You ever hear of the Ivory Tower Hotel?

“You ever hear of the Ivory Tower Hotel?”

“No sir-y.”

“you sure?”

“Sure as a prune in the Tucson sun.”

Gabriel turned from the tomatoes he was dicing and turned to his wife.  “I haven’t had a prune in 10 years.”

“Good thing, hun. Good thing,” Replied Janet.

“But it really wasn’t bad, last time I had one. The aftertaste is quite nice – it’s just the texture that makes it awkward.”

“Very awkward.” Her voice was distant.

“Same thing with mushrooms,” he went on.

“HM?” Janet hummed quizzically.

She loved mushrooms.

“The texture is all wrong. When a mushroom is on my tongue, I could just about swear it’s a worm.”

“WHAT? Nothing tastes like a worm, pum.” Pum is what she called him in any particularly whimsical mood.

“You taste like a worm.”

Gabriel leaned across the kitchen island and kissed her lips.

“Worm. Definitely.”

She slapped his face until all ten hearts were vanquished.

“You ever hear of the Ivory Tower Hotel?” Gabriel asked yet again, but this time he was facing a pimply face. His son.

“Darn it no.”

“You want to hear of the Ivory Tower Hotel?”

Charle sat behind his desk in his room. There were glowing stars on his ceiling yet he cursed occasionally. “Sure, Gabe. Sure.”

“Ok, well, it’s a hotel in New Orleans, and it’s made of white Ivory, and it stretches so high.”

“How high?”

“Real high.”

“Like the Tower of Babel?”

“Yes.”

Charle suddenly faced his father. He swore.

“It’s not made of that stuff.” Gabriel’s tone was disapproving.

“But why should we want to go there?” Charle’s skeptical tone was stereotypical of an adolescent. “I mean, didn’t the whole Babel thing end badly?”

“No. It was a birth of culture. The true Rosetta Stone of ole times.”

Charle scowled, “Rosetta Stone is on my computer and it stinks.”

Gabriel had some time to himself the next few nights, so he thought about his wife and his son and their reaction to the proclamation of his most recent obsession. They didn’t seem too interested.

He had to be honest with himself. He liked to imagine they had jumped up and down with hair flailing and eyes lit up at the very concept of such a place of enlightenment, but they had not.

What was wrong with them?

He did not know.

Perhaps he hadn’t explained it right.

Charle was pronounced without the “s.” His real name was Charles, of course, but he had grown to hate the sound of an “s” dangling onto the end of his name. It was plural. Charle did not understand why he should be considered something plural. “I am not something plural,” he shouted. “I am Charle! Singular! One!”

Janet and he had thrown up their hands.       

Too bad.

They were not ones to baby their son, and push him until he caved to their every whim. They would rather he learn the hard way. Learn though shame and humiliation and rejection.

Except today. With the Ivory Tower.

Gabriel leaned a bulbous, sweating forehead against his son’s door frame.

You’re always supposed to get under a door frame if there is an earthquake.

Gabriel stilled his breathing.

How in plum pudding would he get under this door frame? He wouldn’t. It was impossible, because a locked door was under the door frame and the law of non-contradiction states that no two objects can be in the same place at the same time.

Bummer.  So he would suffer a fine death under mortar and brick and choke from gas expulsions and shriek like a banshee from beneath wreckage with a twisted arm and a severed leg from which he is bleeding out profusely, and die of starvation and suffocation and pain?

Gabriel was thinking the Ivory Tower must not have doors, or no locked ones at least. Thus, when an earthquake comes, one can be underneath a door frame watching safely from beneath a tranquil fortress.

They probably also have a bomb shelter and they most certainly have orange juice and there is most certainly an absence of prunes and mushrooms and names that are not pronounced right.

“Would you like to hear more about the Ivory Towers?”

“Pum?” Janet’s voice was aggressive, despite the calming aura that surrounded their master bedroom as they read by lamp light.

“What?”

“You have been talking about the Ivory Towers for days now.”

“Yes.” Gabriel was ecstatic. “I think it would be a grand vacation spot.”

“Hm.”

“What are you reading, Janet?”
“Anna Karenina.”

“What’s it about, Janet?”

“An affair.”

Gabriel sat up. “Why are you reading it?”

“Because I teach college literature and I’ve already read it twice and I enjoy it and I teach it this week. I like a fresh perspective, Gabriel.”

They sat quietly for a moment.

“What are you reading, Gabriel?”

“A kindle magazine on the Ivory Towers.”

“Hm.”

Janet sat up. “Why are you reading it?”

“I’ve already told you many times.”

“May I see your kindle and read part of it?”

“Why sure!” Gabriel smiled very widely until all of his pearly teeth gleamed like golden straw.

Janet studied it for a moment. Her eyebrows crossed. “Pummy, there’s nothing here! It’s just a blank page.”

Gabriel chortled. “Sure there is something there, silly. You worm!” He snapped at her and took the kindle back with a lighthearted yet startled manner. “It seems to be losing battery. That must be why. It’ll be back in morning.”

They glanced at each other.

“Gabriel, do you have a mistress in the Ivory Towers?”
“Lord no! Janet, there is none but you. My plum. My sweet caterpillar. My literary genius.”

Her thin pink lips smiled. Coy. “Ok.”

