Hieronymous Wittkamp

Hieronymous Wittkamp
	Hello and welcome to the Tiki Room. I'm your host, Hieronymus Wittkamp. I own the place and if by some trick of light you haven't noticed, I'm also one of the ten ugliest men alive in the world today. My father had thought it appropriate to name me Hieronymus, when my grossness reminded him of one of the blind figures in a Bosch paintings. This concession to his sense of humor made him feel superior in the beginning but as the years moved on it was a constant reminder that his seed had produced one such as me. As I grew older and gained mobility I would flee into the solitude of the desert to escape the painful and constant visual assessments made by others. Even family and friends found this constant observation to be gut-churning. They slowly cut their ties and I was left on my own. The one good thing about this was that they had money which they would shower upon me just to get me out of their sight. I used their money to seek anonymity and peace. Traveling desert roads, movement became my mantra. Eventually I found little peace and almost ended up becoming the "John Merrick" mascot of the eastern Mojave. But then I found the Tiki Room. I was cruising old route 66 between Barstow and Needles. It was very hot, I was tired as usual so I pulled off the pavement to rest my eyes. I must have been out for 20 or 30 minutes, because, when I woke, the shadows had shifted. Looking out the passenger side window, I saw a strangely shaped shadow that had not been there before; so I decided to get out of the car and investigate. A hundred yards or so up an old dirt road I came around a tall pile of trash and was confronted with a giant face almost as grotesque as my own. Once I was over my fright I realized that the sand ravaged face was actually a Hawaiian Tiki God carved into the trunk of a large palm tree. Next to that was an abandoned cocktail lounge, half covered with sand and debris. An epiphany occurred right then and there. Some kind of metaphysical bonding took place. There weren't any flashes of light or blinding insights but I became determined to rebuild my life, and in doing so, resurrect the Tiki Room. Ten years and 23 operations later, we're going strong. The Tiki Room has become a monument to the lost dreams of our sunburnt clients. Most people still think I'm ugly, but, then again, they didn't see me when I started. If you are ever driving by, come on in and visit a while, you can find me in the dark corner booth' most every night. Aloha!, hope to see you soon. H.W.

   Hello and welcome to the Tiki Room. I'm your host, Hieronymus Wittkamp. I own the place and if by some trick of light you haven't noticed, I'm also one of the ten ugliest men alive in the world today.
   My father had thought it appropriate to name me Hieronymus, when my grossness reminded him of one of the blind figures in a Bosch paintings. This concession to his sense of humor made him feel superior in the beginning but as the years moved on it was a constant reminder that his seed had produced one such as me.
   As I grew older and gained mobility I would flee into the solitude of the desert to escape the painful and constant visual assessments made by others. Even family and friends found this constant observation to be gut-churning. They slowly cut their ties and I was left on my own. The one good thing about this was that they had money which they would shower upon me just to get me out of their sight. I used their money to seek anonymity and peace. Traveling desert roads, movement became my mantra. Eventually I found little peace and almost ended up becoming the "John Merrick" mascot of the eastern Mojave.
   But then I found the Tiki Room. I was cruising old route 66 between Barstow and Needles. It was very hot, I was tired as usual so I pulled off the pavement to rest my eyes. I must have been out for 20 or 30 minutes, because, when I woke, the shadows had shifted. Looking out the passenger side window, I saw a strangely shaped shadow that had not been there before; so I decided to get out of the car and investigate.
   A hundred yards or so up an old dirt road I came around a tall pile of trash and was confronted with a giant face almost as grotesque as my own. Once I was over my fright I realized that the sand ravaged face was actually a Hawaiian Tiki God carved into the trunk of a large palm tree. Next to that was an abandoned cocktail lounge, half covered with sand and debris. An epiphany occurred right then and there. Some kind of metaphysical bonding took place. There weren't any flashes of light or blinding insights but I became determined to rebuild my life, and in doing so, resurrect the Tiki Room.
   Ten years and 23 operations later, we're going strong. The Tiki Room has become a monument to the lost dreams of our sunburnt clients. Most people still think I'm ugly, but, then again, they didn't see me when I started.
   If you are ever driving by, come on in and visit a while, you can find me in the dark corner booth' most every night.

Aloha!, hope to see you soon.

H.W.