Everything Has Changed

by Darrell Maloney

  The sarcasm was light. If Hamlin noticed it he didn’t mention it.

  “I should be in Wittlich by lunchtime. Should I ring you again when I get close?”

  “Not necessary. I have no plans in the morning, so I’ll be awaiting your arrival.”

  As he hung up the phone Taylor saw his bag and took it just before a steward grabbed it and placed it on a pile. The Frankfurt airport is better than any other airport in the world in keeping their baggage moving, for they have far too many incoming flights and far too few baggage claims.

  He flew through customs for a change; but then again he was traveling light, with the one small bag and a briefcase.

  By the time he checked into his hotel room he was miserable. A room service cheeseburger and a hot shower later and he was spent. He collapsed on the bed for the night.

  Even as his mind tried to argue, “Hey stupid, it’s way too early to go to bed. You’re hours away from bedtime,” his body overruled it.

  It may have been early evening in D.C., but Taylor had been through the ringer. He felt, like his uncle from Texas used to say, like he “fell off his horse and got drug ten miles.”

  Texans have a very unique way of describing things.

  The following morning Taylor didn’t awaken until his housekeeper rapped on the door and in perfect English called out, “maid service.”

  The first time he stayed at this hotel, several years before, he wondered how it was that all the maids, all the people who brought his room service, all the operators who took his requests, all spoke unbroken English.

  After all, they were deep in the heart of one of Germany’s most bustling cities.

  Then a maid clued him in.

  “Frenchmen are always booked on the second floor. That makes it easier for them because they almost always have dogs and that way they can use the stairs to take their dogs out.

  “Americans, Brits and Australians are always placed on floors three through six. Deutschlanders and everyone else stay on floors seven and higher. When you call the front desk a unique tone calls for an English-speaker to answer. Same when you call for room service. And only English speaking maids and food service runners are allowed to work these floors.

  “All except for Wiehnachten, or the Christmas season. Then it is… how do you Americans say? All bets are off. During the Christmas season we are so busy and so chaotic our guests could wind up anywhere. But still we do the best we can.”

  In the lodging industry, like any other service industry, it’s the little things which keep customers coming back.

  This hotel was one of dozens of similar size and amenities, all at comparable prices.

  Yet they’d found a unique way of catering to their guests to make them feel a tiny bit more comfortable.

  It was a small gesture, but it appeared to have worked. Robert Taylor had flown into Frankfurt several times since that maid shared her secret with him.

  And he chose the same hotel for each of his stays.

  The way he saw it was that any hotel which went the extra mile to make sure he enjoyed his stay deserved his business.

  He rolled over when he heard the maid call out and yelled, “Just a minute!”

  He very sleepily checked to make sure he was clothed, as it was still considered poor form to answer the door naked, no matter which country he was in.

  He pulled a bath robe over his boxers and opened the door, then asked the maid if she could come back in half an hour.

  “I’ll be gone by then, and you can clean the room at your leisure.”

  He looked at his watch and said, to an empty room, “Geez! I’m just getting started and I’m already late.”

  Chapter 35

  By ten a.m. Taylor was at a Hertz Car Rental desk waiting for an employee to bring his Mercedes around the building.

  Renting a Mercedes might sound like an extravagance, but in Germany it’s quite the contrary. Since Mercedes is a primary car builder in Germany they produce not only luxury cars, but cars for the working man as well.

  Rental car companies, therefore, buy them by the thousands. They’re still great cars, but perhaps without so many bells and whistles. Also, American car buyers must remember that any foreign car made for export to the United States must be modified for “American specs” like shatterproof glass and complicated emissions systems. All that adds to import fees and shipping charges to raise the overall cost.

  None of that stuff is required in Germany. That’s why for a German, driving a Mercedes is just as common as an American driving a Ford.

  Still, Robert Taylor always got a kick when he got the chance to drive a shiny new Mercedes when he went to Germany on business. He was quite frugal by nature, and he always made a point to snap a selfie to send to his friends back home.

  “Going first class on this trip to Germany, and the United States is picking up the tab.”

  By noon he was on the B-50, a winding two-lane highway that spends more time weaving in and out of forests than through open land.

  This was the Eifel region of Germany, where the soil is rich and fertile and grows pretty much anything almost as fast as you can sprinkle seeds upon it.

  Eifel wines have spread throughout the world in recent years and are gaining quite a reputation.

  Robert called Wayne when he left the rental agency to tell him he was finally on the way.

  “See if you can go around Atchhen,” Wayne told him.

  Robert checked the old-fashioned and very quaint paper map the rental agent gave him.

  “But that’s gonna add another twenty minutes to my trip. It’s probably better if I just go through the town. Why? Is there a traffic jam?”

  “They’re digging up the highway to remove a bomb.”

  “A bomb? Terrorists planted a bomb under the highway? Seriously?”

  “No. We did. Or one of our allies.”

  “You’re a terrorist?”

