I like people. I want them to be alive and not treated like shit.
* Mr Popularity’s platform on immigration, racism, healthcare, and foreign relations
2 Hours Later
I can’t move. I scream like a crazy person. I struggle, but I can’t budge the weight on top of me. I give up. The weight crashes down. I lie motionless. Then I wiggle out of the bench press machine. Oh, hello everybody. Why are you all staring at me? Never seen a crazy person before? I wave away their nonexistent offers of help and exit the gym.
Well, that was terrible. I remember why I stopped exercising. I take a shower. That’s my list finished, I guess I’ll wander around the city for a bit.
Downtown is desperate to sell me something. Clothes and booze mostly, though phones are everywhere too. I don’t really want anything. Like most people, I spend most of my time on the internet. I like looking at the buildings and the people. I stop for a drink here and there. I guess I do want booze.
As my one woman pub crawl picks up steam, I pay less attention to architecture and more to boys. I don't remember them being this young. Man, I've been out of the game for a long time. I have no idea how to get one naked. I think they're supposed to chat me up. That's always been step one. The only guys talking to me are bartenders. And they're paid to. And they're too young. The little lambs. Holy fuck, I'm invisible. I have to find a bar with older guys. Or, at least older bartenders.
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Several bar hops later, I’m still in kiddie land. I slide into a table full of young girls and ask some pointed questions about how to get laid in this town. They are not interested in giving up this information. So, rather like a TV detective, I ply them with liquor to loosen their tongues. It works really well. Unfortunately, their information is garbage. They know less than I do. Their entire operation runs on tight clothes and hope. I move on.
I hustle through more bars, pausing only for beer and sexual advice from girls my daughter’s age. I learn one interesting fact - fancy hotels often have a “guy”. Normally, that wouldn’t interest me, but I happen to be “sleeping” in a fancy hotel tonight. Maybe it’s time to “head” to “bed”. I have a bit more liquid courage and do so.
At the hotel, I amble over to the front desk. I discreetly ask if they can send their “guy” to my room. I use my fingers to make air quotes so there’s no confusion. The desk clerk has no idea what I am talking about. I try again, supplementing the air quotes with a wink to send a foolproof message. I stumble and almost go down. I forgot how dangerous blinking is. I mean winking. My footwork wasn’t that distracting, but this fucking chick is stupid. I say “The fucking guy. Send me the fucking guy.” And now I’m talking to the manager. “Let’s go to your room.” He says. Alright.
On route, he informs me that the hotel does not have a “guy”. Apparently, it’s an urban myth. I inform him that this conversation is a downer and does not meet my service expectations. He’s holding my hand and guiding me in gentle curves through the lobby. Without looking, he snags a club sandwich from a passing room service cart. He whisks me into an elevator and gives me a bite. It’s good. He’s good. I feel safe.
“While we don’t have a guy, our head waiter is very friendly. I’ll introduce you tomorrow.” This guy is the best. I invite him into my room. “Alright.” He turns on the TV, sits me on the bed with the club platter on my lap. “Sleep well.” He’s gone.
Where the fuck did this club sandwich come from? It’s good.