Clearly, I Didn't Think This Through : The Story of One Tall Girl's Impulsive, Ill-conceived, and Borderline Irresponsible Life Decisions (9781101612255) Page 12

Stiff, spiky bangs are the worst. I would rather die than have them touch any part of my face or body. The only time this look is acceptable is if you are a six-year-old named Calvin with a stuffed tiger as a best friend. Only then will those spiky bangs get a pass.

  However, fashion faux pas aside, this guy was rich. Rosie said so. And then the lightbulb went off above my head: I’m going to make this rich guy buy me a fancy sandwich. Screw this turkey sub shit. Maybe this sandwich will have caviar on it, maybe a shaved truffle or two. Maybe it will have something exotic that I don’t even know about yet! Operation Fancy Sandwich was a go. I walked toward him with visions of delicious snacks dancing in my head.

  “Hi! I’m Anna. Nice to meet you.” I stuck out my hand and he reflexively stuck his out, too. I hated his handshake. It was just a mess from the limp start to the awkward, clammy finish. It was like I was meeting Bernie from Weekend at Bernie’s. I actually looked behind him to see if Andrew McCarthy was propping him up.

  Not only was his hand inert and moist like a dead cod, but it felt feminine. And slender. And small. And pampered. He basically had a Barbie hand. The heaviest thing he had probably lifted was cream puffs out of a pink pastry box, or maybe a teacup at a little girl’s tea party. I couldn’t imagine that those hands had ever chopped wood or sealed a bank merger deal. I shuddered just thinking about those hands touching any part of my body. Those were the unsexiest hands I’ve ever felt. He had the hands of an Olsen twin.

  But there were possible fancy sandwiches on the horizon, so I had to soldier on. He stood up to talk to me and he almost fell over. He was totally trashed, just super drunk. “Hi, Annnnnna.” Oh great, another slurrer. He was shorter than me by several inches and his black shoes had a thick rubber sole in an effort to toss another inch to his petite frame. I didn’t expect him to know this about me, but I can’t stand when short guys wear lifts. He might as well wear a neon shirt that says I’m insecure about my height. I like my short guys out and proud. This would have to be one more detail I’d have to overlook if we were going to be seen in public together. That list was getting longer by the minute.

  As I was calculating how many things about his appearance I was unhappy with, he looked at me like I was a piece of IKEA furniture that didn’t come with assembly instructions. I was going to have to take charge if this sandwich was going to happen.

  “Let’s get out of here and grab a bite to eat. There’s a great place around the corner,” I semi-shouted into his ear over the loud music blaring from the speakers.

  He stared at me for a second, like he forgot where he was and why I was talking to him. I smiled. He blinked. Then he said, “Sure.”

  I followed him out of the bar, which had about twenty large concrete steps down to the street. Those stairs are notoriously perilous for anyone who wears stilettos or is prone to spells of vertigo. As soon as Sam’s foot touched the first step, he flopped down the stairs in a wipeout so epic it would’ve made Humpty Dumpty cringe. As he smacked onto the sidewalk, his glasses tumbled into the middle of the road. I gasped.

  “Holy shit! Are you okay?” I raced down the steps and picked him up by the elbows. Once he was steady on his feet, I bolted into the street to retrieve his glasses. He was clearly rattled by the spill but said he was fine. I was surprised his frail frame didn’t shatter on impact or that his limbs didn’t snap off his body like dry kindling.

  It was clear that I couldn’t leave him in this drunken stupor. He was so hammered that he’d probably walk into oncoming traffic, and I didn’t want that on my conscience. His stupid jacket and thick shoe soles had already shown me that he was prone to making terrible decisions, so I didn’t put walking into traffic past him. To paraphrase the ugly girl in The Goonies, I felt like I was babysitting without getting paid.

  “Seriously, let’s grab a bite. I know a great place around the corner.” I pointed to the end of the street and pulled his arm gently to follow me. It was getting late; soon restaurants would be closing. I had to hurry this up.

  “I’m staying at the Four Seasons. Let’s just go there. Taxi!” He flagged a taxi down and before I could protest, we spilled into a cab that had pulled up beside us. “Four Seasons, please,” he instructed the cabdriver.

  After a few silent minutes, I asked, “So, what do you do?”

