The Eight Arms was playful but also dignified, a local landmark that had outlasted several others, a longtime curiosity that reopened under new management promising a return to an earlier era. There had been little effort to update the facade, which remained clad in a faded pinkish brick, let alone its layout and its furnishings, and it seemed to most observers that the primary goal of the renovation was to remain largely invisible, a transparency through which the building’s earlier spirit could be viewed without interference. There was no music in the lobby, no cards displaying Wi-fi passwords, no retail outlets either flagrant or surreptitious, not even a restaurant or bar, unless you counted the oak table against whose rear edge were bottles of spirits, neatly arranged in a line, and clean glasses intended for the use of patrons. How those glasses got there was as much a mystery as other questions regarding the upkeep of the establishment, as house staff was rarely spotted, and the entire place seemed run from top to toe by the sole figure at the front desk, sometimes a man, sometimes a woman, but always elderly, always careful in movement and speech. Each key came attached to a small piece of wood carved in the shape of an octopus, a sly joke that furnished not shock but comfort, fitting neatly as it did into the hands of those taking rooms, hands that closed around the bulb of the creature’s head and went up the stairs, the guest with the key either slightly ahead or slightly behind the willing companion, both thankful for the mood of the place that they were now absorbing, a self-regard and privacy that they knew would permit the most outlandish intimacies.
©2020 Ben Greenman / Stupid Ideas
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