Ghosts of Summer

When we arrived in Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin, a little before midnight, the streets were deserted. There is something incredibly warm and cozy-- romantic even -- about a summer town in the off season. The crowds are long gone, but you can still hear the lazy rumble of leisurely strolls, taste the sweet satisfaction of ice cream racing down the side of a sugar cone.

It wasn't exactly the quaint bed and breakfast we had planned on, but the Best Western was inviting enough in the dark. At least none of the letters in the lighted sign were missing. The lady behind the desk seemed bored and sleepy, a little surprised to see us. Sue. That's what her name tag said. She didn't look like a "Sue," though, and she didn't seem all that interested in chatting; after a couple of attempts, we gave up -- never even reached the point where it would seem appropriate to call her Sue. Or anything.

Sue seemed the perfect desk clerk for a Best Western, off season, off hours. Her kinky gray hair was pulled into a tight pony tail, her white shirt stained with shadows of a thousand fast food meals. I was able to squeeze in two trips to the bathroom and four to the water fountain while she processed our paperwork, and I returned just in time for the finale -- the programming of the key cards. Swipe. Beep. Click. Swipe. Beep. Click. Her face remained impassive, and she did the same with a second key card. Swipe. Beep. Click. Swipe. Beep. Click. Still expressionless, she put that one aside, and went through the routine again with a third, then a fourth.

"One is fine," I told her. "Don't worry about the second."

"I don't even have one yet," she snapped. Well, snapped is a strong word, but it was the first thing she had uttered with any sort of inflection. She kept going.

"Maybe unplug and replug the machine," one of us suggested.

"Nope." Not an option, apparently, although she did move it over a few inches, which seemed to have a bit of an unplugging effect because now when she swiped there was no beep. After a few tries, she moved it back. Swipe. Beep. Click. Swipe Beep. Click. Hmmm.

She went in back, came out with a large stack of brand new key cards, still wrapped in cellophane. We stood there, staring at our bellybuttons, afraid to look at each other. Swipe. Beep. Click. Swipe. Beep. Click. She tried three or four times.

"Maybe if you try to swipe faster?"

She obliged, looking a bit self-satisfied when nothing happened. I refrained from suggesting she start pulling cards from the middle, fearing she would.

Finally, she let us in with her master key, warning us that if we left we'd pretty much be shit out of luck. We collapsed into our prison, laughing. We half expected to find Sue in the lobby in the morning, buried under a sea of key cards. We did not.

The streets are not quite as deserted here in daylight, if only because it's the day of the big Halloween parade. Stores are open but empty, despite scores of straw-stuffed-pumpkin-headed people sitting like ghoulish welcoming committees on the cold benches outside. Not a lot of tourists, but clusters of local folks of all ages, all in costume. Cows, Disney princesses, a smattering of Harry Potterish wizards, a tiny family of loraxes. Nothing suggestive or in the slightest bit risque. A sleepy, summer town in Wisconsin, in the off season. Except for a few overtired toddlers, everybody seemed very content.

Who knows where we'll land tonight? The only thing we know for certain is it won't be the Best Western with no working keys. And it's a pretty sure bet that, in the off season up north, it will be warm and cozy and even a little bit romantic, no matter where we end up. Fall colors are past peak, and some of the trees are already bare. But the dim rumble and sweet taste of summer still lurks, behind the pumpkins.