by Claire Cook
I rode the escalator down to the ground level, checking out the cool guitars on display over the luggage carousels as I headed out for a taxi. Apparently Austin took its reputation as live music capital of the world seriously.
Outside, a wall of heat hit me like a sauna. I dove for a taxi. I guzzled half a bottle of lukewarm water and turned on my cell phone. Five zillion new messages for my brother popped into my in-box. I ignored them.
I unwrapped my turkey sandwich, trying not to think about how germy the backseat of the taxi was. My phone rang again.
“What?” I said through a mouthful of turkey.
“Have you seen my green golf pants?” my brother asked.
“Have you tried the closet?”
“Which one?”
I rolled my eyes. “The master bedroom walk-in. Halfway down the left side, with your other golf pants.”
“Hmm, I didn’t know I had a golf section. Hang on . . . Okay, got ’em.”
“Whew. What a relief.” I covered the phone and took another bite of barbeque-less turkey.
“So, how’d I do?”
I swallowed. “Finding your golf pants?”
He laughed his million-dollar laugh. “The interview.”
“I didn’t listen.”
“Why not?”
“Uh, because I was up in the air? Don’t worry, they’re e-mailing me an MP3. I’ll give you notes as soon as I listen to it. And don’t forget, your car for the airport will be there at seven fifteen tomorrow, a.m. Your carry-on is packed and waiting by the front door.”
“Seven fifteen? Seriously?”
I rolled my eyes again. “There’s exactly one nonstop flight a day from Boston to Austin, so buck up, bro.”
By the time my taxi turned onto University Avenue and pulled up in front of the massive conference center, I had exactly seven minutes.
“Deirdre Griffin,” I said to the guy at the desk as I reached for my company credit card. “I’m checking in. And I’m supposed to be meeting your events manager in the main restaurant at four thirty. Can you please let her know I’ll be a few minutes late?”
He handed me back the credit card and ran a room key card through the coder machine. “The main restaurant is on the mezzanine level, between the gift shop and the business center,” he said without looking up.
I weighed the energy expenditure of convincing this idiot to pick up the phone and call the restaurant for me.
Decision made, I turned and bumped my carry-on in the direction of the elevator.
When I got off on the fourteenth floor, I followed the little signs with the arrows to room 1423. I scanned my key card. The light flashed red. I tried it again. Red again.
I dug for the little cardboard key folder and saw that my room number was really 1432.
I sighed, but couldn’t resist taking a moment to extend my non-suitcase-pulling arm and pirouette on my toe while I wheeled my suitcase around in a perfectly executed 180-degree turn. Maybe it was a combination of the anonymity and the long hallways, but hotels always made me feel like dancing.
After double-checking that I had the hallway all to myself, I did a few chorus kicks as I rolled my way back down the hall and around the corner. Maybe someday I’d make my own dance exercise video: The Hot Hot Hotel Workout for Solo Travelers.
I found my real room, scanned my key card, and actually managed to get a beep accompanied by a green light this time. I jerked the door open and hurled my stuff on top of the king-size bed. I unzipped the front zipper of my carry-on and pulled out my regulation-size travel Baggie.
I sent my flip-flops flying with two final chorus kicks, circled my hips while I peeled off my yoga pants, then pulled my T-shirt over my head as the grand finale. I switched dances and pony-stepped to the bathroom with the Baggie and peed as quickly as I could. Then I rolled fresh deodorant on not-so-fresh armpits, squeezed some toothpaste onto my toothbrush, and ponied my way back to the carry-on.
It’s not like I’d never kept an events person waiting before, but I was pretty sure I remembered this one saying I was her last appointment and I didn’t want to miss her. I brushed my teeth with one hand while I rummaged for something to wear with the other. I pulled out some overpriced black stretchy travel wear. I found a scarf I hoped was funky enough that maybe the wrinkles would look like they were supposed to be there.
My clean undergarments seemed to have disappeared, so I settled for twisting my bra back to center and gave a tug to the baggy old underpants I’d chosen for flying comfort rather than flair. My fingers tore a hole through the worn cotton fabric. When I opened my mouth to swear, toothpaste drizzled from one corner.
My door beeped.
The handle turned.
A man walked in.
I heard a loud scream and realized it was coming from me. Toothpaste mixed with saliva was pouring down my chin like a waterfall.
The man put up his hand like a stop sign.
I screamed some more.
He scrunched his eyes closed and reached behind him for the doorknob.
“My bad,” he said as he backed out of the room.
You don’t have to be a winner to start, but you have to start to be a winner.
As soon as I’d chained the door and spit the toothpaste I hadn’t managed to swallow into the sink, I dialed the front desk.
“A man just walked into my room,” I yelled.
“Probably maintenance,” a voice said.
“He had a suitcase!” I screamed. “A hunter green suitcase. On rollers.” My throat was really starting to hurt from all this screaming.
“Oh.” It sounded like the jerk who’d checked me in.
I waited.
“Oh?” I finally said. “A man walks into my room and all you’re going to say is oh?”
“The computer must have messed up. It does that sometimes.”
