Don't Rock the Boat

by Cathie Wayland

  Taxis flew in and out of traffic, sidling up to the curb, trolling for customers, snagging fares and then vanishing into the night. Determined to appropriate the very next cab that came within our reach, we dashed for a sleek, purple vehicle that sported a flashing neon message board proclaiming, “Follow Me to Paradise.” Flinging open the back door, Mike slid onto the slick vinyl backseat, carry-on in tow, while I struggled to hoist both hers and my own enormous suitcases into the gaping trunk the driver had popped open for me—without leaving the driver’s seat, bless his heart. Once settled into the slippery backseat, we had our first good look at Hakesh, our driver.

  We knew his name was Hakesh because his license was plastered on the back of the driver’s seat. The swarthy, seedy, turbaned man emanated some unrecognizable yet haunting aroma, a startling mixture of spices and stale tobacco. Hakesh placed his elbow on the back of the seat, twisted around to fix his dark, bulging eyes upon us. After a moment of silent observation, he lifted one shoulder in apparent resignation tinged with despondency. He released a pathetic sigh. “Where you go, lady friends? You go Miami Hilton? Hmmm? Maybe you go Adam’s Mark? Nice place, so nice place. They like nice lady friends there. Where you go?”

  Mike dug into her enormous handbag like a ferret. “I should’ve had this out and ready,” she spoke into her purse. With a squeak of success, she delivered an Internet printout of our cruise itinerary. “I did tons of research, and this package deal I booked for us included arrival night at the Flamingo Hotel.”

  Mike seemed self-assured, but her troubled face and telltale eye twitch, coupled with the classic neck twist, followed by the standard shoulder shrug belied her confidence.

  “The Flamingo?” I repeated, a little amused, envisioning a lurid pink stucco building complete with blazing floodlights and an Astroturf lawn.

  “Yes, the Flamingo Hotel. It’s a small hotel, but everything in Miami is so expensive, and, well, my travel agent said we’re just staying there for the night…so, why spend a fortune?” Mike’s shoulders rose and fell.

  “Omigawd,” I whined. “We’re starting our dream vacation in a seedy dive.”

  “Say, thanks so much for your trust and appreciation. You’re so welcome. I mean, I did the research, made all the arrangements, booked the rooms, and all you can do is complain.” Her left eye twitched again. She craned her neck left, right, left again until she felt her neck pop and snap.

  Once I saw the elegant Floridian-style hotel, I’d offer my most profound apologies for doubting her in the first place. She was eccentric but not stupid, nor was she any fonder of bedbugs than I. We’d be all right. I made a stab at actually leaving the airport.

  “Hakesh,” I said. “My friend and I are staying at the Fla-min-go. Do you understand? We’re not too sure how far it is from here, but according to our travel agent it’s just outside the city limits.”

  Hakesh stared at us through his rearview mirror, eyebrows in a knot. Rubbing a grungy forefinger across his furrowed brow, he tried again to get some additional information from the odd twosome. I suppose even by Miami standards, we left the ordinary behind.

  At that very moment, Mike’s face took on a puzzled, then startled, then frantic demeanor. As if in slow motion, she reached down to the floor of the cab, grabbed the carry-on bag, and stared at it in disbelief. As she hauled the bag up and dropped it onto her lap, I noticed the bag sported an enormous letter “L” emblazoned on the side panel. Mike looked at me, then back at the bag. After what seemed an interminable delay, she screeched, “Loretta!”

  “Mike, what’s the matter?” I asked, alarmed. “And who the hell is Loretta?”

  “On the plane, the plane…the woman on the plane…obnoxious and rude and…oh, no…she must’ve taken my bag and left hers by mistake. It was the only one left in the overhead storage compartment, and it’s the same color, and I was the last one to leave the plane, so I just assumed…” Mike buttoned her eyes and slid lower in the seat.

  “Ah-ha,” I exclaimed. “I knew you were the last to leave the plane but you…” I stopped in mid-sentence; this was not the time to make a point about who was right and who was pokey.

  “Hokay, lady friends,” interjected our peculiar little driver. “Hakesh look on map of this big city, and we go find Framingus.” With that announcement, the fellow started the meter and pulled away from the curb with squealing tires.

