And So It Goes…
…said Kurt Vonnegut. A simplistic way to convey closure, to throw your hands up in the air and surrender, to explain the inexplicable. And so I go, back to my life pre-Pfister, after six months of exploring, discovering, conversing, photographing, writing, and blogging. There is no simple way to explain what it’s like being a fly on the wall of the historic Pfister Hotel for six months. I can’t deny the paradox of learning so many new things in such an old space. It’s filled with millions of stories, the fondest of memories, casual comforts and subtle luxuries. Even more, with hundreds of helping hands and smiling faces, The Pfister is home to some of the most caring and talented professionals I have ever had the pleasure of working with. It’s evident how much they genuinely take pride in their work. They adopted me as one of their own, but treated me like royalty.
So just in case you were curious, this is how it all began. Below, see the sample blog I wrote when I was vying for the position of Pfister Narrator. It has not yet been published, but it’s still one of my favorite stories, just because it’s so obscure and outlandish. Yes, it’s a true story, and it happened at the Pfister.
“It really is a sickness, you know,” he insisted. Mike was in town for a week “on family business.” He quickly revealed that this family business was cleaning and selling the home of a recently deceased cousin who was a hoarder. I wasn’t going to pry on such a sensitive issue, but he was eager to explain: “We have been heaving crap out of his house for three days.”
I got sucked into this story with the most common pick up line, “So, you from around here?” He introduced himself as Rob and his friend, Mike. Rob’s flamboyant shirt was screaming at me and his sneaky grin was playful, not threatening. His childhood buddy Mike was along for the ride to provide moral support. He was sporting a tuxedo shirt, black cargo pants, steel-toed boots and a baseball cap. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of his attire. When he explained that he was a certified Mercedes mechanic, also working as a producer in L.A., it made a little more sense. Their drink: Woodford Reserve Bourbon – straight up – with a side of water.
Both men are Kansas City natives and when they found out I was from Milwaukee, they began grilling me on all the hot spots in town. I quickly turned the conversation back to the family business and the hoarding. “I swear we have already filled four, 30-yard dumpsters,” bemoaned Mike. “Magazines, empty Godiva chocolate boxes; you name it, the house is packed to the gills!” Mike explained that his cousin took care of his paralyzed wife in that house for 33 years. He was, like most people, totally perplexed by the hoarding. Mike and Rob were sleeping on an air mattress in the five-bedroom house on west Good Hope Road. Rob had already made up his mind that he was going to hire someone from off the street to finish up the cleaning tomorrow so they could get the house on the market.
Desperate for some relief from cleaning, their realtor had suggested Blu as the premier spot in the city to get a cocktail. Mike and Rob were impressed with the diversity of the hotel and abashedly admitted that they wouldn’t mind finding some lady company to see more of the town with. That was my cue to step aside and let these gentlemen unwind. They were warm and obliging, confirming the fact that you don’t find friendlier folk than you do in Midwest.