He was sitting on the edge of the bed, fingering the square buttons on the base of the boxy brown phone. His plane had been on time and the afternoon traffic had been surprisingly relaxed. His briefcase was properly packed with his laptop, charger, business cards and laser pointer—that's really all he'd need to pull off his presentation in two days. He had picked up his orange lanyard at the Conference table Check-In, and noted that the meet and greet happy hour started at 7pm. That gave him a solid 3 hours of down time. Mid flight, he had mulled over his options: he could go to the gym, he could rent a bike and check out some indie pop up stores a few neighborhoods over in Uptown, he could read his book or watch a movie in the hotel room, he could get tickets to see a band at First Avenue. He had a lot of options. The only things he must do, he reminded himself: call his wife and be on time for his presentation. All else was optional.
He enjoyed this feeling more than most other things in life. His schedule was almost completely within his control, he was out of town, on his own and floating through a world of strangers that allowed him to be as morally relativistic as he pleased. As an ambivert, strangers in a resort hotel were his favorite people: anonymous and accessible.
He knew this trip could be a memorable high point of his adult life, or a complete disaster. The real win was that he only had himself to worry about. This fact gave him the freedom to take risks and reap rewards, or perhaps get harvested for his organs, which he considered could also be an interesting story to tell in later life.
As if he were gently tugging at a huge boulder precariously balanced on a mountain peak, he found his fingers depressing the numbers on the hotel phone, which he read off of a small pad on the bedside table. After three rings, a woman answered: "This is Alice."
"Hello Alice, this is Gabriel. Tom Lander gave me your number. I was wondering if I could see you now?"
"Now? Honey, I am busy tonight. You have to plan ahead."
How irritatingly condescending. "I am sorry— I understand. I know it's last minute, but could you please reconsider? It's an emergency, and it's not for tonight. What are you doing now?"
She let out a putt-off sigh with an inflection of resignation. "That's not how it works, honey, you need to—"
"I know!" He interrupted, "I know what I need and what I don't need, and what I am asking you to do is let me send a car to pick you up in 15 minutes and drop you at the Langham Hotel on Division Street, where I will meet you in the lobby and show you to my room on the 14th floor."
"Is that the penthouse?"
"No, it's not. Is that a problem?"
"What is the emergency?" she sounded slightly annoyed, slightly playful. "Are you dying to meet me?" she laughed.
"Hah. You could say that. Look, I have a very busy week and I need to start it off right. I will make sure it's worth your time and I really appreciate your flexibility. Alice, say 'yes, Gabriel.'"
"You're gonna meet me in the lobby?" She let out the small groan of professionals dealing with amateurs, saying, "I am not even dressed."
"Yes. Street clothes. Not a lot of makeup, please. The car will be there in 15 minutes."
"Make it 30 minutes at Sant Ambroes Cafe on March and 3rd."
"This is great! Thank you—see you in the lobby. I will be wearing a plain black baseball cap. Write this down: my cellphone is xxx-xxx-xxxx."
"Ok, Gabriel."
The receiver fell into the cradle with a solid thud. It was a good omen. The two pieces were molded to fit each other perfectly, but he knew they could still awkwardly cthkunk around, bounce off each other, rattle unnervingly, or rest adjacent to each other, appearing to be at home there, but not lined up together. The molded pieces are not enough, alone. They have to be delivered to one another with confidence, authority and accuracy. He knew that his own carelessness could be punished with fast busy signals that he carelessly might not even notice in the background, amping up his blood pressure and draining the depth of his breathing. But this phone call had been right, and ended with a resounding thud. It wasn't that he inserted the receiver into its base, so much as he simply allowed it to manifest its own destiny—to drive itself home. It was a good omen.
Then he called his wife, from the same phone. Their conversation was transactional. He let her know he got in okay. Like her own father, she never liked to talk on the phone much, but she and Gabriel had both come to value the emotional cloud of unknowing that hung over the air during their short, check-in phone conversations.
"I don't know what I am going to do," he was saying. "I was thinking about taking a MetroBike to Uptown to browse some shops. The happy hour is around 7, I think. What are you up to?"
