by P. J. Day
“Is your friend slightly hefty? With a five o’clock shadow and reddish-blond hair?” the man asked, in his Newport British accent.
“Yes, that’s him, did he just leave? Did you see where he went?”
“Why yes. I saw him walk out of his room 10 minutes ago. I was getting some ice. I say, he looked rather inebriated. Does he have a drinking problem?”
“No, not really.” I thought long and hard if Ted was indeed an alcoholic. Well, yeah, he kind of is.
“Thank you for the information,” I said with slight frustration in my voice.
“Of course. I hope you find him. This place is rather large. If he has his cell, you might try calling him.”
As the man re-entered his room, I quickly turned around and ran back to my room to call Ted, hoping he had his cell phone on him.
I hurriedly picked up my phone to call him. However, in an instant, I realized my phone wasn’t set up for international usage. I immediately put it down and picked up the room phone. I dialed his number while holding my cell phone in my other hand, so I could see Ted’s number since I didn’t know it by memory.
Cell phones and their ability to hold contacts’ phone numbers in their internal memory really adds to the continual decay of certain segments of our brains. We are no longer held to task in memorizing the phone numbers of our most important relationships. If I was stranded out in the middle of nowhere and my cell phone was lost, I wouldn’t know who to call. I would probably pound my head into the nearest public telephone booth until my inner Rain Man was awakened, magically telling me the phone number of anyone who could rescue me from my predicament.
I used to have around 10 or so phone numbers memorized at any given time before I got my first cell phone. Now, I think I have more email addresses memorized than phone numbers. I guess I could update my Facebook status to “stranded,” and hopefully someone would catch on to my whereabouts if I were ever to lose my cell phone.
I dialed his number and within two rings, he answered the phone.
“Ted! Where the fuck are you?!” I yelled indignantly into the phone.
“I went downstairs to get an energy drink.”
“Are you drunk? Please tell me that you’re not drunk. Are you awake?” I was needlessly hyperventilating at this point.
“No... uhh... I took two Lunesta. This isn’t my normal sleeping schedule. I couldn’t sleep. I don’t have a headache, I don’t feel like vomiting, but for some reason, this medication has made me feel like shit.”
“Ted, listen. We have to head on over to the internet cafe before we head to dinner. Are you at least ready?”
“Internet cafe? What is this, 1998?”
“The hotel’s internet is down; we have to go to an internet cafe like... now.”
“Okay... okay... I still am wearing the same slacks from the plane ride. I have a shirt that doesn’t seem too wrinkled in the closet. I can put that on and a sports jacket and I’m good to go.”
“Fine, meet me in the lobby in 15 minutes. Don’t be late. We don’t have much time. Please don’t wander off.”
I hung up the phone and looked back at the alarm clock. It said 6:05. I carefully opened the curtains. There was a beautiful reddish dusky sunset overlooking the skyline, and I knew as soon as I stepped out of the hotel, there was going to be a slight sting. I lathered on my illegal Mexoryl-based sunscreen.
Mexoryl is illegal in the States, probably due to some silly corporate, lobbied reason, and supposedly is six times more protective than your typical SPF 70 sunscreen. In Europe, it’s all the rage and if it does a wonderful job protecting a population of pasty Brits, it’s probably good enough to protect a see-through vampire.
I put on my Armani jacket and most formal looking Diesel jeans, which I like to wear whenever I go out at night—nothing too fancy—saving my best bespoke suit for tomorrow’s important meeting.
I couldn’t forget my Ray Ban aviators. Every vampire with a hint of fashion sense needs a pair of these when feeling adventurous enough to tackle a dusky sunset head on.
Couldn’t forget my $200 pair of Bruno Maglis slip-ons, if they were good enough for O.J.—okay, O.J. was most likely a murderous jerk of hall-of-fame proportions, but he had great fashion sense when it came to shoes. I love me some Brunos!
