Sometimes Inn
It was a dark and stormy night. I was on my way home after a two-week business trip. I had stopped by the office to reply to a couple of urgent emails. My body was tired. But my monkey brain wouldn’t shut down its endless ruminations over what those emails foretold for tomorrow.
I squinted through the rain at the glow of a lighted sign by the side of the road up ahead. The sign was new, one of those portable marquee types you see at burger joints and roadside taverns. It read ‘Sometimes Inn’ with ‘Now Serving Dinner’ underneath.
I was hungry and desperately wanted to unwind at someplace other than my empty apartment. Over the last couple of months, I’d seen workers traipsing in and out of the place and wondered what kind of establishment it was going to be. Now seemed the right time to find out.
It was a nondescript building — a bit shabby actually — no windows, sheet metal siding, with a front door that looked more institutional than commercial. The place must have opened while I was away. Several cars parked out front provided the permission I needed to go in.
As I walked through the front door, a loud school-bell-sounding alarm went off. I jumped. Flashing back to third grade fire drills, my mind started running through all the possibilities for what I’d done wrong.
I was too startled to leave. Besides, it was raining outside. As I looked around the room, I saw that the patrons remained puzzlingly intent on their drinks and conversation. Then I noticed the bartender reach under the bar and turn off the bell. He motioned to me with a shit-eating grin on his face. “I see you’re not a member,” he remarked.
“Sorry,” I replied. “Did I go through the wrong door? I didn’t see a sign.” After pausing to reflect on what he had said, I added, “Did you say this place was members-only?”
“Oh, there’s no sign,” he said. “You came in the right door. We don’t like to advertise that we’re members-only. It scares folks away.”
“And the alarm doesn’t?” I retorted.
The bartender smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Sam, one of the owners.” He reached across the bar to shake my hand.
“Norm,” I said.
“So, might we interest you in becoming a Sometimes Inn member, Norm?” Sam asked.
In my now complete state of abject confusion, all I could think to say was, “I don’t know. I’ve never been a members-only kind of guy”, quickly adding, “I gotta say that alarm thing is a little weird.”
“That’s one of Artie’s ideas,” Sam replied. “We don’t know if we’re going to keep it or not.”
“Who’s Artie?” I inquired.
“He and I own the place. He doubles as our cook and IT department. Sometimes Inn membership isn’t like those snootier places. Our members are pretty much your run-of-the-mill riff-raff and ne’er-do-wells. We do have a few requirements though.”
I chuckled, “This place has requirements?”
“They’re simple,” Sam noted. “You just need a sponsor. We have an initiation fee but no monthly dues. Just drop by the place for dinner or drinks at least once or twice a month. Oh yeah, you’ll need to get our cell phone app.”
Sam looked toward the other end of the bar where a sullen-looking fellow was sitting alone, drinking beer, and watching a basketball game. “Cliff, would you be willing to sponsor Norm, here?”
“I didn’t say I wanted to become a member,” I protested. “I’ve never been here before. I don’t even know if I like the place.”
Cliff, ignoring me, looked up from his beer and nodded, “Sure.”
“Let’s go ahead and start the process,” Sam said. “It won’t take long. Now that Cliff has agreed to be your sponsor, we just need to convene the Membership Committee. Cliff will speak for you.”
“But Cliff doesn’t know me,” I insisted.
“Cliff,” Sam bellowed. “What would you like to know about Norm?”
Cliff asked what I liked to drink, whether I preferred Dinner or Not Dinner, and what I liked to talk about. I gave him my answers but was puzzled by the second question.
Sam then reared up and shouted loud enough for the entire room to hear. “I hereby convene the Sometimes Inn Membership Committee.” The room went silent. Everyone turned toward Sam.
Sam turned to me, “Our bylaws stipulate that the Membership Committee shall be composed of all Sometimes Inn members present.”
Sam yelled out to the convened Membership Committee, “The Chair recognizes Cliff for a motion.”
