by C. Spencer
“Want me to head back and get it?”
“Would you?” she says.
“I would love to,” I say, feeling this ridiculous grin come on. “I just got back to my room. And you would not believe the gym at this hotel. It’s like Times Square—those LED video walls they have?—meets the Death Star. Spotlights. Disco balls. The only downside being this grandiose hotel room. Why do five-star hotels still look, I don’t know, like the worst possible polyester print bedding they could find leftover from the seventies?”
“Because you happen to have exquisite taste,” she says.
“As I dine at this mod, faux-wood desk between a Keurig machine and an ice bucket,” I say.
“And why is it hotels leave ice buckets in every room?” Madisen says. “Do you think there’s really a strong demand for ice? I mean, how many people tote champagne in their suitcase to celebrate tomorrow’s sales meeting? TSA would never let me board a plane with liquids.”
“You ponder such inane things,” I say.
“Well, you figure companies cost-cut just about everywhere these days. Why not consider the most obvious source of waste—the unused ice bucket?”
“I think it’s a rather nice touch, nostalgic,” I say, reflecting on my outdated surroundings, this dry tuna sandwich.
“It’s true,” she says. “I suppose this latest influx of miserly clients has broken me down, wanting to trim this or cut that. It’s been the theme of the year, exhausting, with no real thought to practicality, safety, compliance. Let’s just make it pretty. Who cares if it works? Imagine how much more we might accomplish over the long haul with a bit more efficiency in x, y, z?” As my air kicks in and deep voices travel along the carpeted hallway just outside my door. But it’s cold in here already. The place feels still, unsociable, settled, aside from her voice on the line, breathy. “I’m sorry,” I hear. “I didn’t mean to go on.”
“I appreciate when you do,” I say, realizing I’ve sunk into a whisper.
“So what are you having? Room service, I hope.”
“Try a tuna sandwich, you know the prepackaged kind they sell in plastic at the convenience store? With too much celery. And never enough mayonnaise.”
“Isn’t room service,” she says, “one of the only perks to staying at a polyester hotel?”
“There really are no perks to staying at a polyester hotel,” I say, “unless you’re in my bed, which you’re not.”
“Polyester hotel,” she tells me, “or this conference room.”
“Such a toss-up,” I say as I finish my last bite, then bunch the wrapper.
“I’m picturing your room, though.”
“You mean that chic headboard bolted to the wall?” I say. “Flowers in the bathroom—a nice enough touch. My laptop, charging. There must be fifty Wi-Fi networks all vying for my attention with names like Get Off My WiFi and The Password is LOVE. And a chair near the sitting table over by the door where they left today’s paper. One hundred eighty cable channels I have no desire to watch. The most delicious smelling soap you could imagine. My hair’s still wet. Room 514.”
“The fifth floor?” she says. “I bet you have an amazing view.”
“I do. It’s a shame you’re not here to enjoy it,” I say. “But you’ll never guess what I’m doing.”
“Let’s see. You must be sipping champagne they left chilled in that little ice bucket.”
“Had they left me a bottle of champagne, it would be gone by now. I assure you. More like trying to clear off an old memory card. I’m uploading those shots I took of you on our hike.”
“Of what,” she says, “my promenade along a steep mountainside, Starbucks in hand?”
“Not quite,” I say.
“What, then?”
“You don’t exactly have a shirt on,” I say. “Fully, that is. Not fully.”
And as soon as that sinks in, she says, “You didn’t—”
“You didn’t honestly believe I was out scouting a path like some well-behaved Girl Scout, did you?” More like eighty-seven pictures, all at 3.5 megs. Not that I share that part of the story. “And let’s just say for the sake of argument that if you were to, I don’t know, stop by unannounced and surprise me, you think you might wear this again?”
“What is it you’re trying to say?”
“That I kind of like this ensemble,” I say.
“Maybe we could continue this conversation once I get home from work?” she says.
“I wouldn’t mind having this conversation right there at your office.”
“Yeah, and like I said, I’ll call you just as soon as I get home.”
And that she does.
Me: “I thought you’d never call.”
Madisen: “I’m sorry…I was stuck in traffic. How was your shower?”
Me: “And why is that?”
Madisen: “Why was I stuck in traffic? They’ve set up road construction everywhere.”
Me: “I was imagining, hoping, you might be on your way…to bring me room service.”
Madisen: “I could pull off room service.”
Me: “But you would’ve caught me in the shower.”
Madisen: “We have universal room keys, you know. Hotels always do.”
Me: “Would you wait for me to get out…to get your tip? Or would you join me?”
Madisen: “I like that those are my only two options.”
Me: “I would want you to join me.”
Madisen: “Still, I think I might rather be management.”
Me: “You’d rather be management…why?”
Madisen: “Because they wear suits, and that’s what I happen to be wearing.”
Me: “Management you are.”
Madisen: “And it was brought to my attention that you weren’t particularly pleased.”
Me: “Not with my order, no.”
Madisen: “How can we make that up to you?”
Me: “What are my options?”
Madisen: “I see you brought Taittinger for your stay.”