I headed to the center of the hotel lobby. There was a long line at the check-in desk. This is when many Chinese nationals and overseas tourists start trickling in from their long flights and drives. It was 6:20 and still no sign of Ted. As I took out my cell phone, I saw Ted pushing his way gently through a small crowd in front of the elevator. His shirt was slightly untucked in his usual trademark fashion, jacket slightly wrinkled, and his hair in its usual bedhead shape.
“You look fabulous,” I said in jest.
“Bitches love my look.”
“The ones you pay for or the ones you usually take for walks?”
“I just want to have a good time tonight. Let’s go meet these squares for dinner so I can spend some of the company moola on some drinks,” said Ted.
“We have ten minutes. Let’s head on over to the internet cafe, see if Rald has sent us an email.”
We hurriedly left the hotel, and headed toward the cafe. I felt a little sting from the sunset on my lips as soon as I walked out the door. The buildings and skyscrapers shielded me from what was left of the sunlight at this time of day. I didn’t feel the sun was strong enough to affect my eyes, so I didn’t bother wearing my sunglasses. I don’t experience many sunsets in nice cities, so I wanted to see what the experience was like without having the setting darkened unnecessarily by my fine plastic tints.
The streets were busy with traffic in front of the hotel. Maybachs mixed in with rickshaws specially built for tourists in typical Hong Kong fashion. Old China mixed in with the new. High-end boutique stores with the best and most expensive fashion from Europe in close proximity with small produce markets hanging deceased, limp chickens in front of their store windows.
The internet cafe was right next door to a two-story Chinese buffet. The neon lights in front reminded me of one of those old-school casinos you would find in downtown Las Vegas, but instead of a giant neon cowboy waving his hand at you, a giant, fat, 10-year-old Chinese boy eating what appeared to be ramen noodles out of a bowl, winked at the passersby while wearing a wife beater.
“Classy joint,” Ted mentioned sarcastically.
“You know you are itching to try this place.”
“Of course, I always wanted to try turtle with my lo mein noodles.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course I am. Turtles, dude... in America, they fight crime; in China, they fight the munchies,” said Ted, as he looked me in the eyes and licked his lips.
“You didn’t get enough sleep, did you?”
“No.”
I showed our coupons to the girl at the front desk of the internet cafe. She told us to input the code on the coupons into our consoles, which kept track of our usage. We had five hours, according to the concierge. I made sure to remind myself to keep the coupon just in case we experienced another outage while staying at the hotel. The place was packed with hotel guests; each one of them probably in the same situation we were in.
“You want to check your email or my email first?” I asked Ted.
“That is a dumb question.”
“Yeah, you’re right. What am I thinking?”
“Also, I need to clean out some stuff on there that I don’t want you to see,” said Ted.
I entered my username and password onto the company’s email website. Even in today’s world of connected portable devices, we were only allowed to access our email through a laptop or desktop PC. Our technology director doesn’t trust smartphones, as of yet. Even with the capability for remote data wipes, the time period between losing the phone and then reporting it is much too long and could compromise sensitive company information. I get it, but it is damn inconvenient, and with all our resources, a solution
is long overdue.
There was an email from Holly. The header read, “I hope your flight went well. Miss you!”
I would have loved to write her back. I’d send her something short with my personal email address a little later on tonight. Along with Holly’s email, there was an email from Janet, our H.R. director, asking me to keep an eye on Ted. I also noticed another email from Chuck, one of my sales reps, sending me a referral to visit his uncle, Dr. Goldman, a renowned dermatologist who specializes in treating patients with light sensitivities. I’ll reply kindly to Chuck, but must pass on the offer, for obvious reasons.
“Absolutely nothing from Rald,” I told Ted in frustration.
“This is fucked up! This isn’t professional, you know.” Ted furrowed his brow and clenched his teeth.
“Look, at this point, it’s just slight disrespect and nothing else. I am pretty sure our support will let us know what is going on. Let’s head on over to the restaurant. We’ll relax, have a few drinks, and talk business, okay?”