Cliff stood up and announced, “I nominate Norm for membership in Sometimes Inn.”
A collective roar rang out, “Norm!”
A lone voice shouted, “What does Norm drink?”
Cliff replied, “Dos XX”.
Another voice chimed in, “Does Norm prefer Dinner or Not Dinner?”
“Dinner,” responded Cliff.
“Does Norm like to talk?” came from another corner of the room.
“Politics,” Cliff glumly announced.
Sam, in his most official-sounding voice, proclaimed, “All in favor of admitting Norm to Sometimes Inn membership say aye.”
“Aye,” filled the room.
“All opposed, nay”. Silence. “Norm is hereby admitted to Sometimes Inn membership pending payment of the club’s initiation fee. Welcome Norm.”
Hubbub quickly returned as the Membership Committee went back to drinking and talking.
“How much is the initiation fee?” I gingerly asked Sam.
“You’re lucky that Cliff agreed to sponsor you,” he said. “He drinks Lone Star Light.”
“What does Cliff’s beer preference have to do with the initiation fee?” I asked.
“Well,” Sam said. “To finalize your membership, you need to buy Cliff a Lone Star Light.”
I smiled. “Every time I come in?”
“Nope,” Sam said. “Just tonight. It’s an initiation fee, not dues.”
Before I could say anything, Sam turned to Cliff, “Good news, buddy. Sam has agreed to join Sometimes Inn.” Cliff raised his long neck in thanks.
Sam turned around and retrieved a Lone Star Light from the fridge. “Here, Norm. Take Cliff his beer.”
Cliff and I chatted for a while. He asked about my politics. But I could tell he wasn’t really interested. He was intent on ESPN and his free beer. I realized I was still hungry. So, I sauntered back to the other end of the bar.
“Sam,” I said. “Your sign out front said you served dinner. Could I see a menu? And didn’t you say something about an app I needed to install?”
Sam replied, “Yep, true. Except for the menu part. There’s no menu.”
I was confused, “I thought your sign said you served dinner.”
Sam smiled, “We do. But there’s no menu since you only have two choices — Dinner or Not Dinner.”
“Now I get Cliff’s second question,” I chuckled. “Out of curiosity, do you get anything with Not Dinner?”
Sam pointed to an old movie theater popcorn machine across the room. “For Not Dinner, you get to help yourself to all the salty popcorn your heart desires.”
“What’s Not Dinner cost?” I asked.
“There’s no charge for Not Dinner. Popcorn is cheap. We figure the more popcorn you eat the more beer you’ll drink. You’re a Dos XX guy, right?”
“Yep,” I said. “And Dinner?”
Sam pointed to a table next to the popcorn machine. “Artie decides what’s for Dinner. Tonight, it’s beef chili and corn bread. The fundamentalist carnivores who don’t like beans in their chili are having Not Dinner or have already left. There’s grated cheese and diced onions for garnish. Both Dinner and Not Dinner are self-serve — paper and plastic dinnerware, of course. And don’t make a mess. We don’t want to have to hire someone to clean up after you barbarian slobs.”
“I’ll have Dinner then,” I said smiling. “What’ll it set me back?”
“Dinner usually goes for something between five and eight bucks,” Sam answered. “Tonight’s epicurean fare is six-fifty.”
“Can I have Not Dinner as an appetizer?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” Sam replied. “No charge.”
“Not that it matters to me, but do you ever serve vegan or gluten-free?” I inquired.
“Not on purpose,” Sam snapped. “You said you wanted to know about our app.”
“Yeah, what’s with that?”
“Once it’s installed, you’ll set up a link through PayPal to take care of your tab. Artie developed a way to monitor your phone’s GPS, so we know when you’re inside the building. Your tab is updated by the app but only when your phone is physically here. That’s our security feature.”
I grinned. “I’m guessing that since I didn’t have the app, that’s what set that alarm off when I walked in. Sounds pretty NSA-ish to me. What if I’m the paranoid type?”
