Hey, kids, its that time again - another thrilling installment of my book about our visits to tourist attractions and the people who run them, Shopping With the Nut Lady! Tonights is called The Man in the Castle, and if youd like to download the whole damned book for free, click here: mediafire/folder/z0p7cafgjmez5 As always, please share this if you can - I worked a long time on this, and I just want people to read it. Is that too much to ask? The Man in the Castle On our way to see Lisas brother in Northern Virginia, we took U.S. 15 instead of I-95, which we are not fond of. About 30 miles before our destination, we saw it appear unannounced on the right side of the road. It was a house, but it was a castle. And not a very majestic castle, but kind of a budgety castle. It looked like it was still under construction, with two turrets that were a different color than the rest of the building. A shabby handwritten sign in front advertised castle tours and an antique shop, two things guaranteed to make us stop. So, we did. The low-rent appearance of the castle continued as we noticed the large shaggy dog barking in the front yard, confined by means of a wire attaching his collar to another wire running overhead, limiting his movement to about 15 feet, back and forth. Sadly, there was no moat. As we entered, there was also no trumpeting fanfare to announce our arrival. Instead, we met the lord of the manor eating at a small table in his kitchen. “You here for the tour?” he asked between bites. He was an older, gray-haired man who looked like a somewhat grumpier version of Evel Knievel, minus the outfit. “Yeah,” I replied uneasily. “Well, go look through the antique store through there, while I finish my cheese sandwich.” We continued to the next room, which was full of “antiques” and just general junk. There were signs everywhere warning potential thieves that “Shoplifters will be drowned in the pond behind the castle!” A strong, moldy smell permeated the place, and there were lots of anti-government slogans posted on the walls, closer to militia literature than tea party propaganda. Lisa, a proud bleeding-heart liberal who is also half Asian, noticed a large collection of anti-Japanese U.S. Army posters and pamphlets from World War II, and, accordingly, got the creeps. “I dont want to go on the tour,” she whispered to me. “Lets just go.” “Okay,” I said, somewhat disappointed. While I understood her hesitation, I was sort of looking forward to seeing what this crackpots tour would be like. “But, what should we tell him?” “I dont know, lets just tell him were in a hurry. I want to get out of here.” We boldly summoned all our courage and met the man as he was walking out of the kitchen. “Sorry, but I dont think were going to have time for the tour...” He looked at us incredulously. “But it only takes ten minutes!” “Yeah, but we just realized were running late, so weve got to go.” “Look, if you dont like it, I wont even make you pay me the three dollars.” He wasnt taking no for an answer, but that was the answer we kept giving. “No...thanks, but we really do have to get going. Sorry!” He scowled back in disgust. “But you made me wolf down my cheese sandwich!” We didnt agree with this accusation, but felt it best not to argue. “Anyway, weve got to go.” He looked at us suspiciously, probably wondering to himself how many of his not-so-valuable antiques wed pocketed while he was wolfing down his cheese sandwich. “Well,” he asked, “what are you looking for?” “What?” “What do you collect?” he asked, obviously trying to trap us in a lie. I thought for a minute, afraid that a wrong answer might anger him even more. Finally, I thought of something I actually did kind of collect. “Um...View-master reels?” “Hmm...” he looked me over, “you mean those little 3-D pictures you put in that viewer?” “Yeah, thats it.” A very long four or five seconds of silence followed. “Alright,” he finally responded. “I dont have any of those, though.” Apparently, Id passed the test and wouldnt end up in the pond behind the castle. “Thats alright. Sorry about the sandwich. Maybe well come back when weve got some more time,” I lied. “Okay.” He walked back to his kitchen, and we headed to our car and out of his kingdom. When we got home, I looked him up online and found out that his name was John Miller. He had built the castle in the 1980s to protect his family from the nuclear war he was convinced would inevitably come. (Because, obviously, a house built like a castle would survive a nuclear bomb.) His family had left over time, and he had unsuccessfully tried to turn the castle into a bed and breakfast. Not surprisingly, the idea of spending the night in a moldy-smelling, shabby castle run by a grumpy old man preparing for nuclear annihilation didnt seem romantic enough for some couples, even if cheese sandwiches were sure to be served for breakfast.
Posted on: Thu, 18 Sep 2014 00:52:36 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015