I grabbed the coupon that was on the desk and put it in my pocket. Ted and I walked out of the internet cafe and stood at the edge of the sidewalk. We looked down the street and began to wave for a cab.
A purple late model Nissan Maxima pulled to the side. We entered the backseat of the cab in a flash.
“The Lotus Blossom,” Ted told the cab driver.
“Lotus Blossom? Do you know the address?” asked the cab driver in a perplexed tone.
“He meant the Lotus Grotto,” I corrected Ted with confidence.
“The Lotus Grotto? Please! I need the address,” insisted the visibly annoyed cab driver.
“Ah, shit! Hold on.”
I reached into my wallet for the name of the restaurant. Out of pure laziness, I didn’t write the address down. I was overconfident, yet again, that technology was going to lead me in the right direction in times of crisis, and as it turned out, our fate tonight was in the hands of an old-school taxi driver, rather than Google Maps.
“The Lotus Den!” I loudly proclaimed, as I pulled the torn Google maps printout out of my wallet.
“Sir, I don’t know where that is. It’s probably close by, but I need an address.”
“Okay, hold on... the address is Number 3 Chatham Court,” I told the cab driver, after much blubbering stupidity.
The cab driver, without saying a word, merged into traffic, narrowly missing a produce truck.
“So, who are we meeting at this place? Do you have some names at least, or we going to guess the names of our colleagues as well?” asked Ted.
“Well, I’ve never really read any of the bios and names that were listed by Rald on the attachment. Everything was in such a rush.”
I had hastily placed a printout of the attachment in my jacket after I finished packing up, before heading to the airport. Now, I opened the crumbled piece of paper.
“Well, let’s see... they are both Americans. Alan Lee, 28-years-old, graduated from MIT. He has been with Schnell for three years. He helped with the Genetic Algorithms Initiative for Swarm Intelligence at Schnell, and mutations probability for ascomycete fungal resistance in basmati rice.”
Ted slightly projected his lower lip and nodded. He was impressed with Alan’s brief resume.
“Makes sense that Alan is on board. Tailoring software to help engineer better crops is our specialty in Asia,” I said.
Even though Ted was impressed with Alan’s accomplishments, I could see the presence of envy in his eyes with a hint of intimidation. He knows both of us are not well-versed technical wizards when it comes to our products and services, but we aren’t employed to converse with the technicians and engineers that are employed with our clients. Our purpose is to soothe and assist the owners of these companies, and lucky for Ted and me, Schnell has some of the best software engineers in the world. We are just there to make sure the relationship is profitable and smooth.
“Rebecca Huntsman, 38-years-old, University of Washington grad. She received a doctorate in genetic engineering, specializing in evolutionary computing algorithms.”
“I wonder if she is hot. Rarely do I encounter egg heads that are hot. I mean, she might be lab hot. You know how Danica Patrick is track hot. You just see a bunch of good old boys on the track and then you see a 6 or a 7, and then she automatically becomes a 10 because there are no women around. Yeah... just like that... except it’s in a lab setting.”
Ted rubbed the hair on his chin and gave me a look, knowing that something so inane and stupid came out of his mouth that it didn’t warrant a reaction.
“Really, Ted? These people are ten times more professional than you or me. Have some respect on this trip, okay? Hopefully, they will shed some light on the purpose of our stay. The more I read into this whole mess Rald got us into, the more I feel like we are just along for the ride.”
The cab slowed to a stop right in front of the Lotus Den. It had a nice contemporary, trendy look to it, and had some pretty decent reviews from what I remember when I researched it on the flight.
We paid the cab driver and walked into the restaurant. The place was packed and seemed to be a popular destination for developing some high-profile business relationships, judging by the suits scattered around the tables.
“Good evening, miss,” I told the hostess as we both walked into the restaurant.
The hostess was a pretty little thing. Around 22 years old with gorgeous, long, silky black hair that draped over her shoulders. Her smooth, milky-white complexion was the perfect contrast to the trendy, dimly lit Euro-Asian fusion decor.
“I have a reservation for four under Jack King. Are the rest of the guests already here?” I asked with a smile, hoping to get a smile back.