“No problem,” Sam said. “We’ll get you a Sometimes Inn key fob — like the one you probably have for your car. We bill you at the end of the month. There’s a 5% surcharge to cover the fob, billing costs, and insurance against delinquent tabs. The fee is only 2% if you set up a pre-payment plan. Since you’re a new member, tonight you can pay the old-fashioned way. And just so you know, all tips are donated to the local food bank.”
“I’ll take a look at the app,” I said. “And I think I will have Dinner with that Not Dinner appetizer.”
I strolled over to the popcorn machine and grabbed a bag of — yep — very salty popcorn. It was time to explore my new club.
There were a number of round tables scattered about the room, each with a video display flush-mounted in the center. Small groups of people who appeared to be hypnotized by their laptops occupied a couple of small rooms at the far end of the place. I suppose it was either social media or work. I felt sorry for them.
I wandered over to the nearest table. Three people were sitting there, each with a glass of wine and reading silently. The table-top video displayed ‘Bookworms’. I wanted to ask why they’d chosen to read in a bar, but they didn’t look like they cared to be disturbed. Maybe they came for the chili and cornbread.
The second table I visited was livelier. Five guys were in the midst of a very heated discussion. As I approached, I heard one declare, “That’s not true!” Whereupon another chimed in, “We should ask Google.” To which another retorted, “Not Google, Siri.” Then a third, “Ask Alexa, you idiots.”
A soft schoolmarm-like voice purred out of the table, which displayed ‘Political Junkies’. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” she said. “We must remember that our conversations are to remain civil and calm. I know there is a disagreement about whether Google or Siri or Alexa has the best answer to your dilemma. Why don’t we ask all three?”
“Okay,” all five men replied, sitting down as if instructed by their teacher.
The sweet motherly voice went on, “Google, Siri, and Alexa all agree that the 2018 US trade deficit in goods and services was $628 billion, being the difference between $3.129 trillion in imports and $2.501 trillion in exports.”
“See, I told you,” the first man remarked, ending the calm along with my interest in their argument.
I finished my popcorn and wandered over to the Dinner table. Chili and cornbread were starting to sound rather good. I usually cap off my chili with generous helpings of onions. But it was getting kind of late to avoid the inevitable heartburn that comes with a combination of chili, onions, and beer. I convinced myself that extra cheese, being dairy, would help.
Sam was washing glasses and tidying up as I took my chili back over to the bar. “What’s with all those video displays in the tables?” I asked.
“Those are Artie’s inventions. We wanted Sometimes Inn to be a place where people would come to hang out and talk.”
I was puzzled, “But why do you need those displays?”
“In his spare time — that is, when Sometimes Inn is closed — Artie dabbles in Artificial Intelligence. The devices listen in on the conversations at each table and display whatever is being talked about. I think you saw that the displays also intervene when things get out of hand — or sometimes just to keep the conversation going.”
“The other night, the ‘Politic Junkies’ table got pretty rowdy. When that happened, Artie’s display started flashing red and emitting a piercing alarm. The schoolmarm voice you heard changed to what sounded more like your mom when she’d gotten fed up with your shenanigans. ‘It’s time to separate you boys,’ she said. ‘We can come back together again when everyone decides they can play nicely.’”
“The ‘Political Junkies’ display went dark and three nearby tables lit up. One said ‘Democrats’, the second ‘Republicans’, and the third ‘None of the Above’. We ended up with two ‘Democrats’ and two ‘Republicans’. The lone ‘None of the Above’ guy spent the rest of the evening mumbling under his breath and glaring at the other two tables.”
“But what about that ‘Bookworms’ table over there? Nobody is talking. How did the table know they were reading?”
“Artie embedded pressure sensors in the table. He conjured up some of his AI magic to distinguish between reading books and just sitting there not talking.”
“What does it say if they’re just not talking?” I asked.
“If there’s only one person there, the display says, ‘Loner’. If there’s more silent people, ‘Introverts’.