  “I invented a computer chip a few years ago. It’s a pretty big deal.” His thick glasses reflected the glow of the streetlights we zoomed past. It seemed that I had snagged my own Bill Gates! Well, if Bill Gates were 5′7″, was dressed like a hall monitor, and was blindingly drunk at one A.M. on a Thursday.

  “Oh really? How much of a big deal?” This guy could barely stand ten minutes ago and now he’s boasting? I think I liked him better when he was just the quiet drunken guy who fell down a lot.

  “You ever hear of CalmStreaming.com?”

  “No.” I shrugged.

  “Well, I founded that site. We netted a few million last year.” He could hardly keep his head up and the words came really slowly and kinda muddled. It felt like I was listening to a hacked version of Teddy Ruxpin that was on its last dying battery and only played a prerecorded message about his net worth. With that, he slumped over and hit his head on the headrest. The impact jolted him awake.

  “So, why are you here in Philly? This isn’t exactly Silicon Valley.”

  “My company set up offices here, so I’m overseeing the transition. I’ve been at the Four Seasons for a week now. In my opinion, it’s the best hotel in this city. Did you know that they have a swimming pool? And a Jacuzzi? I’m getting a really great rate, too. And the staff is so friendly. They even leave little mints on my—hiccup—pillow.”

  “That’s, like, every hotel. That’s just what hotels do. I hate to burst your bubble, Sam, but the mint thing is pretty common.”

  “No, but the Four Seasons is the best of the best. I always stay here when I come to Philly. And their mints are imported from, fuck, I don’t remember. But they’re delicious. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” He sounded like a snobby ad for the hotel.

  “Did you go to school in D.C.?” I asked, racking my brain for something else to talk about. I should’ve kept quiet. Hell, I should’ve jumped out of the cab altogether. But, I didn’t.

  “No, I went to Princeton for my undergraduate degree. Then, I got three graduate degrees at MIT.” He didn’t even look at me when he spoke, and he certainly didn’t ask me any questions about myself. Just as I noticed that he wasn’t looking at me, I felt his hand on my leg. This guy had to be kidding.

  “I think you’re pretty.” Now he was looking at me. He moved his hand up my thigh a little bit, which felt like an eel slithering across my leg.

  I laughed nervously and batted his hand away. “Oh, wow. Thanks. Look at that: We’re here.”

  The imposing golden doors of the hotel brushed open noiselessly, and I made a beeline straight for the restaurant toward the back of the hotel. I nodded at an attendant as I walked past, trying to appear like the kind of girl who’d stay at a hotel like this. I’m not sure what fancy hotel guests look like, but they probably don’t waltz in at one A.M. flanked by drunk nerds. Sam struggled to keep up with my brisk pace.

  The restaurant looked like the inside of my grandma’s purse; neat, plain, and very mauve. “A table for two, please!” I cheerfully told the maitre d’.

  “I’m sorry, but we’re closed,” he sniffed.

  “But those people over there are eating.” I pointed toward the back where six guys sat with their ties loosened and snifters in hand. Sam swayed back and forth but thankfully didn’t topple over.

  “Well, the kitchen closes at one A.M. It’s now”—he checked his watch—“one oh three A.M., so I’m sorry. However, you are still able to order room service. That’s available around the clock.” He gave us a tight smile.

  “Okay. Thanks.” I debated my options: I could either abandon the mission and secure my own pedestrian sandwich elsewhere, or I could ride it out and see what ki
nd of amazing sandwich I could order from the hotel. I’d already invested this much energy; I couldn’t leave now. And seeing that I was curious about my room service options, room service seemed like my best bet at this point. I looked at Sam and said the last six words I had any desire to say to him: “Okay, let’s go to your room.”

  He didn’t even hesitate. “Follow me.” We shuffled into the elevator and he scanned the buttons for his floor. “Wait, there’s no twelve here. I’m staying on the twelfth floor. What the fuck?” He was right; the buttons stopped at ten. I didn’t know what to tell him. We exited the elevator and marched straight up to the reception desk. Well, I marched. Sam stumbled.

  “Excuse me,” Sam said to the clerk, “but my—hiccup—floor isn’t here.” Oh great. It’s hard to take a drunk guy seriously, but a hiccupping drunk guy? He might as well be wearing a dunce cap.

