Dear Human Resources Manager:
As a docent at a historic home in Savannah, I was committed to providing an engaging and interactive learning experience for my audience.
It was a slow day in the historic home, and not too many people had stopped in for tours that day. So imagine my surprise when a chorus of voices emanated from the basement. Our security was far from airtight and I assumed that some wayward tourists had wandered in from the garden and were looking for the ticket booth. I was not prepared for what it was: a bevy of tourists, all with traveler cups,* one with a smoking cigar, being led up the stairs by a very wispy middle-aged man, who was enumerating on the restoration of the staircase. He behaved just as one of us would, except he certainly wasn’t in the employ of the home.
*(In Savannah, it is permissible to have an open container of alcohol, so long as it is sipped out of a “traveler,” your typical plastic Solo to-go cup, usually the clear kind.)
“Um…. I’m sorry, the entrance is over here. Did you all want to tour the home?”
The wispy man, apparently the leader of the pack, was just as gay as could be. I’m not trying to be insensitive here, but he truly was a stereotype. He belonged in a Mel Brooks movie. He shifted his drink, pinky up, to his left hand, extended his right hand, palm down, towards me and said, “Hi. I’m Jerry Spence. From The Book.”
Everyone in Savannah knows what ‘The Book’ is: Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt. I had read that book several times and had often pointed out the locations on my tours, but I didn’t remember who the hell Jerry Spence was. Berendt had changed a lot of people’s names in his non-fiction expose on Savannah, so maybe I was standing in the presence of the real Luther Driggers or Joe Odom. Seeing my confusion, Mr. Spence clarified: “I’m the hairdresser. I was in ‘The Movie’ too.”
That didn’t help much. I recalled that in Midnight, Joe Odom always had a slew of people lazing around, one of whom was a hairdresser who sat in the kitchen and gave perms to people who toured Odom’s “historic home.” I didn’t remember him being in ‘The Movie,’ but then again, ‘The Movie’ had put me to sleep every time I tried to watch it. His introduction, intended to impress, still didn’t explain why he was traipsing through private property to a bevy of admiring tourists, who probably couldn’t wait to get home and tell all their friends who had led them around Savannah.
“But... What are you doing in here? How’d you get in? Sir, there’s no smoking in here, can you put that out?”
This latter remark was addressed to the man holding a cigar. “Don’t worry, I won’t smoke it. I’m just holding it,” he assured me. That he was, and it was depositing a thin layer of smog upon the 12-foot ceilings. I tried to be as polite as I could as I unhooked the chain blocking the entrance and not-so-subtlety herded them out the door. They eventually took the hint and went down the front steps, hanging onto every word spoken by their tour guide, “Jerry Thpence, from ‘The Book.’” They headed east on Harris street, probably to stop into Pinkie Master’s to refill their travelers.