“You see that table over there with the plastic dome over it? That’s for people who want absolute silence or who want to have a private conversation. We call it ‘The Cone of Silence’. In the short time we’ve been open, it’s only been used once. We think it was a breakup since the woman left crying.”
“So, what other kinds of tables did Artie come up with?” I inquired.
“He adds more each time he comes in. But for now, we have one for Ladies Night, Guys Night, Sports, Hunting and Fishing, Gaming, Religion … I think you get the drift.”
“The Ladies Night table was a challenge. Initially the gals wanted three options — ‘Ladies Night, No Guys’; ‘Ladies Night, Cute Guys Only’; and ‘Ladies Night, Gay Guys Only’. Artie couldn’t figure out a way to determine which guys were cute and which ones weren’t without starting a fight. And he didn’t even want to think about technologies for determining someone’s sexuality.”
“So, what did you do for the Ladies?” I asked.
“Artie decided this case called for authentic intelligence instead of the artificial kind. The women decide for themselves — imagine that! If you come back next week, by the way, you’re going to find some new names on the tables.”
“How’s that?” I inquired.
“Well, for example, ‘Political Junkies’ is morphing into ‘House of Cards’ and ‘Ladies Night’ will become ‘A League of Their Own’.”
“What about ‘Guys Night’?” I chuckled.
“We haven’t decided yet. It’ll be either ‘Animal House’ or ‘Lord of the Flies’.”
“I’m guessing ‘Angry Birds’ for the ‘Gamers’?” I sneered.
Sam grinned, “You’re gettin’ the idea.”
“Now I get it,” I said. “That’s why you call this place Sometimes Inn. Sometimes your tables are for this, sometimes they’re for that. Sometimes you have this for Dinner, sometimes it’s that. Nothing stays the same. I like it.”
“Nope, that’s not it at all,” Sam said. “I forgot to tell you about our hours.” Sam leaned across the bar. “You see, no one knows ahead of time when we’ll be open. We only open when either Artie or I want to be here. Otherwise, we’re closed. Usually Artie and I decide at the last minute.”
“You have no regular hours?”
“That’s right.”
“How do members know when they can come by, then?”
“If the sign is lit up, we’re open. If not, we’re closed.”
“Couldn’t you use that cool phone app of yours to post your hours each week?”
“We could, but we don’t. Neither Artie nor I want to commit ourselves ahead of time. As a service to our members, our app does send out a notification when we open up. Our competitors down the road have started complaining that when our notifications go off, it instantly clears out half their clientele. We figure that’s their problem, not ours.”
“But won’t folks be pissed that they can’t come by whenever they want?”
“Maybe. But we didn’t open the place for our members. Artie and I are both retired from corporate jobs. This is our retirement gig. One night when we were contemplating post-career-life over a few Jack Daniels, Artie reminded me of one of his favorite Albert Einstein quotes.”
“Einstein, the relativity guy?”
“Yeah, that guy,” Sam replied. “But in this case, he wasn’t talking about physics.”
I have reached an age when if someone tells me to wear socks, I don’t have to.
“Artie and I only need to make enough money to keep the doors open. We created a place we’d like to hang out at. We’re too old and too tired to devote much time or energy to figuring out what other people want. If Sometimes Inn flops, or if Artie and I just get tired of it, we’ll either turn it over to someone younger or close it down.
“But I paid an initiation fee,” I quipped.
“If we ever have to shut down Sometimes Inn, on our last night we’ll buy every member two of their favorite beverages — initiation fee plus interest. In the meantime, we hope you’re enjoying yourself … and that you’ll come back Sometimes. As I recall, you’ll be sitting at the ‘House of Cards’ table.”
“Sometimes,” I grinned. “But Sometimes you’ll find me over there with the ‘Bookworms’. And Sometimes I just might be hanging out with your competition.”
“You certainly don’t have to wear socks if you don’t want to,” Sam acknowledged as he set me up with another Dos XX.