  “Which floor are you staying on, sir?” The guy behind the desk seemed concerned. It’s probably not every day that a floor up and disappears.

  “The twelfth floor.”

  “May I see your key, please?”

  Sam plopped his hotel key on the desk. It made a faint ting noise. Then he hiccupped again.

  The desk attendant picked up the key card and examined it. “Sir, this is a key to the Ritz-Carlton. You are in the wrong hotel.” Sam took the key and stared at it like he’d just found out that the key was his biological father. I guess MIT must not have covered remembering which hotel you’re staying at in his rigorous coursework.

  Sam honestly looked surprised by the news that he wasn’t staying at the Four Seasons. He took his key back and thanked the guy at the reception desk. I shook my head. I couldn’t believe he’d hyped up this hotel so much and wasn’t even staying here. What kind of person forgets the hotel he’s been staying at for a week? And how did he magically decide that he was staying at the Four Seasons? He didn’t even address the mix-up; he just walked outside and flagged down another taxi.

  The Ritz-Carlton was five blocks away. In the cab, he tried to put his hand on my leg again. And I swatted it away. Again.

  “You really didn’t know the hotel you were staying at?” I asked, quizzically.

  He shrugged and hiccupped. I turned to face him. I wasn’t going to let this go.

  “They don’t even sound alike. The Four Seasons and the Ritz-Carlton are two totally different places. I assume you checked in. They gave you a key. Your luggage is there. And what kills me is that you seemed so confident about the whole thing! Your hotel was, like, the only thing you’ve talked to me about all night.” I searched his face for any reaction. He didn’t give me any.

  This hotel was just as beautiful as the last one. It had the same huge doors, the same silent attendants, and, unfortunately, the same closed restaurant situation. However, unlike the last hotel, this elevator had a twelfth floor.

  As soon as we entered his room, he kicked off his huge shoes and immediately turned around and tried to shove his tongue in my mouth. It was a spin move he must’ve learned from watching a Michael Jackson video or something because it was one fluid motion: the ol’ kick and slobber.

  I instinctively put my hands up to deflect his advances. “Let’s order some food!” I suggested.

  He ignored me and said, “Come here.” With that, he planted the greasiest, sloppiest, wettest kiss on my lips. It felt like I had plunged my face into a bowl full of buttered noodles. I pushed him away. “Let’s order food now,” I insisted.

  Sam frowned, then walked over to the phone. He picked up the receiver and pushed three buttons. “Hello. Room service. Thank you.” [hiccup]

  Now that food was in my near future, I became visibly excited. “Is there a menu? Can I get something with seafood?” After all this bullshit, I upgraded my sandwich sights to more extravagant fare. I wanted to eat something with claws, something caught in cold waters.

  Sam mumbled into the phone, “I’ll have a roast beef sandwich. Yes, with French fries. Uh-huh.”

  “Get something with crab!” I chirped. “Maybe a lobster?” I was really reaching for the seafood stars here.

  “And a side salad. Yes. Room twelve sixteen. Thank you.” He hung up the phone.

  I was pissed. “Well, what about me? What am I gonna eat?” I felt like I was going to cry. I was so hungry I could’ve eaten the strap off my purse.

  Sam looked at me. “Well, you just cost me two hundred dollars. Hope you’re happy.” He came over and sat beside me on the edge of the bed.

  “How on earth could a roast beef sandwich that I didn’t even want cost two hundred dollars?” I couldn’t believe this guy! I was kind enough to make sure he didn’t walk into traffic and/or have his glasses smashed and this was how he thanked me?

  He wound his arms around my waist and kissed my neck. I pushed him away.

  “Dude,” I said, firmly.

  “Shhhh. Don’t worry about it.” He put a finger to my lips as though that would somehow make me forget that I’d just had his slimy lips on my body. He was not a hypnotist; he couldn’t just make me magically forget what I’d felt by waving his finger around.

  “I think you’re pretty. There’s, like, ten things that I like about you.” He took my face in his hands and tried to kiss me again.

  “Ten things? Like what?”

  “For one thing, I think you’re pretty. And I like your hair.” [hiccup]

  “Okay. That’s two. Do you even remember my name?” This is how I can tell how drunk a guy is. It’s my own sobriety field test.

  “It begins with an S, right? Stella? No, wait. Sasha?”

  I didn’t want to correct him. “Yes, it’s Sasha. Sure.”