She wasn't listening. She wasn't thinking about what she was thinking about, but if he asked her, she'd probably say, "Uh, I was wondering if I left my tote bag in the office or if it's at home."
"Ok. Well, it's great to talk with you," he just keeps bouncing through the conversation, the way you make small talk with the grocery cashier to fill the void between ringing, bagging, and waiting for the credit card machine to beep at you. "I hope you have a lovely evening! I love you!"
He balanced the receiver arm on his two middle fingers and watched it hover over its base for half a second. It was like the last click of the tractor chain bringing a roller coaster to the highest point on its track. Then, he dropped his fingers down, perpendicular to the floor, letting the square ear and mouth pieces fall down flush with the receiver rests. The molded plastic reminded him of a seventies hot tub—two tone browns and boxy, molded curves like an early personal computer. It was a careful, professional maneuver, it was intentional and craftsmanlike. And t wasn't instinctual, like his previous hang up.
He checked his face in the bathroom mirror. He thought he looked good, and wondered if everyone looked good in mirrors at the Langham. He remembered eating dinner at a five star hotel in Hong Kong two years ago. He almost didn't recognize himself in the long mirror that ran through the dining room. Everyone in the mirror looked... (is there no other way to say it?) ... rich. He noticed a dial on the wall by the retractable round magnifying mirror, that purported to warm the tile floors. He put it on "2." He wondered if she would show up in yoga pants and a puffy black jacket. He wondered if her butt would look like two children's bowling balls fused together. He wondered if she would show up.
He texted the driver with the address and instructions. "Double park. Go into the cafe. Get a small coffee to go with cream, no sugar. Open the back door for her. Play something classical on the radio. Walk her into the lobby and I will pay you there. If anything goes wrong, text me."
He took the complimentary newspaper off the desk table and rode the glass elevator down to the lobby. The only open chair was in a grouping of three chairs surrounding a small round glasstop table.
It was annoying, but he pretended not to care. He sat down and unfolded the paper to the sports section. The two young women sitting in the triad gave each other a slightly perturbed look as he sat down, as if to say, "who does this guy think he is? I hope he's not trying to pick us up in the freaking hotel lobby. (He does look rich though.)"
Minutes passed incredibly slow. He couldn't get lost in thought. He couldn't float his mental kayak down river on the current of passing time. It was like he was constantly hitting rocks, trying to push himself off of the obstructions and just go with the flow, but instead spinning and jamming up again. One of the girls got a phone call and they both got up to leave. That helped a bit, and he crossed his legs like a cowboy; absentmindedly finding a small hole in the ankle of his sock to put his fingernail in, while his eyes glided over the news.
He leered around the lobby from moment to moment, and noticed that his gaze always landed back on the hot latina reception clerk and her plunging uniform neckline. "I wonder why latinas always..." he thought to himself, stopping before he thought something subtly racist and sexist. "I wonder what I was about to think just then," he thought instead.
Then they came in the lobby. Alice, wearing a black three quarter length fall jacket, with black leather accents on the lapel, and the driver in a grey wool suit. He handed the driver and envelope and shook Alice's hand.
"Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you, too," Alice replied.
The driver turned on his heel and departed, while Alice and Gabriel approached the reception desk.
"May I please get a key for room 1412 for Alice?" he asked the latina, who programmed the key card and passed it directly to her.
"Will there be anything else?" she asked.
They nodded, no, and made their way to the elevator bank. In the distance, he could see that the registration table was pretty busy, registering the recently arrived conference attendees. They made small talk in the elevator. The weather... it was not his first time in Minneapolis. The day was unusually windy. The both preferred sunsets to sunrises.
He showed her to the room and bid her to unlock the door, making sure her new keycard worked. The light turned green and he reached behind her to prop open the door, as a gesture more than anything else.
He offered to hang up her jacket in the closet, above the safe.
"You said street clothes" she reminded him as he looked over her blue jeans and knit sweater.
"You look great," he said. "But I can't wait to get you out of those clothes." He handed her a white letter sized envelope filled with $100 bills. She took it in both hands, fanning through the contents with one thumb as her eyebrows arched up, and then fretted down.
"You aren't a weirdo are you?" she giggled nervously.
