“Welcome to the Marriot!”
I tighten my wool coat around me and face the concierge, a petite, slightly plump woman whose curly black hair drapes down her back like a cape.
Screw this.
I grumble and kick snow and ice off my boots. I still track them into the lobby, but who gives a damn? “Room for one,” I say when I reach the tall, clear desk.
Esmerelda, the concierge, takes one look at me and says, “Oh, dear. It looks like you’ve had a rough day.”
Naw, lady. I didn’t wait eight hours in the Virginia airport for them to say a snowstorm canceled my flight to the Big Apple. I meant to come here. Now I know why my mother dubs me the “Master of Sarcasm.” I now have to call her and say I won’t make it for my interview with the New York Times tomorrow unless some miracle happens.
Esmerelda types into her computer. “We’ll get you a room right away.”
“Thank—” I start, but she adds:
“Ah, here’s one.”
Wow, that was quick.
Esmerelda hands me a room key and smiles gently. “Did you bring a pet?”
A—? What is she talking about? Who brings a damn pet on enormous trips like this—my key out of retail into a career?
I shake my head. “No, the dog stays home with the kid and girlfriend.” Annalise was one year old and an accident out of college. I forgot condoms, and Murielle forgot that she didn’t take her pill that day.
“Would you like a pet?” Esmerelda includes.
I nearly laugh. Hilarious, lady. Talk about poor customer service. How has this place not been shut down yet?
I yawn, and the word slips accidentally and sarcastically: “Sure.”
“Perfect! Head up to your room, and I’ll be there soon.”
I pay and check the lobby’s grand clock outside the dining room. 11:00 p.m. What a day. I already forgot what I said downstairs.
I find the elevator and press the button for Level 2. The doors close, and I shut my eyes to help my claustrophobia. A bad elevator experience in the Disney College Program scarred me, and I still feel its effects. I never want to “almost” get trapped in an elevator again.
Seeing that I’m the only one in the carpeted hallway after disembarking the elevator, I slip off my shoes and socks and walk barefoot down to my room, decorated by a shiny, white door with a black keypad. Something crosses my mind when I unlock it, and I gasp.
Wait a minute! Did I say yes to a so-called pet from Esmerelda? I did, didn’t I? Shit. How did I let Marriot drag me into this?
That settles it! The first thing I’ll do when I get inside is call the front desk and tell them no, I’m not interested in their shenanigans. That’s not a cool trick to play on a twenty-four-year-old man trying to get an editing job and a book published.
I toss my coat onto one of the double beds and am just preparing to pick up the phone on the dresser between them when someone knocks on my door.
Damn! It’s too late.
“Ugh,” I groan, approaching the door. I peek through the peephole and see Esmerelda on the other side carrying something. It looks like… No, it can’t be.
I open the door.
“This is Oscar,” Esmerelda says, holding out the fish tank with a goldfish inside.
He’s a small, reddish-orange fish with big black eyes and a small mouth that constantly says, “Glub, glub.”
Kill me now.
“That’s a fish,” I say, meeting Esmerelda’s eyes.
She giggles, “Yes,” and enters my room, looking around. “Where would you like him?”
“Um…” I somehow cannot find my words.
“He likes the dresser between the beds,” Esmerelda explains, “but if that’s too intimate—”
“No, the dresser is fine.” I’ll be out of here in eight hours, so as long as I stay clear of the fish, I’ll be fine.
“Very well, then.” Esmerelda passes me and sets Oscar down on the dresser. She sticks a sticky note on it and points at it. “The front desk and room service numbers are on that note, in case you need anything. We just fed Oscar, so he should be fine overnight.”
“Um… thank you?” Don’t look at the fish, Bailey.
“You’re welcome.” Esmerelda puts her hands together. “We hope you enjoy your stay.”
I’m not sure about that. How can I sleep with a damn fish beside me? Don’t I have other things to worry about—like how I’ve ruined my chance to work with the New York Times?
Esmerelda leaves, and I stare at Oscar, who swims in circles and says, “Glub, glub.” He nibbles the kelp plants in his tank and focuses on me.
God, man. Can this night get any worse?
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