The secretary's voice jolts me awake. "You must really hate your job."
Yeah. Pretty much. And the middling management doesn't help, either.
Still in a drunken brain fog, I push myself off the bed and take groggy steps towards the toilet. "Thank God you called, Linda. I just hocked up a lung. There's no way I can make it into work, today. Shit!" Just tried cleaving my knee on the coffee table, knocking over some empty beer cans and an apple on a decorative plate. Hope she didn't hear.
"What was that?" The tone is accusatory. The chewing gum mashing intensifies.
"That? That was my cough medicine." Rubbing my knee, I limp to the bathroom. "Look, I know I forgot to call in, but I'm really sick this time." Some feeble coughs to play along. "You want me coming in and infecting everybody?"
The gummification ceases. "Doug. . . I know you're. . . unusual--"
"Thanks."
"You're welcome. But could you at least call in a half-hour before your shift starts, next time? You're getting a written warning. Next one goes to Larry at HR."
Larry means fired. Crushing. Any thoughts of retiring before I turn about one hundred and twenty-six just blew up in a shitmist of bad financial decisions.
A stern knock on my hotel door. What the hell? Did they get my GPS off this phone call? Images of my boss standing outside my hotel door, rubbing his paunch and bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager to deliver the F Bomb as soon as it opens at least a half-inch.
More bad vibes from the secretary. "Written warning. Do you hear me?"
Her tone is pissed-off, yet polite. Never heard it before, even when I totaled the work van.
So many thoughts in my head. Excuses to buy time, but my jaw's clenched so hard I feel like I'm chewing on my own teeth. What would Gus say? He's quick-witted, in a modern drunkard sort of way. I'm stuck mumbling to myself.
Her terse tone breaks up my thoughts. "I said, do you hear me?"
A Gussy answer comes to mind. Oh God, I can't say that. Something. "Yes. Listen Linda, I'm sorry, but I'll try--"
"I'm sorry, too."
CLICK.
The knocking gets louder. Impossible. Maybe I drunk-dialed room service in this morning's blackout? I wonder what the hell I even ordered? Pancakes with maple syrup would be nice. "Uh, hello?"
More knocking, then Auntie M's voice. "Dougito?"
"Uh, give me a second."
Smacking the stale taste of last night's vomit session from my lips, I rummage through the overnight kit, crammed with useless crap. No toothbrush. No toothpaste. Not even a breath mint.
She continues knocking.
Oh, shit. "Just hold on! I'm. . . getting dressed."
Dammit. Can't meet and greet with this komodo dragon breath. More rifling yields an economy-sized bottle of 'Organic Lemongrass/Conditioning Shampoo'. Well, at least it's organic.
Down the hatch.
Ugh! Tastes like I just belted down an aromatherapeutic Jägerbomb. My body spasms. I pound my fist on the bathroom counter, willing myself not to retch.
The knocking is stronger. "Es you okay?"
I swill down water from the sink, spitting it out in a foamy spray before heading to the bedroom to toss on a decent set of clothes.
She's rattling the door hinges now. "Hello?"
"Coming." Passing by the full mirror, I give a quick cringe. Definitely not runway elegant.
Is she using a battering ram? "Dougito!"
Vaulting over, I lick off the the last remnants of gargle from my goatee, but as soon as I reach for the front door handle, the knocking stops.
Looking at its array of locks. How do you open this damn thing?
I brace my whole buck-fifty and give a mighty heave. The door slams against the wall, knocking off pieces of drywall. A startled Auntie M looks up from her phone in the hallway as I pose like I planned that all along. "Oh, hey. I was just. . ."
With a cheerful "Hola", Auntie M barges past me. Following her, I cringe looking at the suite's transformation since I staggered in some hour beyond midnight in a drunken stupor.
Bananas, placemats and cutlery have been tossed about like some blind somnambulast snuck in to play an impromptu game of disc golf. The curtains and chairs are piled up on the sofa like a play fort.
"Es you hungover?"
I outflank her, trying to block her view of the massive beeramid. "What? Me? Of course not."
She stops to stare at the opened minibar.The only items left inside are an opened Drambuie liqueur bottle and a half-eaten jar of peanut butter. Breakfast of champions.
"You look a little, uh. . . peaked."
"Well, then take a closer gander, Ma'am, 'cuz you are looking at a man who can definitely handle his alcohol."
