Night of a Thousand Sounds

My Dad is great. He knew his first-born son would be out-of-town on business during his birthday so he flew down to surprise him. Not too many fathers would book a last-minute flight and those atrocious rates just to spend some time with his boy.

So after work yesterday, I picked him up from the airport and we scouted the restaurant scene. We selected a truly marvelous place called Trulucks. Both my steak and his salmon were exquisite. No wonder all the walls were covered with autographed pictures of celebrities. Then we followed it up with Oceans 12, a fun romp through Italy where the quips and dry humor literally stole the show.

After birthday cards and phone calls, we got settled for bed. I needed to be up by 7, so with midnight rapidly approaching, it was sack time. I feel asleep quickly.

The Torture Begins
Around 1:15 I was awakened to a strange noise. Long moments later I realized my father was snoring. It sounded like a janitor pulling a heavy, metal filing cabinet across some brick pathway. And it wasn’t a regular tempo, *pause* *pause* *scrape* it was a more random, *pause* *scrape* *pause* *pause* *scrape*.

At 1:18 I scavenged my earplugs from my travel bag. Largely ineffective I sympathized with my Mom who’s been living with the sound machine for many long years. My wife says I snore, “Yeah right.”

By 1:58 I had the second pillow over the side of my head like a sandwich. With only a small air hole, I persevered.

It’s 2:14. The fitful attempts at sleep are playing tricks on my mind. What day is it? How long have I been in this prison? What piece of information do I have that they’re willing to stoop to this most inhuman practice of torture!?!

Now at 2:20 or so (I’m not sure really, it was all a hideous blur.) I slipped from delirium and started to consider my options. The bathtub? Possibly… but what if the showerhead starts dripping on me. The car? Scratch that. My little econo-box would render me so cramped, my Old Man’s Back (OMB) would return and there I’d be. The only option left open to me was to rent another room.

The Remedy
At 2:32 I presented myself to the night-watch clerk. Clearly he had sympathy for me; such was my disarray.

“Can I get another room on the 2nd floor? My Dad’s snoring is like the German’s blitzkrieg.” I said.
He replied, “You’re in luck. We have one room left.”

As I made my way to room 327 I thanked God for His mercies. In silent recognition of all those snore-abused spouses who press on in the face, rather, the blare of unrelenting noise, I laid my head on a new, cool pillow and was quickly asleep.

The 7 o’clock wake-up call came mere moments later. I picked up my bill for the new room, already passed under the door and scrambled back to our room. “75 bucks?! Ha! Small price to pay for sanity,” I muttered.

When I opened the door to our room, I was met with a miracle. After the nightlong marathon of snoring expertise, the room was silent. Quickly to the shower, lest my cursing raise the still slumbering relative.

I don’t really know the moral of this story. Perhaps, it’s that everyone should have a blog? Where else can I transform a night of the purest pain, into a laughable occasion at my expense. It’s a price easily paid.