Me: “I’m making use of your rather nice ice bucket.”
Madisen: “We do aim to please.”
Me: “Then maybe you could rectify this situation.”
Madisen: “Tell me what you’re wearing right now.”
Me: “Who, me?”
Madisen: “Why are you so cute?”
Me: “Can I just say I’m wearing Diesels? I’m not, more like pajamas, but…”
Madisen: “You’re really good at this.”
Me: “You know, I’m not.”
Madisen: “You are. And I love your Diesels.”
Me: “Do you?”
Madisen: “I’m taking my shoes off. I’m at the edge of my bed.”
Me: “And you’re still in your suit?”
Madisen: “Or something like that, trousers, white button-up…I’m picturing your room.”
Me: “You’re picturing a gigantic polyester bed. I’d rather imagine yours.”
Madisen: “You don’t even know what my room looks like, do you? So, I have this high headboard and tall ceiling, plaster coving.”
Me: “I don’t know what that is. But say I walk in…”
Madisen: “Say you walk in. If you look to your right, you’ll see an antique card catalog about waist high. I had it restored. And if you look to your left, you’ll see my bureau, my closet. And beside that, a leather beanbag, which is tan and sort of distressed. I pile clothes on it, like now. But say you’re looking straight ahead…that’s where you’ll find my bed. And I have two lamps, one on either side. My window’s open. It’s not dark. So there’s tons and tons of birds outside, and my neighbor’s playing the piano. And I’m rather hoping that you might take those off.”
Me: “Take what off?”
Madisen: “Your jeans.”
Me: “Oh.”
Madisen: “I seem to recall you starting this.”
Me: “I did, didn’t I?”
Madisen: “So what are you thinking about now?”<
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Me: “You wearing that suit.”
Madisen: “I’m out of that.”
Me: “Seriously? So what’re you in?”
Madisen: “I guess you would have to describe this as…”
Me: “As what?”
Madisen: “As my hiking attire.”
Me: “God, how you do this to me.”
Madisen: “I think you started it.”
Me: “So you’re basically in, ahem, that. On your bed…right now?”
Madisen: “Well, yes, and this stack of pillows, too many.”
Me: “And that’s what I see…as I’m leaning against your door…”
Madisen: “But eventually you do come closer, I hope…”
Me: “And I just sort of take you in…”
Madisen: “So I’ll need to pull you down and just sort of straddle you.”
Me: “Wait, wait. You’re falling out of this. And your hair’s all over my face…”
Madisen: “There, I’ll flip it to the side…”
Me: “What’ll you do next?”
The sad part being, some meeting she has, early, she says. So I end up falling asleep, more like not sleeping, more like racking up mental notes all night and day on what I should—and shouldn’t—say. So much that this gone-for-a-week is beginning to feel like a string of sad events I’ll need to endure so I can get back to my room.
And call.
Like tonight again, because—yeah, I know. I shouldn’t.
As I collapse across my bed—and by that, I mean flat on my back on this enormous king-sized mattress made for plenty more than one.
And we begin again as if there were no in-betweens. No days. No nights. No life outside of this right here. “I did,” Madisen says, “before Andi sent me four emails in a row, and anyway, she’s coming by.”
“Which means her voice came back?”
“It did…just in time for Chianti,” she says followed by a long battery-draining pause. “Chianti and charades,” she finally says. “This weekend.” And then again, radio silence. Which just sort of freaks me out, and I’m not sure why. But, whatever, it’s late and she’s exhausted and so am I.
“So, is everything all right?”
I hear her sigh. “I’m sorry,” she says, “just reading her millionth email.”
“And it wasn’t laryngitis?”
“Allergies,” she says. “It’s like that perfect storm right now of single meets suddenly sick, or recovering. So days of Delsym, documentaries. Right now, she’s trying to convince me to go vegan.”
“Don’t go vegan,” I say. “They can’t eat cheese.”
“I love cheese,” she says. “I think she might also be having some sort of meltdown or midlife crisis.”
“I still remember my first.”
“Your first midlife crisis?”
“Yes,” I say. “I think I was twenty-six. I lost my job.”
“I was fired one time for sending an email to the wrong distribution list. I was a temp. I can’t even remember what they did anymore. But that went out and calls started coming in from their Northwest customers asking about this Greek potluck and why were they invited.”
“Epic.”
“It was great PR,” she says. “Why were you?”
“Insubordination.”
“That’s a thing?”
“Subordination, apparently, is a condition of employment.”
“You don’t subordinate well?” she says.
“I wouldn’t say so, no.”
“Andi found gray hair. One strand. But not just that. She’s all about endocrine disruptors and hormones and UV. And she’s giving me all sorts of advice.”
“About tofu and quinoa?”
“About sunscreen. And bad choices. She’s sort of on my case,” Madisen says. “But we won’t talk about that. I was thinking today again about how you’ve never actually been to my place.”
“Forget I said that.”
“Why…don’t you want to?” she says.
“You’re inviting me?”
“I might be,” she says.
“So why is this girl on your case?”
“I can’t really say. It’ll ruin your night.”