  Both flustered and confused about the mysterious carry-on bag that belonged to Loretta the Great, and wondering what had become of Mike’s bag, we discussed how we’d solve conundrum, using all of our energy and attention.

  “Oh, dear God,” Mike moaned, “I’m toast.”

  FOUR

  After forty-five minutes of traffic, bright lights, and outrageous fleeting glimpses of Miami nightlife, the purple taxi careened on two wheels into the freshly blacktopped parking lot of a bright pink pyramid-shaped monstrosity, complete with flashing neon signs that proudly admitted to being the Flamingo Hotel. Mike and I stared at the outrageous building, ostentatious even by Miami standards. In a city that delighted—no, reveled—in extremes, this hotel set a standard in flamboyant fashion and design. Bright green, rolling olives rattled around inside a giant sparkling martini glass on the marquee, which proclaimed that Sylvia Saturn was appearing nightly in the Chi-Chi Room.

  Brilliant light from twenty radiant chandeliers shimmered through the hotel’s walls of glass that reflected car headlights, traffic signs, and police patrol cars. A garish fountain, surrounded by lighted palm trees, and generously sprinkled with—you guessed it—flamingos, vomited iridescent rainbow-colored streams. Just inside, the hotel swarmed with activity. People, coming and going at an alarming rate, shuffled across the worn carpeting. Miami, and absolutely everyone had somewhere to go, somewhere to be, something to see, somewhat confused.

  At the eye-straining pink and green concierge stand, a peculiar little fellow in a bright blue uniform peered at us as we screeched onto the scene. Hakesh, transfixed by the vision, almost neglected to pop open the trunk for me as I single-handedly wrestled with the enormous luggage, mumbling about being allowed to struggle with our own bags and thoughtless taxi drivers who expected tips for doing nothing to deserve them. Hakesh’s dark eyes flitted all around. He pursed his swarthy lips, and exhaled long and loud. Anticipating the exorbitant fare?

  “Ohhhhh,” Mike’s mouth resembled a doughnut, as she emerged from the taxi as though it were a stretch limousine at a gala premiere. She’d either forgotten or dismissed the trauma of the mysterious carry-on bag. Determined to prove that her hotel selection was not only wise, but also brilliant, she bounced on her pink Crocs, then raised her eyes up, up, taking in this monstrosity posing as a hotel. “Wow. It’s just…fantastic. I mean, I really didn’t know too much about it, just what I gathered from the Internet. I had no idea…I mean, the Net didn’t do it justice…this is…unbelievable.”

  Let’s just say I didn’t share her initial optimistic impression. So much noise blaring from the lobby, imitating, or trying to, 50’s type rock n’ roll. Too loud. Too bright. Too gaudy. Too many people. Strange to think this was among the smaller of the options Miami had to offer. Yet, I had to give it to Mike for her game attempt at keeping it modest by comparison to the other, more expensive hotels.

  The pungent aroma of cigar smoke wafted on the warm evening breeze. Fumbling with my luggage and the travel handbag strung over my shoulder, rhythmically thumping against my chest with every movement, I struggled to locate money to pay this poor excuse for a taxi driver. Meanwhile, Mike wandered about the terrazzo-tiled entranceway, eyes wide as she took in the tiny little pink flamingos, a bit worse for wear, tucked in corners or guarding potted palms.

  Haggling with Hakesh over the exorbitant charge for the trip from the airport, I counted out the fare to the exact penny, determined he would purchase no weird-smelling snacks on my tip tonight. As the mumbling driver scuttled away in search of his next victim, I spotted Mike, smiling and loving every
second of the dazzling sights and sounds and smells.

  Time to retrieve my over-stimulated friend before she got dizzy and broke something. Gazing all around for someone, anyone—a doorman or a valet or a street weenie vendor—to help me subdue my sensory-stimulated little buddy. Her left eye twitched, signaling her extreme fatigue. I was on my own. Where was a security guard when you needed one, for crying out loud?

  Snapping out of her euphoria, Mike realized we were really, truly together in Miami, on the verge of registering at an amazing hotel. Now that we were almost official enrollees on the guest log, with all the bells and whistles and privileges and honors sure to come our way as guests, it was time to be practical.

  I waved at Mike. “Mike…Michaela…come here…now.”

  “Oh Bernie,” she grinned, “it’s like nothing I could’ve imagined.”

