Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase (28 page)

The universe is telling me I may as well gamble because I can’t be any more unlucky. I call the front desk, loudly describing the problem using words like “geyser,” “horrific,” and “corn on the cob.” After giving my shirt a quick once-over with the hotel hair drier, I smooth on some Clinique blush, adjust my Cubs hat, and head down to play nickel poker so I don’t have to endure the shame of facing maintenance when they arrive to fix the toilet.

By three a.m., I assume they’ve had ample opportunity to adjust my toilet’s flush direction. Yet when I return to my room, I find that absolutely nothing has changed.

I may or may not scream again.

Or cry.

I’m exhausted, I’m freezing, I’m damp, and I’m pretty sure I touched a biohazard.
¹⁶⁹
I haul my bedraggled self back down to the front desk. Too drained to tap into my usual level of vitriol, I simply tell the clerk I can’t wait for maintenance anymore. I’m cold and pooped
¹⁷⁰
and just want to sleep.

“Can you give me another room?” I beg. “Please?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the clerk replies. As she works her keyboard, she glances back at me. “You came in from Chicago?” She gestures at my hat.

I scrub at my eyes and stifle a yawn. “Yeah, although I’ll be honest. I’m not a Cubs fan so much as I am a fan of going to Wrigley Field.”

“I’m with you! There’s nothing like spending a summer day with a brat and a beer, being a bleacher bum!”

“Hmm,” I reply noncommittally. Less talky, more change room-y, please. The clerk beams at me, so I feel obligated to continue. “You’ve been to a Cubs game?” I resignedly ask.

“Of course! I’m from Chicago, too!” she exclaims.

Oh, good. We’re apparently girlfriends now. Let’s have a long, boring, keep-me-out-of-bed conversation, shall we? “Then why are you here?”

“Well, Chicago’s a great city, but I couldn’t take the weather anymore. I used to work at Michigan and Wacker and every time I crossed over the river in the winter, I swore I’d be blown into the water.”

Great,
now
she’s gotten me engaged. “I work on Riverside Plaza and I know exactly what you mean,” I volunteer. “I always give the railing a death grip on windy days. In fact, I may still be frozen from the waist down from this winter.”

She looks me up and down one more time and then types a couple more notes into the computer. Change complete, she hands me a fresh set of electronic key cards. “Here you go, neighbor. This room’s going to be more to your liking,” she assures me.

“As long as the toilet doesn’t explode, I’ll be happy. Thanks.”

Since I only have to pack up my overnight bag, I’m quickly out of the sullied room. I leave a big tip on the vanity as well as a note stating simply
I am so, so sorry.

My new room is only a couple of floors up and I get there in no time. When I open the door, I notice a weird echo as I grope for the lights. Huh. I’ve never been in a hotel room that echoed before. I hit the switch and suddenly realize why—it’s because I’ve never been in a room this big before.

In an instant, I’m fully awake again. I drop my bag and wander past all the cool King Tut-themed art. This is amazing! There’s an entire wet bar in here, all trimmed in granite. A wet bar! I should get some booze! And a dining area! I should get some food! And a whole living room!
¹⁷¹
Before I wonder which of the deluxe couches might be the pullout bed, I realize this isn’t a room; it’s a
suite
.

Whoa. If I got this just for wearing a Cubs hat, imagine what might have happened if I’d actually been
nice
.

My floor-to-ceiling windows display the majesty of the entire Strip and the view takes my breath away. There are no obstructions from here to the Space Needle and I see every single twinkling light. In my last room, all I could see were the air-conditioning units.
¹⁷²

The master bedroom is equally elaborate and the bed could fit me and everyone I know. The bathroom is the size of my apartment with a tub I could literally swim in.

This is the greatest hotel room to ever exist.

Or . . . wait.

I walk back to the separate WC and give it a test flush. Its contents disappear immediately.

Okay,
now
it’s the greatest room to ever exist. And it’s all mine for $79 a night.

Fletch suggested I pamper myself on this trip so I decide to give the spa a whirl. I’ve never actually had any spa services done before. Once I had fake nails put on by this German lady at school but she’d just finished cosmetology school and kind of didn’t know what she was doing. Her application was so sloppy my fingers looked like I’d dipped them in candle wax. I figured out how to do acrylic fills myself after that and kept the fake nails until I realized there was mold growing between the fill and my nail bed. I tore them off immediately and was so grossed out I haven’t had anyone touch my hands since.

I lie on my big bed and study the spa services menu. I can’t figure out which option I’d like and which would entail me showing strangers my underpants, so I decide to ask in person. I throw on my shorts and my now-dry polo and head downstairs.

I enter a quietly dim and serene waiting area. Soft music plays and I catch a whiff of something wonderful. Because I am an urban, suave sophisticate, the first words out of my mouth are, “Hey, what smells in here?”

