By Stoney M. Setzer
“It’s that time again, isn’t it?” Melba’s smile was in place as always, but today there was a tinge of sadness to it.
Ellis nodded. “Afraid so. Closing Day.” He wore black on the day after Labor Day; he was in mourning, after all. Tourist season at the Sunray Inn had always been his happiest time, dating back to when he and his parents and brother were some of the tourists.
For the first time since Memorial Day weekend, the lobby of the Sunray was dormant. All their guests had checked out yesterday. No hustle and bustle in the continental breakfast area. No children’s voices echoing up and down the halls. No sunbathers by the pool or on their strip of Florida beachfront, except maybe Holly. No chores for the hotel staff. The Sunray was as quiet as a tomb, an analogy Ellis could never ignore no matter how many years passed.
Time for the dirge, then. He pressed a button under the front desk. Don Henley’s “The Boys of Summer” blared over the loudspeakers, a signal to everyone who made the Sunray what it was year after year.
Do any of our guests think about what we do in the offseason? Ellis wondered. They value what we do enough to come back to our sandy beach, but do they ever think about us when they go back home? Probably not.
“So this is it, then?” Melba was wringing her hands. She was his oldest, longest-tenured employee—the face of the Sunray, really.
“Yeah. Tell everyone to meet in the lobby in one hour.”
***
“We can be proud of ourselves, folks,” Ellis addressed his staff. He raised his voice to be heard over the low roar of the air conditioner struggling to compensate for the Florida heat. “Another banner summer. We offer our guests a getaway on a beach they say time forgot. Exactly what our clientele wants. Customer satisfaction was up for the tenth year in a row. That’s a record.”
He paused for the polite applause. As always, it was tinged with a bit of melancholy. Customer satisfaction was their purpose. While they were pleased with another successful year, none of them was happy to see it end. Otherwise, they would have never signed on.
They all know what comes next.
“And make no mistake,” he continued, “there are no small jobs. You each have your role to play in making great memories for our guests, and all of you do it to a T.”
Not everyone in the assembly was a Sunray employee. The entire staff of the Pirate Plank was present, as were the “background” people: the Corrigans, celebrating their umpteenth anniversary; Mrs. Perry, the schoolteacher perpetually celebrating her retirement; Mr. Chen, always set for some supposed business meeting.
Holly, another backgrounder, entered. Brunette this year, she wore a long black dress. During the summer, daylight hours usually found her on the beach or by the pool. Seeing her indoors, wearing something other than a bathing suit and sunglasses, always brought an air of gloomy finality.
Still, Ellis couldn’t contain a sad little smile. Holly had been twenty years old for how many summers now? At least twenty, maybe closer to thirty?
Time to wrap up his speech. “I have posted the ‘closed for the season’ sign here at the Sunray. I trust it is up at the Pirate Plank as well?”
Orlando, the restaurant manager, nodded.
“All right. You have until six p.m. to be in your rooms, and we will see you next summer.”
***
Some people visited the beach one last time, with Holly leading the way in her more customary attire. Melba whipped up a light meal for anyone so inclined.
Like clockwork, though, they were all in their assigned hotel rooms at the appointed time.
They all had their reasons. Holly had returned after her husband had died in a freak automobile accident, mere days after their honeymoon at the Sunray. Melba came because she was happiest serving others, before her health had forced her into retirement in the real world. Mrs. Perry had found that life without sixth graders was far emptier than she ever would have imagined, and her celebration trip had been her last happy memory.
Ellis was here because his time at the Sunray was the only time he felt happy. From childhood vacations with his brother, to coming back to manage the place as an adult, this place was his only respite from his otherwise drab life.
For all of them, this was the last place they could recall ever being truly happy. That sense of nostalgia, plus their desire to make this a happy place for everyone else, united them. Each of them had individually accepted his offer years ago—a different number of years for each, but long enough that nobody dared break free now. The outside world had passed them by, and none of them believed they could find happiness away from the Sunray and its little piece of Florida paradise.
Ellis wondered if his brother ever knew he had stolen the cryogenic technology he had been working on. Wouldn’t matter now, he supposed. Sixty-one years ago, it had. Chances were his brother wasn’t even alive now. Ellis had never gotten up the nerve to check.
He positioned himself on his bed, remote control in hand. When he hit the green button, the air conditioning units would start pumping the gas. Everyone, himself included, would be asleep in less than two minutes, cryogenically frozen so they would age little more than a day over the offseason. A special timer would awaken them all in time to prepare for next season’s tourists.
He hit the button.
“Until next summer, friends,” Ellis said with a yawn as the room grew cold and his eyes got heavy.
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Thanks for sharing, Stoney! I’ll never look at summer vacation spots the same way again.
Thanks, glad you enjoyed it! It’s loosely based on the hotel in Amelia Island, FL where my family used to vacation every summer, and the little old lady who worked the continental breakfast year after year…