  “You got that one right.”

  “Don’t you love it? It’s so alive…and different from anything in South Carolina…except, maybe…Myrtle Beach…” Her eyes danced. “Don’t you love it?”

  I flung her my classic you must be hallucinating grin as I barged up to the registration desk, pulling her along with me. Now it was Mike’s turn to be in charge. Miss Bernie could just stand back and let her demonstrate her competency, her efficiency, her preparedness, her lost wallet…her lost wallet? Oh, Lord. Her lost wallet.

  “Bernie. My wallet. I can’t find it. It’s gone.” Frantic, Mike pawed through the enormous gunnysack of a purse, dumping the entire contents on the pink marble registration counter. Breath mints. Loose change. A checkbook. “No…no… who’s going to take a check without a driver’s license and a credit card?” She looked up, stricken. “Oh no. My credit cards are in my wallet. I’ll have to cancel them. But then what will I use? Can I get another one in time?” She pushed articles aside like a mad woman. A brush. Her e-ticket from that god-awful plane. “No. This can’t be happening.” Again the wild eyes found mine. “Bernie. Have you seen my wallet?”

  “No. I paid the driver, remember? I don’t think you’ve had your wallet out of your purse since we met at the airport. Remember, Mike? You insisted on stopping and playing that silly quarters game that pushes and pulls the huge piles of quarters and never, ever lets any fall to the tray to make you a winner. Remember? You emptied a little coin purse onto the top of the machine. And you didn’t even win.”

  Tears were brimming. “So, now what am I supposed to do? Rush back there? It’s gone by now, of course. I mean, nobody is going to leave my wallet just lying there. It’s already been stolen. I’m sure of it. I can feel it. I can feel my identity leaching away from me as we speak.” She moaned. “And before you know it, someone will be running up enormous debts on my credit card, and using my social security number to take out a loan for a fishing boat in New Orleans or something.” Mike paused for breath, while I just stood by her and smiled in my most encouraging yet sympathetic manner.

  Her face a dull pink, Mike swept the eclectic assortment back into her purse, then turned to face the perky, pony-tailed reservations desk hostess, who’d been enthralled by the dilemma. Mike drew in a long breath, squared her shoulders and leaned forward. Squinting to peer at the nametag, she cleared her throat twice then spoke. “Giselle?”

  I blinked. Giselle? Giselle! Well, it was Miami, after all.

  In her best former schoolteacher manner and tone of voice, Mike straightened her back, thrust out her chin, twisted her neck until it popped, and launched into a full explanation of our predicament.

  “Giselle…you see, it’s like this. My friend Bernie and I just arrived here in Miami from Missouri and South Carolina.”

  Giselle, having regained her poise and decorum, smiled pleasantly, if a bit condescendingly, at the hapless Mike and said, “Yes?” feigning interest.

  “Well, our flights were only ten minutes apart. We came separately, of course, but we’re here together. We’re old, old friends and are having a little vacation away from the men-folk. Then Hakesh, the cab driver-with-the turban, driving a cab that advertises paradise and is a hideous purple, dropped us off here just as all those fountains outside were shooting streams of water, and the flamingo-shaped lights came on, while Bernie dragged our suitcases out of the trunk.” Mike managed to draw a shaky breath. “And now…I don’t know if I dropped my wallet in the cab or left it by the quarters game that nobody ever wins.” Mike’s voice wavered, resulting in her clamping her lips shut while the tears spilled over.

  “Oh, dear,” Giselle murmured, plastic smile beginning to wilt. “That’s too bad.”

  Mike’s head bobbed. “Yeah.”

  “So…” Giselle appeared to be searching for a way to end this conversation. “So, you’ve lost your wallet. Gosh, that’s too bad,” she repeated, smile shriveling to a decided pout.

  “Yeah.”

  “Gosh, I’m so sorry.”

  Exasperated, Mike rolled her eyes, exhaled, and summoned up what was left of her waning patience. Forcing a tremulous smile, Mike stared at the hapless Giselle and enunciated in her best former schoolteacher voice, “Well, if you can’t help me, is there anyone who knows what’s going on around here? Is there anyone, anyone at all, who can help me?” Years of practice had taught her how to get the attention of hormonal teenagers, exploding with laughter over random noisy body reverberations. A mere, third-rate hotel hostess was no match for her when she was intent on making a point, however elusive that point might be.

