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By the time we crossed the border into South Carolina from our home in Pennsylvania, my back ached from hunching over the wheel. My golden retriever Rochester was growing increasingly restless beside me, nosing me every few miles and trying to put his paw on the gear shift.
I gave up when I saw the faux Mexican signs for South of the Border. When I was a kid, my parents had taken me to a family wedding in Jacksonville, Florida, and we’d stopped at this complex of motels, restaurants and amusement rides. I guess I was always a sucker for kitsch – back then, I thought it was the coolest place ever. “When I grow up I want to live here,” I had announced.
“And do what?” my father had demanded. “Be a waiter or sell tickets for rides? Not in this lifetime, kiddo.”
I had pouted, but eventually my parents’ plans for me had come to light—a college degree, a professional career. I think they’d be proud of how I’d been able to parlay my skills into my current management job at Eastern College – the main reason why I had three weeks’ vacation at Christmas, and the time to drive Rochester to Florida instead of crating him for a plane ride or leaving him to board at the vet’s.
We could use a break. Winter was sweeping into our hometown in Bucks County, outside Philadelphia, and we were recovering from a murder that had taken place in our gated community. Rochester had a nose for crime—he had discovered a couple of dead bodies, and sniffed out clues to bring the perpetrators to justice. I was glad to get away from police and blood and danger.
My live-in love, Lili Weinstock, was a professor at Eastern, and the chair of the Fine Arts department. Her mother lived in Miami, and we’d agreed to travel down to see her. Lili had flown out the day before, and was already complaining about her mother’s expectations of her, and even though she was in her forties and ought to have gotten over that kind of talk, Lili was eager for me to get to Florida.
I couldn’t drive straight through, though. I looked over at Rochester and asked, “What do you think, puppy? You ready to stop for the night?”,
He woofed once, a sound that came from deep in his sternum.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I got off I-95 and stopped at a shopping center parking lot to pull up the list of dog-friendly motels on my phone.
I chose the closest one, which turned out to be a single-story motor inn painted in vibrant shades of yellow, orange and blue. Rochester was delighted to jump out of the car, and immediately tugged me over to a bright blue chess queen sitting by herself at the side of the road, where he peed copiously.
Then we walked inside, and Rochester sat obediently by my side as I checked in. “Just one night?” the clerk asked. He was a young man with the right side of his head shaved, and I remembered my father’s reaction when I said I had hoped to come back and live at South of the Border.
“Yup. On our way to Florida.”
“You’ll have lots of company on the road,” he said. “I want to get down that way sometime myself. Take my girl, get us a room on one of those keys.”
“We’re only going as far as Miami. But I hear the keys are beautiful.”
He got a faraway look in his eyes. “Yeah, that’s the way I see them.” Then he handed me the room card and said, “Enjoy your stay.”
After I dragged our bags into the room, including all the ones that Lili didn’t want to take on the plane with her, I took Rochester for a walk around the property. He fit the breed standard for a golden retriever to a T—he was friendly, intelligent and devoted. He had soft fur at the top of his head, smooth waves of gold along his back, and feathering along all four of his legs. His long, foofy tail often waved merrily, and I was delighted to show him off.
The area was crowded with moms, dads and small children, probably on their way to visit family for the Christmas holidays. They sat on the back of the giant papier-mâché models of elephants and whales and posed between the ten-foot tall chickens or by the legs of the ten-foot Mexican in his sombrero. A young guy in a backpack and camouflage pants rode the huge jackalope as if it was a stallion, waving his ball cap like a ten-gallon hat. People carried overflowing bags of fireworks and souvenirs from the gift shops.
Rochester stepped up to sniff the snout of a giant orange wiener dog with long black ears and I snapped a photo of him and sent it to Lili. Then I led Rochester over to a café with outdoor tables. It was sixty-eight degrees, according to the neon display by the street, but it felt almost tropical after frigid Pennsylvania.
Our server was a girl in her late teens with a pockmarked face. “I’ll have the bacon burger with Swiss and a side of fries, and a root beer,” I said. “And a plain hamburger for my friend here. No bun.”
“Would your friend like a bowl of water to accompany his meal?” the girl said, and I couldn’t tell if she was joking with me or just repeating a rote statement.
“That would be great,” I said.
Rochester was fascinated by a little girl who wandered among the tables. She had blonde ringlets and wore an embroidered sweater with a cartoon character on the front, and miniature cargo pants with lots of pockets. I couldn’t tell which table she belonged to; she seemed almost lost, and I worried that perhaps her family had gone off and forgotten her.
At a table across from ours, a drama began to unfold. The server delivered the check, and the man reached into his pocket for his wallet – which wasn’t there. “I had it when we checked into the motel,” he said.
“Are you sure you put it back in your pocket after that?” his wife asked.
“I know I did. And I would have felt it if it fell out.”
“But when you sit, sometimes it rides up. I’ve noticed that. Look around the table. Maybe it fell on the floor.”
He pushed his chair back and looked around. The little girl wandered past us and Rochester sat up on his hind legs and sniffed at her. “Can I pet your dog?” she asked, in an accent that was as deep South as they come.
“Sure. He’s very friendly.” She patted the top of his head, and he kept sniffing at her. I was surprised when he used his teeth to pry something out of her pocket—which fell to the ground.
“Hey, that’s my wallet!” the man called. “That little girl picked my pocket!”
The girl knew she was busted, and she darted between tables until she reached the street, where she took off at a run. By the time the man had gotten up, retrieved his wallet, and looked through it, she was long gone.
“Is there a problem?”
The manager was a middle-aged blonde in a short-sleeved shirt with the restaurant’s logo on the breast. The man explained about the wallet. “We’ve been havin’ a problem with them gypsies,” the manager said. “They start them out young, you know. Pickin’ pockets and stealin’ purses. You’re lucky this dog helped you out.”
The man thanked us, paid his bill and left. Only when we got ready to go did I discovered that the man had paid our check as well.
“You just can’t resist sticking your nose into trouble,” I said to Rochester as we walked back to our room. “I guess that’s who you are. Can’t get away from yourself, no matter how far you travel.”
I reached down to scratch behind his ears, and he opened his mouth in a broad doggy grin. “My crime dog,” I said fondly.