I had a lot of respect for computers and I hated it when people blamed them for their own personal shortcomings. I shook my head. The movement cleared my brain enough to remember my appointment with the events person. I stretched the cord as far as it would go and pulled on my stretchy black travel outfit with the hand not holding the phone.
When I brushed my hand over my hip, the flesh freed by the rip in my underpants bumped out like a tumor. I swallowed back another scream. I decided to dump out my suitcase in order to find underpants, and when I finally did, I began to undress and dress my lower half again.
“You’re both going to have to come down and get new key cards,” the voice in my ear continued.
“Why do I have to get a new key?” I held the phone in the crook of my neck while I finished pulling up my pants. “I was here first.”
“Hotel policy.”
“Ohmigod. You have a policy for this? What kind of place is this?”
“And one of you is going to have to switch rooms.”
“Well, it’s not going to be me,” I said. And then I hung up as hard as I could.
If this stupid hotel gave that guy my room, I’d move my brother’s event. Or I’d sue. Or I’d move my brother’s event and sue. I’d only packed and unpacked my suitcase about a zillion times this week. There was no way in hell I was going to pack up twice in one hotel, especially since everything I’d brought with me was now strewn all over the bed and floor.
The elevator took forever getting down to the lobby. I tapped one foot impatiently while I checked my phone to see if I had a direct number for the events person.
The elevator beeped.
When the door opened, I was looking right at a hunter green carry-on.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” the guy attached to it said.
The elevator door started to close between us. The guy reached out and caught it with one hand.
“Ha,” I said. I looked past him to the lobby, not wanting to make eye contact.
“They’ll offer you a coupon for a free breakfast for the inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience,” I repeated. The g
uy and the carry-on were blocking my exit, which seemed to me to be the current inconvenience. Not to mention awkward. And embarrassing.
“If you hold out, you can bump them up to dinner.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m just saying.”
Even without quite looking at him, he was actually kind of good-looking. Dark hair, wide-set eyes. Strong jaw. Lean torso. No wedding ring.
Great. The man who had seen my peanut-M&M’s-and-turkey-sandwich-bloated body in ancient ripped underwear and with toothpaste spewing out of my mouth was Just. My. Type.
I couldn’t seem to move. It was like humiliation had rooted me in place. Even my ankles felt heavy. I glanced down. Something was peeking out from under one pant leg and resting on the inside edge of my shoe.
I did a double take and glanced down again. Yep, it was the corner of my recently removed ripped underpants. I’d been known to leave the house with the occasional T-shirt on inside out, and decades ago I’d gone to high school one day with a sock stuck inside one leg of my jeans, but this was a new low.
“Hey, I’m really sorry,” the guy said, still holding the door.
I took a tiny step toward the elevator door, dragging the leg with the underpants attached to it as carefully as possible.
The guy was still staring at me. I wondered if I could get away with pointing over his shoulder and yelling, Look! And as soon as he turned and looked, I’d reach down, grab my underpants, and run.
He shook his head. “You must have been terrified. Listen, I’m sure nothing like this will ever happen again, but just to be on the safe side? You should always make sure you put the chain on as soon as you get in the room, okay?”
I took another ministep. I glanced down again as casually as I could. The underpants were about three-quarters of the way out now. If I’d been giving birth to a baby from the bottom of my pant leg, one more push would do it.
“Anyway, rest assured that I’m on a completely different floor now.” He ran a hand through his hair as I stayed frozen like a really bad statue. “Okay, well, again, I apologize for the scare.”
I didn’t dare move.
He finally stepped into the elevator with me. “Hey, are you okay? Do you want me to call someone for you?”
I took a deep breath.
I held my head high.
Then I walked away from my torn, stretched-out, decrepit underpants as if they could have belonged to anyone.
The elevator doors hissed closed behind me.
I crossed the lobby and got my new key card. I talked the idiot at the desk into upgrading the free breakfast for the inconvenience into not just a free dinner but a free room-service dinner.
I caught the events person on her way out the door. As we sat in the lobby going over the details for the next day—sound system, security, table and chair placement—I could almost forget about my public underwear humiliation.
It all came back as soon as I was alone again in my hotel room. So I ordered a turkey club complete with bacon, chipotle mayo, Swiss cheese, avocado, and chips. I swallowed it all down along with my embarrassment—and an Ultimate Austin Frozen Margarita.
As what was left of my margarita melted, my cell phone rang. Twice. I ignored it. My room phone rang. I ignored that, too.
A text beeped in. I finally picked up my cell.
You don’t have to be a winner to start, but you have to start to be a winner.
“Shut up,” I screamed at my phone. At my brother. At my life.
Then I turned on the TV and scrolled through a zillion stupid channels so I wouldn’t feel so alone. I paused long enough to watch a man in tight jeans teaching the Boot Scootin’ Boogie to a group of laughing line dancers on some country channel. I got up and tried a few steps with them, but being on the opposite side of the screen only made me feel left out, so I clicked the TV off.