  “Not exactly. They were digging next to the highway to put in a new water line and they found the fin half of a World War II bomb. Now they’ve got most of the town evacuated while an explosive disposal team digs up the highway to remove it or detonate it.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Sorry, but I’m not. Even after eighty years they’re finding duds that didn’t explode when they hit the ground for some reason. Most are beyond the point where they’ll ever detonate, but some are unstable and still intact and could still blow.”

  “How often does this happen?”

  “Several times a year. Mostly around Berlin and Cologne and along the rail lines. But occasionally in little towns that had strategic importance back then.

  “They’re saying on the news that if you go through Atchhen you’ll get through it, but they’ll reroute you through several alleys and dirt roads and through a farmer’s vineyard. I’d recommend you detour at Klem and avoid the whole mess.”

  “Not a problem, then.

  “I should be there in about an hour.”

  “Have you had lunch yet?”

  “No. I’ve been running late, and figured I’d make up half an hour if I skipped it.”

  “Don’t ever skip lunch, Robert. It ruins your whole afternoon. Then you’re up at midnight raiding the refrigerator.

  “When you get to Wittlich follow the signs to the city centrum. Just before you get there you’ll go through two roundabouts.

  Immediately after the second one, on the right side of the road, pull into the parking lot of Gasthaus Rommel.

  We’ll meet you there in an hour, and if you’re running late that’s not a problem. Hans and I will just drink beers until you arrive.

  And by the way, you’re picking up the tab.

  “Why me?”

  “This is an official visit related to Yellowstone. You can put it on your travel report and claim it on your expense voucher. I no longer work for the government, so I don’t have that option.”

  “Okay, then. No problem. See you in a bit.”
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br />   Wayne and Julie and Hans and Elyse walked to Gasthaus Rommel, one of the best in the city.

  From the window they could see a vineyard on a steep hillside half a kilometer away.

  Wayne wondered aloud, “How do those grapes get enough water to survive?”

  “What do you mean, my friend?” Hans replied.

  “I mean, I know that grape plants have to get a lot of water to bear fruit, since the grape itself is mostly water.

  “But the rain must rush right down the hillside without soaking into the ground.

  “Seems to me that grape plants on flat ground, where the water pools and then soaks in, would get much more water and the ones on the hill would dry up and die.”

  “You’d think so,” Hans replied. “As you travel around Germany you see many such fields of staked grapes, in nice neat rows going up hills. But the fact is, each of the plants is planted to go straight up, not slanted as the hill is. And the small piece of ground on which it’s planted is flat, not slanted. Each plant is grounded in a small plateau, carved out of the steep hill, maybe two feet or so across. And since it is level, or sometimes even a bit recessed, it does indeed catch enough water to keep the plant alive and produce the grapes.

  “So as the rains fall, most of it rolls downhill, right past the plants, that’s true.

  “But a good percentage of it is caught in the flat ground surrounding each plant.

  “Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to savor some of the best Spatlese and Reisling wines in the world.”

  “Well, they are certainly good,” Julie agreed.

  “Germany is better known for its fine beers,” Hans concluded. “But for a different, perhaps more sophisticated crowd, its wines are just as incredible.”

  At that moment Robert Taylor walked in, recognized Wayne, and joined the group.

  Chapter 36

  Once the decision was made and everyone more or less came to terms with it, it was mostly a matter of doing the paperwork.

  Jenn walked into the FEMA Relocation Center in north Little Rock with Vince at her side and took a number.

  She’d expected the worst. She even packed a lunch for each of them, stashed discretely away in her oversized handbag.

  Men sometimes complain when their ladies carry purses the size of a Boeing 747. But they’re always complimentary about those same purses when it comes time to sneaking cheaper candy into a movie theater to avoid paying ten dollars for a small bag of Raisinettes.

  Or life-saving food into a FEMA office which had a sign posted on every wall:

  NO EATING

  OR DRINKING

  Now, Jenn was usually a stickler for the rules. She believed in following rules because she was a single parent charged with turning three small children into responsible and law-abiding members of society.

  How could she do that if they saw her breaking rules herself?

  But then again, the kids weren’t with her today.

  They were all at home, tasked with packing boxes.

  Autumn was in charge.

  But not really. Autumn sometimes complained when Meadow, the oldest, was told she was in charge when Mom was away.

  Jenn agreed that was a problem. Not one on the scale of global warming or a war between nations, mind you. But a significant problem for a teenaged girl who was second in line for the throne.

  Jenn’s solution was to tell Autumn she was in charge sometimes, although everybody knew better.

  Even Autumn.

  But it made her feel better and avoided some infighting.

  As for Samson, he didn’t seem to care much that he was never put “in charge.” He just trudged along, doing his own thing and listening to his music, not much caring what the rest of the world was doing. Samson was about as laid-back as one could be.

  He didn’t sweat the small stuff.

  Anyway, the point is that Jenn was breaking one of FEMA’s rules by smuggling sandwiches into a sandwich-free zone.