“Yes, sir. Your guests arrived five minutes before you did; right this way,” she said with a smile, but her eye contact was a mere half second. I was bummed.
We walked past the bar, which was lined with British businessman drinking fine scotch and smoking cigars. Cricket matches were playing on the flat screens.
“Nobody is going to beat India this year,” I overheard one of the businessmen complain boorishly.
“Unless some Paki’s blow up the Indian team bus,” said another.
Everyone at the bar laughed. Desensitized and drunk, the businessmen were oblivious that their insensitive, brash, and somewhat racist conversations were being heard by those dining around them.
An Indian man, distraught from what he overheard at the bar, stood up from his dinner table. His wife yanked at his shirt; he looked at her and nodded. The man sat down and continued with his dinner. Everyone continued to eat, drink, and converse.
We kept following our beautiful hostess to the other end of the restaurant. We were thankful that our seating arrangements were nowhere near the raucous group at the bar. The last thing I want to hear, while we unravel the mysteries of our cryptic trip, is some drunken asshole spout off how his sport was desecrated by a once-conquered people.
After being led through the scenic route of the fine establishment, we finally ended up at our table.
“Enjoy,” said the pretty hostess as she left Ted and me at the dinner table. Alan and Rebecca were sitting opposite each other, both against the wall, leaving the table’s outside seats empty for us.
Alan was a very young 28. He had spiky hair and looked like he was just a week removed from college. Anyone meeting Alan for the first time, without catching up on his bio beforehand, would never have guessed that he was responsible for creating the code that was the foundation of pretty much every fungal-resistant crop simulation used by the most prestigious bio-engineering firms in the world. Alan gets paid the big bucks, not because he created software that was beneficial to mankind’s quest to stop world hunger, but because Schnell made most of its money off the patents associated with the software Alan created.
Schnell makes more money off of the royalties on its patents than the work they outsource to its clients, which leads me to believe that this l
ittle excursion is a little bit more complicated than what Ted and I were led to believe.
Alan and Rebecca stood up from their seats and both gave us warm smiles. “Hello, glad you joined us; I am Alan.” He gave us both a handshake as he leaned over the table. The handshake was not very firm. His hands were very soft, eerily feminine.
“This is Rebecca Huntsman. She is our East Coast lead on software simulation applications.”
Rebecca took a few steps away from the table to greet us. She was wearing her best business suit. Her frizzled black hair in a bun, wearing designer Burberry frames, she was an imposing, yet very attractive woman. Filled to the brim with confidence, Rebecca shook both our hands with the firmness that Alan’s lacked.
I looked over at Ted and he mouthed, “lab hot” to me with a sinister grin. I immediately looked over at Rebecca to make sure she didn’t notice Ted’s playful attempts at affirmation. The last thing I would want is to make her feel uncomfortable since she was the only female in our group.
“So, how long have you guys been waiting here?” I asked, casually trying to break the ice.
“Five... ten minutes,” Rebecca said, looking at Alan for a nod of agreement.
“Oh, good, doesn’t sound like a long time, I’m glad. Where are you guys staying?” I asked, as I simultaneously waved at the waiter.
“At the Intercontinental... you guys?” asked Alan.
“The Peninsula, which I must say is pretty nice.”
“Yeah, but it looks like they wasted their Wi-Fi budget on the handmade embroidery lining the small tables that are on the floor halls,” glibly remarked Ted.
“What Ted is trying to say is that our internet has been down since we arrived, but they were nice enough to give us vouchers to an internet cafe a block away,” I said to Alan and Rebecca, hoping to deter the possibility of looking like ungrateful employees.
“You can’t use the internet on your phones?” asked Rebecca.
“Ted and I really haven’t had time to figure out how we can get a data plan out here. In due time.”
Ted began to open the back of his phone and started playing with the SIM card on his phone. The waiter arrived at our table and was about to ask us what we wanted to drink. Ted looked straight at Alan and Rebecca.