I thought about taking a walk. Maybe I’d even go underwear shopping while I was out. I’d read in the in-flight magazine about a cool lingerie store in Austin called Petticoat Fair. Maybe I’d stroll right in like I owned the place and buy a whole wardrobe. So the next time a guy walked in on me, he’d stop and say, Whoa, baby.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. I’d sunk to a point in my life that my only hope for a good time was to be better prepared in case another hotel accidentally gave somebody a key to my room.
I shoved my suitcase and its splayed contents over to one side of the vast, unnecessary expanse of bed. When I slurped the remnants of my margarita through the straw, the sound it made was so loud I could almost imagine I had company.
“Say, ‘Excuse me,’” I said out loud.
“Excuse me,” I answered in a deep, sexy male voice.
“There’s no excuse for you,” I said.
Then I crawled between the sheets on the other side of the bed and pulled the covers up over my head. Screw the walk.
Morning, noon, and night, my brother is pretty much a chiasmus machine, and a chiasmus machine is pretty much my brother, morning, noon, and night.
So, my life being my life, fast-forward to the next day and there I was at my brother’s Austin gig.
Steve Moretti held out his hand.
I ignored it.
“I thought you looked familiar,” he said.
“Cute,” I said. I tried to will the heat that was creeping into my cheeks back down to wherever it was that it was coming from.
I grabbed my brother’s tunic-clad forearm. “Come on. You should be at the signing table by now.”
Two women with long blond hair pushed their way in front of Steve. “Tag?” one of them said. “Do you remember me?”
A brunette wearing jeans and a T-shirt that read I BRAKE FOR ANGELS cut in front of the two blondes. She stood next to my brother and held out her cell phone with one hand to take a picture.
I inserted myself between them and held out my hand to block the shot. “Pictures at the signing table only.”
“Wow, I like your earrings,” she said to me.
I kept my hand up. “Nice try,” I said. People had been kissing up to me to get to Tag my whole life. I hadn’t fallen for nice earrings since the Beatles were still together.
My brother smiled at the woman apologetically, good cop to my bad cop.
I yanked his arm. “Come on.”
Tag yanked back. “Where are you staying?” he called out to Steve.
I pretended I was invisible.
“Right here,” Steve called back.
Tag dragged me a few steps toward him so he didn’t have to keep bellowing. “How about a late dinner? As long as you don’t mind hanging out with my family.”
I gazed off in the opposite direction.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I heard Captain Underpants say.
The thing about my brother was that he had only two speeds. He was either completely on, or he was asleep. And he couldn’t stand to be alone. Not even for a minute. He collected people, and once he had them, he never let them go.
All by way of saying that I knew there was no way in hell I could get away with skipping dinner with my family and the guy who’d last seen my underpants, so I didn’t even try.
“Ma’am?” the waiter said.
I glanced up from my menu. “The ChocoVine looks good.”
“The taste of Dutch chocolate and fine red wine,” Tag read. He shook his head. “It’s like Yoo-hoo with fourteen percent alcohol, Dee.”
I shrugged. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
“So,” my father said once everyone else had ordered a chocolate-free drink, “tell us about yourself, Steve. Always a big treat to meet one of Tag’s old friends.”
“Actually, I think I’ve met some of you before,” my brother’s old friend said.
I looked around for the nearest exit. I didn’t think he’d actually tell our story, but you never really knew what people might do for a laugh.
Steve smiled. “We’d stopped at your house on the way to a party on the Cape one weekend freshman year
. Remember, Tag?”
“Hey, that’s right.” Tag laughed like they were still back in college. “I think I remember something like eight of us piled into somebody’s beat-up Ford Falcon?”
The waiter put a glass of wine on the table in front of my mother. She thanked him, then took a moment to center the glass on the cocktail napkin. “As I remember, you dropped off a duffel bag filled with laundry and expected to pick it up fully folded on your way back.”
Tag laughed and picked up his glass. “What can I say? I was out of clean clothes.”
“Spoiled,” I said.
“I know you are, but what am I?” my famous brother said.
“Now, now, children,” my mother said.
“All I remember,” Steve said, “is that you told us all to keep our hands off your three gorgeous sisters.”
“Ha,” Tag said. “Those days are gone. Now this one pays me to try to fix her up.”
“Shut up,” I said.
Tag grinned. “No, you shut up.”
My father leaned across the table toward Steve. “It’s not that she can’t attract them. It’s just that she has a hard time closing the deal.”
“Dad!”
My mother put her hand on my father’s forearm. “That’s enough, honey.” She lifted her wineglass. “Now who wants to go first? Deirdre?”
The sooner we got this part over with, the sooner I could chug my ChocoVine. I lifted my glass. “You can take Salem out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of Salem.”
My brother shook his head. “Nice. Nothing like starting off a meal with an old cigarette commercial.”
My mother leaned into my father. “It’s not the men in my life, it’s the life in my men.”
My father kissed her on top of her head. “Mae West. Who I believe also said, ‘I’d rather be looked over than overlooked.’”
“Which might actually be true when you’re Mae West,” I said. “Can we drink now?”
We all clinked our glasses over the center of the round, white-tablecloth-covered table.
Steve took a sip and put his wineglass down. “Great ritual. Growing up, my family just waited for the meal and said ‘rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub.’”
