3 Mango Bay Read Free Page B

bedroom door behind him, then flicked the switch to bring the slide in. Once it was in, I opened the bedroom door and let Bob out.
    With the outside utilities disconnected and the slide room in, I did a final walk through to make sure all the cabinet doors were closed and the TV antenna was cranked down.
    Satisfied that we were ready to roll, I sat in the drivers seat and called out, “Hey Bob, we're going be moving soon. You'll want to get up here.”
    I started the motor and this got got Bob's attention. He knew that when the motor started, things were going to happen.  I patted the passenger seat. “Up here, Bob.”
    He understood. He came running from the back and jumped up on the seat and settled in.
    We were ready to go, so I put the motorhome in gear, and we headed out.

CHAPTER SIX
    It took us ten minutes to get from the old boat yard on Mango Street to the front gate of Serenity Cove.  My first impression of the place was not a good one. It definitely did not look like the photos from the web.
    Instead of a nicely paved drive that led past a well kept office building, I found a potholed and muddy lane leading to a run down cinder block structure desperately needing a coat of paint.
    Maybe this was the reason the park was losing guests. The front entrance scared off potential customers.
    I parked in front and headed into the office. A bell attached to the door announced my presence. There was no one at the front desk, but I could hear a TV in the back room.
    After five minutes no one had come to greet me or check me in. Noticing a bell on the desk, I hit it twice with the palm of my hand.
    From the back room I heard someone grunt, followed by the scraping sound of a chair against the floor.
    The door leading to the back room opened just enough for a man to show his face. He looked at me, then said. “What?”
    He stared, waiting for me to answer his question.  I obliged. “My name is Walker. I'm the wifi guy. You have a spot reserved for me.”
    Saying nothing, the man nodded and walked up to the counter. He appeared to be in his late thirties, had greasy unkempt hair, unshaven face, oil stained cargo shorts and a gray t-shirt that probably started out white.
    Reaching under the counter, he retrieved a sheet of paper and slid it over to me. “Fill this out.”
    It was a standard check-in form. Asking for name, address, license plate number.
    I needed a pen to fill it out. But I didn't have one on me, nor did I see one on the counter.
    I pointed to the form. “You got a pen I can use?”
    The man behind the counter looked at me as if I had just insulted his sister. “What did you say?”
    Speaking slowly, I repeated my request. “Do. You. Have. A. Pen. I. Can. Use?”
    He stared at me for a moment. A prison yard stare. The kind you see just before someone starts a fight.
    He reached under the counter and produced a pen which he dropped on the registration form. “Ring the bell when you're done.”
    He turned and walked into the back room leaving me alone in the office.
    Most places are happy to see you at check-in. The people working the front desk usually go out of their way to make you feel welcome. But not here. Here you feel like you might get stabbed by the desk clerk if you ask the wrong question.
    Clearly this wasn't the Hilton.
    If this was the guy potential guests first encountered, it might be why many were leaving to go somewhere else.
    After I completed the check-in form, I rang the bell.
    No response from the man in the back room.
    I waited two minutes, then hit the bell again.
    This time, the man came back out. He looked pissed. Like I was interrupting his day. He reached across the counter, picked up the bell and tossed it toward a trash can against the far wall.
    His toss went wide, the bell hit the wall behind the can and bounced onto the floor. I was tempted to say something, but thought better of it.
    He turned toward me, picked up the form I had filled out, looked it over, then held out