The girl behind the desk answers me. “I believe you’re referring to our eucalyptus steam room.”

“Woo, I could huff that all day. It’s like a jar of Vick’s Vapo-Rub, only better.”

“If you’re interested in some services, the eucalyptus steam room will be at your disposal.” When she smiles, I notice she has no pores on her face. None. Whatever she’s selling? I want.

“Neat! What do you suggest?”

She explains a variety of different options and I decide on a manicure, pedicure, and facial. I’m given a robe and I change in a lovely locker room before going to relax in a lounge filled with all kinds of beverages.

An esthetician named Dottie takes me into the steam room first and I can feel the polluted physician’s office air releasing from my lungs and sinuses. Once I’m good and steamy, Dottie brings me to a comfortable private room, where she begins the extraction process.

By the way, “extraction process” means someone gets rid of your blackheads for you! I’m equal parts repulsed and fascinated. Is this what it’s like to be rich, paying people to squeeze your zits and scrub your grout and ice skate with your kids? I kind of want to know.

Twenty minutes later, the ugly pores on my nose have gone from deep to nonexistent. Dottie finishes up with some serious lotion slathering. I return to the lounge to wait before I’m retrieved for my mani-pedi.

A manicurist works on my cuticles while another technician attacks my feet. There’s scrubbing and pushing and filing and clipping. I feel like Tom Hanks in that scene in
Joe Versus the Volcano
, except no one’s hitting me with a fish.

A girl could get used to this.

The spa provides free bottles of juice, water, and fruit to patrons, so later, when I’m poolside, I’m allowed to go back and help myself. The spa has a bunch of showers and each one is filled with a set of different scent-themed products. As I’m not fully recovered from the horror of last night, the notion of a powerful rain cleanse sounds pretty damn good. I avail myself of the showers rather frequently. By the time I return to my room, I’ve tried all eight deliciously different stalls.

I buy a bottle of Cinzano Asti from the gift shop and spend the evening in, curled up on one of my many couches, watching the
Seinfeld
finale.
¹⁷³
I may not be living a movie, but I’m too relaxed to worry about it.

My dad calls the next morning and breaks my reverie when he shares the tragic news. Sometime during the night, my idol Frank Sinatra passed away. If I were at home when I heard this, I’d be devastated because his songs have been a part of my life ever since I could remember. His was the one kind of music upon which everyone—Fletch, my parents, my friends, my elderly relatives, my coworkers, even strangers in a bar—could agree. Just last week Fletch and I were out with David and his wife and Tim and we all sang along when “My Kind of Town” played on the jukebox.

I’m sitting on my lush linens in my sweet suite in the town that ol’ Francis Albert built and I’m actually happy in a bitter-sweet way. I feel like I’m in the one place on earth where I can properly pay tribute.

The second Sinatra’s death is announced, people begin to pour into the city and the entire atmosphere becomes electric as everyone gears up to watch the lights go out. They’ve only darkened the Strip a couple of times before and what we’re about to witness is history.

I make my way down the Strip, but before I go outside to join the masses, I stop at a quiet bar in a remote part of Caesars Palace to have a Jack Daniel’s. Normally, I hate the stuff, but it was Frank’s favorite. My cocktail goes down surprisingly smoothly. I tip my Cubs hat in silent salute. After all, Chicago was
his
kind of town.

When I finish, I find a spot on Flamingo Boulevard with thousands of others. The noise is almost unbearable with all the laughing and shouting. But the minute the lights go out, everyone goes quiet. Even traffic stops. We all stand silently, watching as one by one the casinos fade into the night. In the distance, I can hear fans start an a cappella version of “That’s Life,” and that’s when tears start streaming down my cheeks.

I’m not crying because I’m sad. I mean, what right do
I
have to mourn? I’m not Nancy Sinatra or Mia Farrow. I only ever knew Frank Sinatra through his music and films. I’m not family, I’m not a friend, and I can still have him in my life any time I turn on the TV or put in a CD. But this here? Right now? Surrounded by a handful of the millions of lives he touched? I’m filled with such hope and happiness and love for everyone and these emotions manifest themselves in tears. Then this enormous crowd of strangers begins to spontaneously hug one another.

I feel like I’m part of a religious experience.

I feel like I’m a piece of something that’s so much greater than myself.

I feel like . . . I feel like
I’m in a movie.

Yeah, in a couple of days I’ll get on a plane and I’ll freak out all the way home. Then I’ll go back to my shitty apartment and my difficult job and I’ll be broke again because I spent all my money coming here. And when I run across my fellow man, particularly in my doctors’ offices, I’ll want to punch, not hug, them.

But right now, for this one tiny moment, I want to toss my Cubs hat in the air all Mary Tyler Moore style. And I want to shout.

With joy.