A continuation of my novel 40. This falls after the post 40: Vegas.3.
A sudden knock at the door startled me out of my trance. I spun about and faced the door. It’s nondescript whiteness, for some odd reason, threatened me. Absurd, I guffawed, then began walking to the door. As I passed the mirror, I realized I wasn’t wearing pants. I ran to the dresser and opened the bottom drawer where I remembered seeing the pair of jogging pants. Another knock sounded, followed by a deep voice intent on being heard. "Room service."
As I slipped on the black jogging pants, I ran over to the door and peered out of the keyhole. A young man dressed in a white and black hotel uniform was standing at my door. He immediately moved toward the handle of the door in a manner that appeared he was going to open it. I stepped back and noticed that I had failed to use the deadbolt. Why hadn’t I locked that? I always use the deadbolt.
I quickly opened the door. The young man jumped, as if he was surprised I opened the door. I noticed his hand return something to his pocket. I wondered if it was a key.
"Hello...Mr. Byatt." he blurted loudly, forcing a friendly-like tone. "I’m...Bailey, your hospitality room server....."
He quickly wheeled the cart into the room, stopping in front of the bed.
"Excuse me....Bailey?" I replied quizzingly. "I didn’t order anything."
"Ummm....." he began, shuffling about the trolley until he found the receipt. "You did call in, sir. Here’s the phone order."
"A phone order, eh?" I said as I took the receipt from him. Bailey reached over and touched the area where the date/time stamp was recorded. Sure enough, I had ordered at 10:07 PM, July 27, 2006. "Impossible." I uttered, completely befuddled. "That was just two hours ago."
I looked to Bailey for a reply. He was artfully glancing at the mess on the bed. Realizing I noticed, he immediately apologized. "Sorry, sir. I don’t take down the orders. I just deliver what they tell me too."
"Of course," I acknowledged. "But don’t you think I would remember placing this order just two hours ago?"
Bailey didn’t reply right away. He scanned the room and shuffled nervously. Then, as if a light came on in his head: "Let me call the supervisor...." he said, quickly pushing a button on the cell phone attached to his belt and pressing a button on the stylish bluetooth earpiece attached to his ear.
Bailey walked away toward the door, as if he didn’t want me to hear his conversation. "Tom?" he said. "This is Bailey. Can you hear me?....Byatt doesn’t want his drink.....Yes....Mark Byatt in room 2308...he says he doesn’t remember making an order......Yah....I know.....OK....Uh-huh....I’ll try....Later, dude."
Bailey turned back around and smiled at me. "Mr. Byatt. Don’t get alarmed when I tell you this but you have been ordering this drink for the past six nights. I have been delivering them each night and at the same time. "
"Six nights?" I blurted, without realizing the questioning tone might reveal my predicament.
"Yes, sir," Bailey replied.
"And it’s a drink, you say?"
"Yes, sir. I was told this was your favorite."
"My favorite?" I questioned. "And what would my favorite drink be?"
"Mocha with a fresh dollop of whipped cream, sprinkled with cinnamon and chili powder." Bailey moved over to the cart in a swooping motion. I admitted that I was very aware of a hunger eating at my innards, and that I would go ahead and drink it since he went through the hassle of getting it here.
I watched as Bailey created my so-called favorite drink. He turned over the large white mug and then picked up the medium-sized insulated flask. Shaking it intensely for a few seconds, he opened the flask and poured the mocha into the mug. He then picked up a narrow aluminum steel vial. "This is a most delicious chocolate syrup," he mentioned as he poured a generous amount into the steaming mug. As he stirred the drink, the smell of coffee and chocolate immediately overtook me. My stomach, as if it suddenly woke up, growled. Bailey then picked up a sealed container and opened it. He picked up a spoon, dipped it into the container, and shoveled out a heaping mound of whipped cream. As the mound of thick cream dropped into the mug, mocha came up and over the rim and down the side. It left signs of brown rivers, like dry river-beds. He then picked up two shakers, one in each hand. He shook them furiously like a medicine man performing a final ritual that would return one’s health or call back the soul of a dying man. The whipped cream was instantly speckled with spice.
"There you are, sir." Bailey said proudly, bowing and laying his palms open in front of the drink as if it were something to be worshiped. "You’re evening cocktail."
"Wow!" I said. "I’m impressed. Thanks, Bailey. Sorry about earlier.....I....I’ve been having this migraine and I haven’t really been myself."
"That’s okay, Mr. Byatt," he said, as he started walking over to the door. "I understand."
"Hold on," I said, running over to the bed. "Let me get you some cash."
Picking up my wallet, I opened it and reached in to grab a few loose bills. I started leafing through the top bills when I promptly started seeing hundred dollar bills, a total of nineteen. I froze in my tracks. My hands shaked and began sweating. I glanced at Bailey. He was looking my way. Had he seen the cash? He smiled but soon after broke it off. "Are you alright, sir?"
"Yes," I replied, quickly pulling out a five dollar bill and putting the money back into the bill fold. I walked over and handed the five to Bailey. "Thanks again."
"No problem." Bailey replied. "If you need anything at all, even if it is from a store, just give a holler."
"Ok," I said, chuckling. "I’ll remember that."
Bailey opened the door and walked out. I immediately shut the door and bolted the deadlock.
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