfounded, then looked out again at the weed-strewn lot, the peeling paint, the broken windows, the rusted car bodies, the shattered neon, the general air of abandonment. Looking forward, I saw that our room was now as dilapidated as the rest. The pool was obscured by an overgrown hedge and where the restaurant had been was nothing but a weed-choked lot.

Where had the fog taken us — or when? If we hadn’t checked out by eleven o’clock … would we ever have checked out at all?