“Go to sleep, my love. You must be reading too much of your Ann Karenina novel about affairs. Our life is not so dramatic. Our life is much better.”

The lights clicked off and behind Gabriel’s eyelids formed colorful dots that shifted always, swaying in some exotic tango. So many dots. So many colors.

One dot. One color. A very long dot indeed – stretching up into the sky of his mind – an Ivory Tower.

The day was a Saturday, and Gabriel woke at five so he could make pancakes.

He burnt them, and Janet and Charle rose to the smell of charred batter.

“What the – “

“Watch your tongue young man.”

Charle made a face, as if the face he already had wasn’t bad enough.

“Here –“ Gabriel sat down with a plate of charred cake and began to demonstrate a precise method of decorating the demolished breakfast grub. “Take one and spoon a whole bunch of Nutella on.”

“Yummm,” Gabriel managed to get out before wincing harshly. When he swallowed, the lump of cake slid down very slowly. Janet and Charle watched it slide down his throat.

“You try one.”

“No thanks pops,” said Charle.

“Honey,” said Janet, “We appreciate the effort.”

Gabriel’s chews slowed exponentially. “Ok, ok, let’s all go to the Ivory Tower Hotel, then! They have free breakfast, you know.” He continued. “I’ve heard they’ll make you any type of egg you want, and you can get anything in it too – artichoke hearts, salmon, black forest ham, caviar…”

Charle chimed in. “Ew, dad. That sounds gross.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, no, that’s not it, Charle. They also have Greek yogurt and gourmet fruit – when’s the last time you had pineapple, son? And listed in complimentary snacks is “toaster strudels.”

At this last proclamation, Charle brightened considerably.

Janet bustled around getting herself ready for the day. “What’s the coffee like in the Ivories?”

“Ethiopian fresh brew – any way you like. They do shots and lattes and mochas and chai teas. Anything, my dear. Anything.”

She frowned. “How do you know all this, deary pum?” Pum was sort of a cross between pet names pumpkin and hun.

“I have a friend – Scott – I think his name is – Scott Mart – he went to the Ivory Tower for a brief vacation.” Gabriel took a breath, and stuffed another bite of coal into his mouth. “But, he liked it so much that he stayed.”

“Well, it sure sounds nice.”

“yes.”

“We can’t just drop everything and go, can we?”

Charle had his two cents to contribute. “Sure we can. Let’s go for all week.” Fact of the matter was that he had an oral report on Tuesday, and that he had not even touched the spine of the book he was supposed to read.

“You sure, hun? There’s a skateboard tournament on Monday, you know.”

“I don’t mind.” Fact of the matter was that Charle had never liked skateboarding, and only tried it because some of the gals thought it was hot, or cool, or whichever was better.

“OK, LET’S GO.” They all said at once, and hopped into the car with bundles of essential items that would also be making a trip to the grand Ivory Tower Hotel.

Two men sat on an airplane.

“You ever hear of the Ivory Tower Hotel?” Said the one in the aisle. The middle seat was vacant.

“Yes.” Said the other, by the window.

“Oh boy! Well I’ve heard a lot of grand things about it, and I cannot wait to visit!”

“OK, well, sense I’ve been there, let me tell you about it.” The window seat sitter cleared his throat and began softly, with the murmur of a moth’s wings. “I knew this kid, and his name was Charle, and his parents were not at all content with what they had, even though they had a whole lot, and even though they loved each other.” He sniffed and allowed the other man to digest this initial thought.

The story teller continued. “The father heard about the Ivory Tower Hotel and thought it sounded nice, so he schemed up a grand palace of a hotel and began to think about it quite a lot. He was always talking about how things would be better in the Ivory Tower. And if he wasn’t talking ‘bout it, he was thinking ‘bout it. Ok? You with me so far?”

The aisle seat man nodded. “Yes. Charle, and his parents who are not content, and the Ivory Tower.”

“Yes. Well, then his mom started thinking ‘bout it as well. They both had high hopes for the place, and Charle wanted to avoid an oral book report, so they all headed off to New Orleans in search of this fine establishment. It was supposed to have live music and everything – I mean how could it not when it was in New Orleans! Ha!” The story-teller sipped his Coca-Cola. “Now here’s the strange part. Here’s the part that Charle will never forget. When they got to New Orleans, and stepped off the plane, and came to the place where the hotel was to be, it was as beautiful as ever. His parents cooed about it to no end. It stretched up into the sky for miles and miles and sparkled white like pure elephant tusk. It was so exquisite that Charle’s parents ran toward it - ran towards the glittering jeweled door that was covered with crimson crystals and golden wreathes  - ran towards this emblem of ideals – and left Charle behind to get the luggage.” He took another sip of Coke.

            “Charle watched as his parents ran into a gorge. They fell miles and miles, and he could hear their screams floating along the New Orlean coast. Charle’s parents fell and ultimately died, and he swears the Ivory Tower Hotel - in all its splendor - faded slowly at first, like the flickering of a dying light bulb, and then all together vanished.”

Charle finished the story, for he was indeed the window-seat story teller on the plane, assuming a false identity for the moment so that he might have peace. A drip of salt water cascaded down the chin studded with shadowy beard.

     “If you ever hear of the Ivory Tower Hotel, purpose in your heart to be satisfied with what you have.” And Charle turned toward the window.