A Day In Which Our Heroine Uses a Magic Bed to Meet a Hells Angel

When I saw the obit for John Houghtaling in the NYimes today, I had to laugh. No disrespect meant to the family of the late Mr. H., but the headline took me back to a memorable event: “Inventor of Magic Fingers Vibrating Bed, Dies at 92.”

My first and only experience with one of these coin-operated vibrating beds was in, of all places, Montpelier, Vermont, around 1978. I was a (very) young staff writer for The Associated Press, based in Concord, NH. As the least-senior staffer, I was sent to Montpelier as vacation relief several times that summer.

I don’t remember much about my work, other than being generally terrified that someone would notice that I was way over my head. Alone in the bureau, I spent a sweaty few moments trying to figure out (in those pre-Internet days) if commas went inside or outside of quotation marks. At 2 a.m. in Montpelier, there were not a lot of ways to get an answer. The other thing I recall is that the keyboards on the Vermont computers were slightly different than the Concord ones, and every time I’d try to hit the return key to make a new paragraph, I would wipe out the last sentence I’d typed.

But, these mental challenges aside, I understood that I was on a Real Adventure. The AP put me up in a motel nearby–the kind with the doors right on the parking lot. When I arrived, every other room was occupied by bikers and biker chicks, all wearing Hells Angels leathers (with that famous sans-apostrophe logo). I slipped past them, and locked myself in the room.

There, in all its glory, was a Magic Fingers Bed. For the uninitiated, let me explain. These beds were touted as “sleep aids” — and you slipped a quarter in the coin box in order to get a few minutes of gentle vibrating. Of course, people found the vibes more conducive to other bedtime activities as well. I knew this, being a sophisticated woman of the world and all, but this was the first time I’d come face-to-pillow with one of the real deals. Naturally, I had to try it.

So, I slipped a quarter in the slot and waited for the thrill. The Magic Fingers motor hummed for a few seconds and then kicked on. All hell broke loose. If you’ve never heard a queen-size bed with a metal frame slam itself against a pine-paneled motel-room wall, you’ve never heard real noise. I’m sure I rose off the mattress like a cartoon figure: still horizontal and three feet in the air.

To make matters worse, this was a more-for-your-money version of the Magic Fingers bed, apparently. It ran for a full 15 minutes, hurling itself against the shuddering wall. Five minutes into it, I could hear the bikers next door cheering. Something along the lines of “Go get ‘er!” as I recall.

When the thing quit, it took an hour for my heart rate to return to normal, and I spent a tense night half expecting the thing to rev up again.

I emerged from my room very early the next morning, and some of the bikers were packing up their saddlebags for the day’s ride up north. One of the grizzled guys looked over at me with a big grin. “Well, honey,” he said, “You sure sounded a lot more fun than you look.”

So, to the family of John Houghtaling, I will just say this: My condolences. He invented something worth remembering.