There's No Toilet Paper

An Irishman in Vurjinny

That Monday afternoon I took a taxi out to La Guardia Airport to catch the flight down to Roanoke, Virginia.

…

Outside on the rank there were no taxis, and the place seemed pretty dead. I went back into the lobby and asked a man on crutches if he knew where I could find a hotel. He didn’t. I hung around for almost an hour waiting for a taxi but none showed up. It was getting late and dark now and I didn’t fancy a night in Roanoke Airport. So I wandered back into the building again, determined to sort myself out. The lobby was full of car-hire stalls, none of which had any staff working behind them. The only counter which was staffed offered a limousine service. It was a bit pricey, but I figured I had no choice. The woman on duty said one of their drivers would find me a hotel if he had to drive a hundred miles to do so. I nodded and signed the agreement form. She put her fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle. “Driver,” she yelled. “Over here.”

The man I had seen hobbling along on crutches turned out to be the only limo driver on duty. I was a little nervous at the prospect of him conveying me around the back lanes of Virginia but he grinned and assured me that everything would be “just fine.” He hobbled out to this car and manoeuvred himself into it. I followed, still feeling apprehensive as I slithered into the back seat. He insisted on calling me “sir,” I noticed, even though he was old enough to be my grandfather.

“You ever bin dayun sayouth bufaw, suh?” he said, as we pulled out of the airport.

“Sorry?” I asked.

“Dahn sayouth, suh? Yevah bin in Vurjinny beefowuh?”

What the fuck was he saying to me? Had I ever been in a virgin before?

We drove down the airport approach road and went on Interstate 81. We turned off for the road to Blacksburg and found a motel on the outskirts of the town.

The woman behind the desk was short and friendly. She said she could let me have a room for eighty dollars, and I said OK, that would be fine.

…

I changed my shirt and went down to the dining room. There was nobody there. No staff. No diners. Nobody. I selected a table and sat down at it, waiting for something to happen. After about fifteen minutes a waiter came in with a Walkman on his head. He was humming and singing along with the tune, which was, to judge from his high-pitched squeaks and guttural grunts and extreme pelvic thrusts, something in the heavy metal genre. I waved my arms in the air and managed to attract his attention. He took off the Walkman and peered at me as though he had just woken up from an intense dream and was surprised to find me there.

“Any chance of some food?” I asked.

“Weze abayut closed, suh, “he said. “We done closed fav meenutes ago.”

“I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes,” I said.

He shook his head bitterly and said he would see what he could do. I told him a hamburger and French fries would be fine, with a large glass of Coke, if that wasn’t too much trouble. He disappeared into the kitchen and ten minutes later reappeared with a burger the size of a watermelon and a basket of bread rolls.

I asked if I could have some butter and he didn’t seem to understand me. I repeated the word several times – butter, butter – but he still just grinned and stared at his feet. I then realised that he understood my accent about as much as I understood his. This called for something desperate.

“Could I have some budder?” I said.

His eyes lit up. “Why deddedn ya jes say thayut, suh,” he said. I congratulated myself for my bravery, but when the butter arrived I was kind of sorry I had bothered. There was more hair in the butter dish than there was in the waiter’s nostrils and believe me, that means a lot.

…