  But it wasn’t quite as bad as mass murder, and she had good reason to do so.

  She’d heard stories from some of her friends and neighbors who’d visited the office before her and who had to wait for hours to be seen.

  One couple got to the office an hour after they opened and wasn’t seen until close to the end of the day. At ten thirty that morning they stopped passing out numbers and started turning people away.

  Further, there was a sign on the door warning customers that if they left they did so at their own peril:

  IF YOUR NUMBER IS CALLED

  AND YOU ARE NOT HERE,

  YOUR NUMBER WILL BE

  CANCELLED AND YOU’LL

  HAVE TO PULL ANOTHER ONE.

  One thing was clear: FEMA didn’t play.

  Jenn’s logic was this: If they were going to be there over the lunch hour, it was better to sneak in a lunch and eat it on the down-low. Getting lectured for bringing in food was better than leaving for lunch and taking a chance on having to start all over again.

  Just to be safe, she brought an extra sandwich and bag of chips. Just in case she needed them for a bribe.

  The extra food, as it turned out, wasn’t necessary.

  Jenn was pleasantly surprised when, just before eleven o’clock, her name was called. She was told to proceed to Window 3.

  She took that as a good sign; a sign her luck was holding. Everyone who’s ever been to the social security or any other government office knows that some windows are faster than others. Some employees do their best to relieve long lines and others just do the minimum to get by.

  Jenn had been watching others proceed to the various windows since her arrival that morning, and knew by the time her number was called that the woman at Window 3 was moving much faster than any of her co-workers.

  She shook the hand of Mary Wilson and asked a question which had been eating at her since her arrival.

  “I’d heard rumors that people were spending all day here waiting for their numbers to come up. But the day isn’t even half over yet. Were the rumors false?”

  “Oh no, ma’am. Things were indeed that way at first, when everyone was trying to beat the rush. But the initial rush is over now. Those people have already moved away, and the workload has decreased considerably.

  “How can I help you today?”

  “I read a flyer one of your people put on my door one day while I was out.

  “It said that although I don’t live in one of the evacuation zones, I can still relocate to a safer place at no cost to me, as long as I meet certain conditions. Is that true?”

  “Yes. If indeed you qualify. Let me ask you some questions, and if everything looks okay we’ll get you started on the paperwork, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Is your mortgage made out in your names?”

  “Yes. Well, my name only. Vince and I aren’t married.”

  “No problem. Any lien holders or second mortgages?”

  “No, neither.”

  “Is the appraised value under one hundred eighty thousand?”

  “Yes. It was appraised last year at one twenty two.”

  “Do you have any equity?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. Right over thirty thousand.”

  “And where did you want to relocate to?”

  “One of the camps in southern California. Hulaville, if it’s available.”

  “I see.”

  She took a deep breath, as though preparing to dive headlong into a spiel she’d delivered hundreds of times to hundreds of eager faces.

  And in fact, she had.

  Chapter 37

  “Let me tell you what we can do for you, if you’ll accept the terms,” Ms. Wilson started.

  “The government is willing to pay off your mortgage at the appraised value provided your bank will accept our offer at that amount.

  “We’ve found that nearly all banks will accept our offer, as they’ve lost a lot of homes outright in the eruption and are desperate to cut their losses as much a
s possible.

  “The banks are authorized to resell the homes to someone from the inner or outer evacuation zones. The loans will be zero-interest and guaranteed by the United States government.”

  “Well, how will the banks make any money on a zero-interest loan?”

  “They’ll make their money on the short end. They’re authorized to charge the new buyer one hundred twenty percent of appraised value. And they take no risk, since the transaction is guaranteed by Uncle Sam.

  “The government will replace your equity on the date of the sale, so it’s available to use for moving expenses. However, you may apply for free cartage of up to three thousand pounds per family member.”

  “What’s cartage?”

  “That’s an old word meaning movement, in this case referring to movement of your household goods. If your total household income falls below national average you’ll probably qualify. Or, if you’ve lost your employment as a direct result of the eruption, you’ll definitely qualify. Would you like to fill out an application for free cartage?”

  “Um… sure.”

  Ms. Wilson smiled and looked a bit apprehensive.

  The next question she had to ask was a simple one which required nothing but a yes or no answer. But for some reason many people took offense to it or were embarrassed by it.

  “Now then,” she started, “are the two of you married?”

  Jenn looked at Vince, who looked away for a second. Then he looked back, and the pair locked eyes.

  “Um… no. Is that a requirement?”

  “Oh, no. Certainly not. I just have to ask because… well, being married entitles you to additional benefits and considerations. For example, if the two of you were married Vince would be entitled an additional three thousand pounds of cartage. It would also affect your moving allowances and daily per diem while you were in route.

  “The federal government is a stickler when it comes to the whole marriage issue. For example, many states recognize what they call ‘common law marriage.’ If a couple lives together for a certain period of time they are considered legally married by the state, even if they’ve never officially tied the knot.”