  Before this comedy routine could progress further, a burly security guard waddled with importance toward the guest services counter. “’Scuse me, Madam,” the beefy, uniformed keeper of the peace bellowed. “There some problem here? Hmmmm? Need some assistance, Ma’am?” he continued, a bit too self-important for my taste.

  “I’ve lost my wallet,” Mike explained with a weakening voice, too distraught and too fatigued to even attempt telling the entire story again to another disinterested, brain-free hotel employee.

  “Did ya look everywhere for it?” the guard inquired.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did ya look for it?”

  “No,” Mike replied with a seed of sarcasm. “Silly me. I didn’t look for it at all.” The sarcasm sprouted. “I simply thought I would complain about it first, become annoyed, and then I would look for it.” Her brown eyes bored into the ill-starred man.

  Confused by my pal’s caustic reply, the beefy guard’s watery-eyed glance slid up to me, then down to Mike, and then back up to me. He seemed more than a bit confused with the whole situation, and made a silent appeal to Giselle, who shrugged as if to say, not my problem, buddy.

  “Well,” he drawled, licking his lips. “I’ll just bet it’s in the last place you left it.”

  On that note, I grabbed Mike by the elbow and dragged her away from the desk. Suspecting Mike was within seconds of tearing the guard apart, limb from limb, I wanted to avoid this catastrophe. I ushered my frazzled little buddy to an over-stuffed magenta-colored velour couch and commanded, “Sit.”

  Michaela sat, her voluminous purse clutched to her bosom.

  “Stay.” I ordered, as I took four long strides back into the fray.

  Muttering under her breath, Mike adjusted “the girls”, pulled on her elastic waistband, tugged at her shirt, tossed her head, and muttered loud enough for me to hear, “If you tell me to roll over, you’re dead.”

  FIVE

  Poor Mike. She so desperately wanted this trip to be perfect, and already we’d had several catastrophes. The kind of events you say you’ll laugh about some day, but that’s really not true. We’ve both experienced disasters in the past that are as painful to remember today as they were to endure.

  To this day, I don’t think I’ll ever get over standing before an auditorium packed with students and teachers, and realizing the slacks I wore sprouted knee-high nylons that somehow had adhered themselves to the lining by static cling from tumbling about in the dryer. I’d felt them slipping, inch by inch, down my leg as I
shot repeated self-conscious glances at the hem of my pants, certain they’d slide out of the pants altogether at any moment. I looked down so many times during my speech that eventually everyone in the audience had fixed their gazes on the hem of my slacks, waiting for something odd and/or fascinating to occur. Sure enough, those sneaky little nylons peeked out and puddled at my feet just as I finished my wonderful, inspirational talk. However, I doubt anyone in the auditorium heard anything I’d had to say since the show I’d given them, red-faced and mortified, had been far more entertaining than any old principal lecture.

  Snapping out of my reverie, I looked over at my bewildered friend. Poor Mike sat on the enormous sofa, mouth closed, hands clenched around her purse, but with one tiny foot making time to the music of the raunchy-sounding lounge singer. A good sign. I returned to the registration desk and came face-to-face with the twelve-year-old manager. Okay, he looked twelve. All I can say is that he hadn’t been shaving more than a year…if that.

  Shoulders squared for another confrontation, I faced the baby-faced person, donned my best principal-steel-eyed-stare-mask, and prepared to launch into yet another explanation for why we’d made a scene in their lobby. Before I’d a chance to open my mouth, however, Mike leaped to her feet. From the corner of my eye, I saw her make a beeline toward the elevator and heard her shrill “Loretta!” trail after her like the tail of a kite.

  I gaped as Mike traveled at a speed she’d not utilized for at least the past thirty years. Galloping toward an obese woman, who struggled to shove her enormous torso into an already overcrowded hotel elevator, Mike seemed hell-bent about something. Then my eyes slid to the bag slung loosely over the gal’s plump arm. I would’ve sworn it was Mike’s.

  The woman—Loretta, was it? Lost her opportunity to embark when Mike yelled out her name. The woman leaned forward to look; her heavy body followed her momentum, causing her to step outside the elevator door, thereby losing her chance to gain the car.