"I see." Auntie M strolls through the bedroom, which is of particular concern. Pillows are wrapped inside sheets, raising the suspicion that during last night's blackout I had asphyxiated a small body, then left it lifeless right next to an unidentified wet spot.
"Definitely." I shut the door to the bathroom, quarantining its Guernica tableau. A sanitary disaster of Picassian proportions.
Auntie M ambles about, ignoring all signs of nocturnal distress, instead focusing on the massive TV and colorful artwork, which looks as if Leroy Neiman got a sweet commission from Playboy to paint fully-tatted naked immolating femlin acrobats having a pillow fight.
She smiles, "Que lindo. Ready for your Lima foodie tour?" then, abruptly heads out the front door.
Whoops. In the midst of last night's drunken time-fog, apparently we'd agreed to do check out Peru's grub scene. So, we cram into her Toyota Deathmobile and merrily merge into the marauding onslaught of honking traffic.
When she rolls into the restobar's squat parking space, my stomach's churning like a baby in a clothes dryer. Suddenly, wolfing down bunches of food doesn't seem like a great idea? But, how to get out of this artfully? Maybe, delay the inevitable and hope for the best. "How about some Italian food, instead?"
"Really?" She looks disappointed, like she'd been planning this all along.
"Yeah. Sorry. Is that okay?"
She nods, turns and huffs, backing out full-tilt into the careening flux of oncoming traffic. "¡Ya pues!"
Man those pisco sours are strong. Hope I don't ruin the upholstery. And here I thought drinking to the point of passing out was good for me. I swear Gus told me it helps him relieve his inner tension. Namaste.
I pat my tummy and frown. The mood in the Yaris has tensed. As we roll into the closest Italian restaurant's parking space, my stomach groans like a geriatric tuba. Maybe if I can stall for a bit, things will calm down. "You know, I hate to be a bother, but all of a sudden seafood sounds good to me. How about you?"
"¿En serio?"
I nod, submissively. "Sí."
The sighs gets longer as we bolt off in search of seafood. Please, Auntie M, just give me a few more minutes and I'll be fine. I'm not a freak. I swear. Maybe I need some air? Rolling down the window, I stick my head out, dry heaving. Yes, that's better.
"Aye, that no es eh-safe!"
"What? I was just. . . admiring your beautiful city."
"Well, roll it up and makes eh-sure your door es locked." She glances over at my face pouring sweat, then smirks. "You es drunk, esn't you?"
I contort my face and pathetically shake my head. "No way. It's just a bit of a head cold. That's all."
Auntie M stifles a laugh, then shakes her head and accelerates, leaving my stomach jellified. Pretty soon, we're locked into a Sisyphean grub crawl from hell. After a half-hour making crop circles through Lima's sidestreets, my excuses venture to the exotic, testing Lima's prodigious fusion food scene to its absolute breaking point. "I've got the taste for some boiled head cheese goat haggis served in the stomach linings of a lamprey eel with ají dipping sauce. How about you?"
Auntie M scowls, uncomprehendingly. "¿Qué?" Then, with a sly smile. "I knows just the place."
What the hell? Is that a thing around here? "Wait! Do any of Peru's restaurants serve Frog Sashimi smothered in guinea pig paté and cilantro?"
A deep sigh, then a maniacal laugh. "Of course." The car wheels around yet again.
The table have turned. She's getting off on this. As I search the floorboards for any containers I can to throw up into, my masculine hopes spring eternal. Maybe she'll sleep with me?
She shakes her head and glances over at me, snickering.
Either that or she's setting me up to have my kidneys harvested? Things are so complicated, these days. "How about some mangled beef hearts slathered in some vegemite Eskimo ice cream with a sprig of parsley on top?"
"Es you medicated?"
"What?"
"You keep eh-saying eh-stupid eh-stuff, then change your mind. Es weird."
"Really? I'm sorry. I thought I was just daydreaming, again."
"Sí. For the last tens minutes. Es like you is. . . different."
"Uh, thanks?"
Gnashing her teeth, she grips the steering wheel like she wants to rip it off the dashboard.
A conspicuous, fuming silence.
Uh. Oh. I bombed big time. And all before noon. I have to do something fast. So, as we wheel past a placid-looking park, I make the call. "Here."