On Flag Worship

Yesterday, I was at a Residence Inn that I hang out at, waiting for walk up customers to come out, or for the front desk to call us. In order to be truly successful in Phoenix, a taxi driver has got to solicit hotels or bars. You have to give them excellent service in clean cabs, and be available when needed. It is just the way the market rules our lives. Most of the larger hotels have contracts with large taxi companies, or town car services. But there are dozens of smaller and medium sized hotels and motels that need help. Those are the ones to go after.

So I am sitting outside the Residence Inn which I have tried so hard to service these last months when Jenna, the desk clerk at the Residence Inn, comes out, and starts fiddling with the flag pole, which I am parked about five feet from. Being the nosey guy that I am, I decided to help.

The flagpole is hollow, and the ropes that run the flag up and down are hidden inside the pole itself. Access is gained by unlocking a tiny door on the side of the pole about five feet up. The maintenance guy unlocked the flagpole door for Jenna, and they looked at the mechanism for a few minutes before figuring it out.

Then the discussion began. What is the “proper” way to lower a flag to half mast? Jenna was of the opinion that you lower it all the way down, then raise it back up half way. The maintenance guy wasn’t so sure. I was of the opinion that you lower it halfway and be done with it.

“Why are you lowering the flag anyway?” I asked.

“There was a bombing in Pakistan. Someone blew up a Marriott Hotel.”

Helpfully I suggested, “Why don’t we raise a Pakistani flag to half mast then?”

Jenna just looked at me uncertain if I were joking or a raving lunatic. (It’s the latter.)

“It’s on orders from corporate.” Residence Inn is a Marriott property, so, apparently, all the Marriott hotels are lowering their flags.

When the flag came down, it was rather dirty from having been flown day and night for the last few weeks. I suggested it be laundered.

“How do we launder a flag?” asked Jenna.

“I don’t know. Can’t be too hard. It’s just a piece of cloth. There must be laundering instructions on it.”

I unclipped the flag from one of its clips, and looked at the margin, hoping to find a tag that said “colorfast, machine wash in cold” or something. I dreaded finding a “dry clean only” sticker on it since that would mean sending it out and what would corporate say?

“No, I mean what is the proper etiquette for washing a flag?”

“I think you’re supposed to burn it, ceremonially,” said the maintenance guy.

“Don’t let it touch the ground!” said Jenna.

“I wouldn’t worry,” I said, “I don’t see any boy scouts or Marines around.”

I didn’t find a cleaning instruction label; all I found was a small tag that said “Made in China” on it. I kept my idiot comments to myself.

“Well, let’s put it back up. We’ll wash it another time.”

They started reeling the flag back up the pole. About two thirds of the way to half mast, I noticed that I had reclipped the flag to the wrong clip, and the top was hanging nicely, but the bottom was kind of bunched up and weird looking. I pointed that out to my fellows, and down we lowered the flag again. After reattaching the flag properly, back up it went. But we hadn’t figured out how to tie it off and make it stay at half mast. The maintenance guy let go of the rope, and the flag came screaming back to the ground. Jenna grabbed it just before it touched earth.

I peeked into the guts of the flagpole through the little door, and fiddled with the workings. In a minute, I had worked out how to make the flag stay in place.

“The rope runs through this little groove thing here,” I said.

“Yeah, and then this little brass thing pushes down and locks the rope,” said the maintenance guy.

Up the flag went. Two thirds of the way to the halfway point, the maintenance guy says,

“Shouldn’t we salute?”

So all three of us saluted, and the rope slid out of the maintenance guy’s hand, and the flag skittered back down the pole. Maintenance guy grabbed the rope and hauled the thing into its proper place, while Jenna and I held our right hands over our brows in a very patriotic salute. I quickly snapped the flag’s rope into place, and Jenna locked the little flag pole door.

I sincerely hope no Pakistani ghosts were watching us. Or anyone from Marriott corporate for that matter.