As if that wasn’t the case already, being miles away. “Then ruin my night,” I say.
“You tell me that now.”
But I’m still thinking about her offer. “Write something down for me.”
“What?” she says.
“Beer to Drink Music to ’17 Tropical Blonde.”
“And what’s this?” she says.
“It’s my drink request for the night I swing by,” I say. “Don’t take her advice.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“You don’t even know what she said.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just be you.”
And I’m fixing my hair in this mirror when I hear all of that. An uproar and commotion and, “Traffic,” she shouts. “I’m heading out. It’s pouring—oh my God!—and you have my umbrella,” and then, “Shit,” before a whoop and the car slams shut, and then it’s calm again. “I’m. So. Drenched,” she says—and I hear it like that, in staccato. So now I’m just laughing. “I could seriously wring this shirt out.”
Which is what I’m thinking about as she makes her way home, and I shower, change. And afterward she calls, and I’m hoping to explain something technical while she loads dishes. Utensils. Rips an envelope. Then more thuds and she’s bringing up work again. So during the time it takes for her to undress and get dressed, I offer up my generic advice. Until she slips into bed. Until I’m falling asleep feeling if only she was here beside me. And feeling as if everything was possible. It’s just the most powerful thing.
So I call the next day.
“Cameron,” I say.
“Cameron?” Madisen says.
“She’s the one who got me arrested last year in DC thanks to her protest on climate change. I haven’t seen her since…I don’t know. We met for sushi, tempura, but she kept on about old times. About some trip she took to Stockholm, someone she knew online. And it beat my end of the day, as ten of my opinionated clients tried to head up one simple decision, but they can’t.” Then it turns into this thing. I don’t know. Her MacBook powering down. And a key and a lock and heels echoing along some hallway.
“Do you find it easier,” she’s saying, “when you’re having those conversations in person, like that?”
“Instead of what?”
“Instead of this, like on the phone or email,” she says.
“I don’t care either way,” I say drawing drapes—layer after hotel layer, thinking this is the best part of my trip, and she’s not even here. As I’m watching that transitional sky as it sets, not dark but not daylight either. When streetlights flick. That pulse of neon.
“And lunch, sushi, your Friday thing.”
“She’s starting a new job,” I say, “on Monday, and she talked about that incessantly,” omitting the fact that I talked about Madisen incessantly. Pretty much. And we commiserate some more. “I won’t really see her after this.” And as soon as I finish one thought, she’s on to the next. Until two hours pass just like that, and I say, “Whenever you get quiet like that, it’s like you’re hanging up.”
“I’m not,” she says in that lying in bed voice. “I was just thinking.”
“About what?” I say.
“How once you go down a certain path,” she says, “you can never come back.”
“What path would that be?”
“This one.”
And the thing is, she doesn’t call on Friday. I don’t, either. Reason being, she’s now committed her weekend to the BFF. And I’ve committed mine to dinner with Cameron.
And the gym, and laps, the pool, and Why not? I figure as I order a plate of room service to accompany my in-room on-demand double feature.
The following Monday, I’m texting good night before squeezing one last time into hotel-tight sheets. And
on Tuesday I’m lugging bags down the hall to the elevator downstairs where they’re serving blueberry scones and bourbon caramel glazed upside-down cake, which is even better than it sounds, plus way strong coffee and that USA Today I’ve tucked under an arm, only to segue into hours of highway hypnosis hosted by Simon & Schuster audio.
And somewhere in the hundred and twenty-five miles or so between Boston and back home, I give her a ring. “I’m still on the road,” I say, “running late.”
Hearing the only thing I didn’t want to hear when I got back, which is, “Me too.” And not just today. But day after day after day.
Until Friday, when the last thing I care to deal with as I make my way over to her place is this call from Elizabeth. “Has Avery rung you?” she says.
“Not recently,” I say. Can’t this wait? Especially given the fact that I’ve agonized through the most convoluted traffic detour anyone could ever imagine, and here I’m minutes away. “I’m meeting Madisen.”
“I heard,” she tells me.
“You heard what?”
“About your ooh la la with your new girl.”
“Then why’d you call?” I say.
“I wouldn’t have,” she says, “except they’re on their way.”
“On their way?” I say.
“To Paris,” she says.
“Who’s they?”
“Avery and some girl she just hooked up with. For something, I don’t know, spontaneous, romantic. I call it insanity, and really, you need to talk with her. She listens only to you.”
“Avery never listens to me,” I say.
“She only listens to you,” she says.
“Is this her firefighter?”
“It is,” she says. “And guess who’s moved in?”
Wondering, as I dial Avery, why the crisis of the year needs to hit today.
“Avery,” I say.
“And where’ve you been? You’ve talked to Elizabeth.”
“Yes—I mean no. I mean, I only have a few. So I wanted to play catch-me-up CliffsNotes style before unplugging for the rest of the weekend. And please tell me you didn’t move in.”
“She makes me breakfast, Rae, and let’s just say there are so many ways you can dine in bed.”
“You can spare me the details.”
“I’m thinking she’ll propose,” she says.
