Because I’m staying in this hotel for so long, I asked the management if they would upgrade me to a suite. My argument was, “I’m spending around 6k to be here this month, the least you can do is give me a suite.” I wasn’t really spending anything, the medical expenses were covered but they didn’t need to know that. You take the opportunities you got when you got em. I said something about being a baseball player, then something about writing books in hopes a little semi star power name dropping flourish would grease the wheels. Then I garnished it all with a comment about how the place is infested with noisy family reunions every other day and how these families all seem to have screaming contests and let their kids treat the joint like a jungle gym. For dessert I mentioned that the 5:30-7:30pm “All you can drink for free happy hour” the hotel hosts, while a tremendous use of Alabama’s stereotype, is not conducive to solace since there is only so many drunken shouts of “ROLL TIDE” or “WAR EAGLE” a man can handle. They accommodated me, and moved me to a nice corner pad with extra room, a bigger desk, two sinks and extra packets of freeze dried coffee.
Last night, my plans to write in peace were interrupted by a party in the suite directly above mine. I could hear their hip-hop beats blaring through the floor. Several of the guests splashed over the balcony above my own, screaming at their peeps in the parking lot below. Then there was what sounded like a wrestling match, furniture moving contest, and whale feeding. Indeed, the later of my suspected party games was closer to the truth because as I exited my room en route to the front desk to voice a complaint, I noticed some plus, plus sized ladies lounging outside the door of party room (the inside of the hotel is hollow and you can see all the rooms from any room…)
At the front desk I explained my dilemma. They said they’d send security up. I expressed I did not want to be mentioned as the compliant filer, because sometimes that cry baby “I can’t sleep with that racket” buzz killing warrants repercussions upon he who complained. The security team told me they’d keep it anonymous. Satisfied with this, I waited till they left to go to the party room, then, I to made to go back to my room safely unassociated from the law. However, when I got on the elevator, I joined 4 members of the party on their way back up from the parking lot.
They all had styrofoam cups in hand full of a pink liquid. The elevator did not smell fruity, however, but decidedly like the sterile scent of high proof alcohol. When the doors opened for me to walk in, I caught this scent, along with the phrase, “Damn, girl, you a stanky-ass *****.” This line was delivered by a gentleman wearing a white wife beater and a pair of baggy cargo pants sagged to the point of public indecency.
None of the women in the elevator seemed offended by this statement. In fact, the woman it was aimed at wasn’t offended. She was a massive thing, with a rear squeezed perversely into jeans never meant to hold such girth. Her bust line was equally industrial sized. In fact, her breasts looked like multi-gallon bags of chocolate milk strangled by the wire of her bra till her flesh buldged against gravity, shooting out any uncovered surface. She was drunk, as were all of the occupants aside from myself, and wobbled back and forth as she slowly mustered the retort of, “Shut up.”
“What’s all that?” Said the gentlemen, pointing to a tattoo of a strawberry that had ben inscribed on the canvas of her left breast.
“Oh that?” She smiled deviously, pulling her chin back into her neckline while rubbing the forbidden fruit. “That’s my Chocolate Strawberry, baby.”
“Oh, aight girl, I see you working.” His shared humor subsided when he noticed that next to the strawberry there was another bulge, neither nipple or fruit. “What the hell is that?”
A paw struck the lump upon the two flesh mountains. “Oh this?” She said, feeling it. “That’s where I keep my cigarlos” She reached into the nearly foot long cut of cleavage and produced a pack of small cigars and showed them off proudly.
“God damn, girl, you can’t place them no where else?” Said the gentlemen.
“Where else you spect I should—” The conversation was divided by a long, harsh, tearing fart. “—put them? I ain’t got no pockets.”
There was a pause as the drunks teetered back and forth, their juicy, flammable drinks sloshing in their cups. Brain impulses did their best to navigate toxic blood streams. Then, “Girl,” the gentlemen again, “Did you just s*** yo pants?”
A dead pan expression that might have been surprise or maybe embarrassment if she were not so drunk, then the reply of, “Oh, you heard that?”
The group suddenly seemed aware I was there. I guess it was because the door opened right at about the time this took place. I was on the floor beneath their destination. They all looked at me and I at them.
“I am so sorry, sir, excuse me.” Said the girl.
“Yeah excuse her, she nasty.” Said the gentleman.
“It’s OK,” I offered, backing out of the doors. “It happens to all of us, right? You have a good night.”
“You to, sir.”