  With that, he took his pants off and tossed them on a chair, revealing thin black socks and black boxers. This was the worst striptease I’d ever seen. He pulled back a corner of the bedspread.

  “Care to, uh, join me?” I think he was trying to sound seductive, but he just sounded desperate. This come-on was more of a Come on, there’s no way this is going to work.

  “Not really. I’m good,” I said and looked around the room nervously.

  It didn’t matter because he couldn’t hear me; he was too busy trying to detangle himself from his white T-shirt. The front was pulled up over his head and his arms were trapped inside it. He looked like he was wrestling a tiny ghost. With his vision obscured, he tripped over one of his chunky shoes and crashed into the bed face-first.

  After a few minutes, he finally managed to pull his shirt off. And as he scooted under the covers, I got a look at his saggy, untoned chest. He had tiny nipples the size of nickels and wiry, thick hair all over his back, a total ape cape. What woman could resist this? After he rustled around for a few seconds, his boxer shorts joined the pile on the chair.

  Save for his black socks, he was naked. I tried to suppress my gag reflex. The fact that I was still interested in eating after seeing his hairy, pale thighs is a testament to the severity of my hunger.

  “You know what we need? Music! I’ll put some on.” I bounded across the room and fiddled with the radio, scanning the dial for the least sexy music I could find. Where’s a twenty-four-hour polka station when you need it? While I was scanning the dial, my least favorite song of all time came through the speakers: U2’s “Mysterious Ways.” As soon as I heard those chunky chords at the song’s opening, I wanted to hurl. It’s a visceral reaction to the toxic stew of Bono’s breathy vocals and the Edge’s overly funky guitar. This song feels like I’m at Burning Man or something.

  “Wait! I love this song. Turn it up!” he yelled. Then he shot out of bed totally stark naked and pushed me aside to get control of the dial. He inched the knob to the right, kicking it up a few notches, and seemed to delight in watching my face tense up.

  I plugged my ears with my fingers in defiance. I narrowed my eyes. I’m gonna kill him, I thought. I’m going to fucking kill him. I’ll pull off one of his black socks and strangle him with it.

  He started singing along with Bo
no, swaying about three inches from my face. “Come on, sing along. I know you know the words.” Then he moved his hands in a wobbly, psychedelic shape to go along with the music.

  At first, I tried to laugh it off. “That’s hilarious. Now, turn it off. I’m not even kidding.”

  Buoyed with finding my Achilles’ heel in the U2 canon, he leaned in close to me and sang the next verse. All right, it kinda cracked me up to have a drunk, naked guy spewing U2 lyrics at me, but I couldn’t laugh because I didn’t want to encourage him. All I wanted out of life was to live in a “Mysterious Ways”-free universe. Is that too much to ask?

  Finally, the song ended and he collapsed in the bed, like one of those animatronics animals you see at Chuck E. Cheese shutting down at the end of the show. I resumed my quest to find the worst song I could. I was downright determined.

  “Come here. Come here, Sasha,” he pleaded from under the covers. Getting seriously annoyed with me for taking so long, he started to make pouty, exasperated noises. There was no way I was going to sleep with this guy. The thought of waking up next to him seemed unimaginable. I’d rather be imprisoned in a third world country than kiss those lips again.

  “Just a minute. I’m looking for the perfect song. Hold on.” I settled on an eighties station that was playing “We Didn’t Start the Fire” by Billy Joel, arguably one of the worst songs from the decade.

  Never in my life had I wished so hard for someone to knock on a door. When I heard the telltale room service knock and the waiter’s muffled announcement that our food was here, I bolted to let him in. When he wheeled the cart inside, I made a big fuss to let him know how greatly his presence in the room was appreciated. “Ah! Thank you, sir! This looks magnificent. Oh yes, right there is perfect.”

  I thought about scrawling a note on the bathroom mirror with my lipstick: “Help! A rich nerd is trying to cop a feel! Hand over the sandwich so I can be released from this prison.” But I didn’t do that. I thanked the man politely and devoured the food like that fucker owed me money. I don’t think I even swallowed; I just pushed the food into my mouth. And, much to my horror, the sandwich was terrible. The roast beef was dry, the bread stale. The French fries were cold and rubbery. The side salad tasted like dirt. This was what I waited all night for?