I knew, really knew, that I wanted to go to college when the 20-something man with a blond crewcut behind the counter at the Amherst Marriot Courtyard looked my father in the eye and said, without a trace of irony, "Welcome to the Silver League."
It appeared that we as a family had stayed for over ten nights at some Marriot Courtyard hotel and had now been elevated to the status of near-royalty, room keys with "Elite" written in white cursive, and an admiring nod from our concierge's equally young-looking desk partner.
Crew cut was a bit pudgy, but friendly and affable, even agreeing to "Come up there" with a can of aerosol spray to "Help us out" with the smoky smell that filled the hallway of our smoke-free floor.
I had no doubt that Crew Cut and Polo, his buddy, were used to smoking up in unused guest bedrooms, stuffing just-cleaned towels underneath the door cracks, and then slinking back downstairs to congratulate tourists on their Silver League status and nod, red-eyed, when we complained of the smell.
What kind of life was this, I wondered, when you had gaze into the eyes of some balding lawyer and his plaid-clad, bespeckled daugher hardly half out of puberty but still headed towards a better future than you, and be happy for them, genuinely happy that they had finally reached the point in their Marriot-frequenting lives that they could call themselves members of the Silver League? THE Silver League, the one you maybe talk about in reverential tones during your weed-slanted chats with Polo and Pudge, when you lay back on a King Sized and wonder where you went wrong and do you have any eye drops left and when is some one going to wonder why their pillows smell like a Grateful Dead concert?
You don't, because The Silver League doesn't matter, and your little name tag doesn't matter, and the Marriot Courtyard doesn't matter, no matter how many times you visit one in how many different states. A degree would've helped, no doubt, but here you are. You take a stack of pringles out of the fridge behind you, because you've learned that customers leave food all the time without a thought, and you're hungry. You're always hungry, and always tired, and always mad at those slumpy, baggy-eyed Amherst students who walk by with their Kant and their lattes and try to make you feel bad about yourself. Well, you have a name tag and a whole stack of still magnetized "Elite" room keys, and you can pick the King Suite and the prettiest girl from the laundry department and call it an afternoon well spent. Classes, quads, coffee shops and real jobs. Those are just things for people not making any money yet, people who haven't learned that people always, always drop change near the phone, enough for your next round of drugs and maybe
It appeared that we as a family had stayed for over ten nights at some Marriot Courtyard hotel and had now been elevated to the status of near-royalty, room keys with "Elite" written in white cursive, and an admiring nod from our concierge's equally young-looking desk partner.
Crew cut was a bit pudgy, but friendly and affable, even agreeing to "Come up there" with a can of aerosol spray to "Help us out" with the smoky smell that filled the hallway of our smoke-free floor.
I had no doubt that Crew Cut and Polo, his buddy, were used to smoking up in unused guest bedrooms, stuffing just-cleaned towels underneath the door cracks, and then slinking back downstairs to congratulate tourists on their Silver League status and nod, red-eyed, when we complained of the smell.
What kind of life was this, I wondered, when you had gaze into the eyes of some balding lawyer and his plaid-clad, bespeckled daugher hardly half out of puberty but still headed towards a better future than you, and be happy for them, genuinely happy that they had finally reached the point in their Marriot-frequenting lives that they could call themselves members of the Silver League? THE Silver League, the one you maybe talk about in reverential tones during your weed-slanted chats with Polo and Pudge, when you lay back on a King Sized and wonder where you went wrong and do you have any eye drops left and when is some one going to wonder why their pillows smell like a Grateful Dead concert?
You don't, because The Silver League doesn't matter, and your little name tag doesn't matter, and the Marriot Courtyard doesn't matter, no matter how many times you visit one in how many different states. A degree would've helped, no doubt, but here you are. You take a stack of pringles out of the fridge behind you, because you've learned that customers leave food all the time without a thought, and you're hungry. You're always hungry, and always tired, and always mad at those slumpy, baggy-eyed Amherst students who walk by with their Kant and their lattes and try to make you feel bad about yourself. Well, you have a name tag and a whole stack of still magnetized "Elite" room keys, and you can pick the King Suite and the prettiest girl from the laundry department and call it an afternoon well spent. Classes, quads, coffee shops and real jobs. Those are just things for people not making any money yet, people who haven't learned that people always, always drop change near the phone, enough for your next round of drugs and maybe
