Sep 5, 2015

This is heaven --- "We need a room"

Just a few paragraphs; (John and Taylor are heading for the Atlantic Sands Hotel). For more context, refer to the previous post


We direct our steps in the direction of the Atlantic Sands Hotel, which, as you know, is not far.

To be more precise, I trot in the direction of said hotel while Taylor stays abreast. We’re quiet now. That’s fairly typical with a new trick, you’re either quiet or you talk a lot on the way to the venue. It happened barely a week ago under very different circumstances on the way to Godehart’s place, remember, where it ended in an in-flagrante masterclass of Wagnerian proportions. Let’s see what we’ll be getting this time.



(The title is misleading, this is one of the famous "room" scenes from the Pink Panther movies)


The walk takes us along North Surf Avenue, the dunes to left, occasional multistory condos to the right, all stylized as beach holiday homes gaping at the sea. They would be pretty, the condos, if they weren’t too large, comely porches transposed into five story balconies---the effect doesn’t quite work for me. The condos are prettier than the Sands Hotel, though, which had been cheaply inserted into its prime location forty years ago. A giant inverted sign on the roof spells its name backwards. I point at the sign (just to make sure). Taylor nods. We enter through a back door and arrive in the lobby from the wrong side, none of the reception people has seen us coming.

The way we look, sweaty, exhausted by the heat, shabbily clad (me), or untidily (clad) (Taylor), booth of us in mere sneakers, shorts, and T-shirt, we may not even own a motorized conveyance, they could easily turn us away. Too late. An assistant manager has made eye contact (‘What are you doing here?’).

“We need a room,” I answer. She’s more tactful that Luke, at least, in that she isn’t lowering her gaze as we speak; instead, she casts it at the main entrance where she keeps it there for two seconds (‘Has she decided to ignore us?’), but then returns it in my direction (‘Has she changed her mind?’). Squeaky footfalls break the silence, somebody has a hand on my shoulder, in passing, and---you guessed right---it’s Alex, in full alpha-mode, beaming his post-felo-de-se grin at all of us. “I have an urgent appointment with the Professor Bienpensant,” he says, “replacing Mr. John Fletcher of Wichita Falls, Texas.” The receptionist couldn’t care less, of course---a place like this accommodates thousands of sex acts per day during peak season---but Alex is simply too beautiful not to evoke second guesses or wistful smiles. The assistant manager keeps her libido in check, though, and asks: “You know the room number?” And yes, Alex knows the room number and disappears squeakily into the direction of the stair well, ignoring the convenient elevator nearby, for emphasis.

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