Forty

Stepping through the hotel room’s door, I found myself in a lushly furnished space with a spectacular view of Central Park. I crossed a rug thicker than the city’s annual snowfall and approached the suite’s connecting door on the opposite side of the room.

While balancing the tray in one hand, I inserted the key card and opened the door a crack.

“Room service!” I called as brightly as I could manage, given my state of trepidation.

In response, the American werewolf let loose with a howl that startled me enough to drop the tray.

With his back to me, Professor Humphrey stood looming over a potted plant. Though he was decked out in evening clothes, his belt was undone, and his pants dangled halfway down his hairy legs.

When he heard the tray crash to the floor, he whirled, though he was not finished “watering” the plant. Closing my eyes, I channeled Esther—

“Unsee, unsee…”

“Hey!” he cried in excited recognition. “You’re the duck lady from this morning!”

I opened my eyes to a confounding shock. Standing before me was Mr. Scrib’s neighbor. Yes, the obnoxious Terror in Terrycloth. And he wasn’t just standing. The man was presenting me with an awfully familiar (and truly awful) spectacle—

King Killjoy was tucking away his “scepter.”

“You’re Professor Ethan Humphrey?!”

The Terror (no longer in Terrycloth) attempted to bow but ruined the gallant gesture with a clumsy stumble.

“At your service…”

“You’d better be,” I said, summoning my sternest you’re grounded mom voice. “Now please do me the ‘service’ of zipping your zipper and buckling your belt because we’re leaving.”

Seemingly baffled by my command, Professor Humphrey scratched his head at the base of his unraveling man-bun and stared at me in a haze of narcotics and alcohol.

“What about the room service?” he asked.

“Sorry, I lied. I don’t work for the hotel.” Stepping around shards from a broken mirror, I quickly scanned the area for evidence of narcotics or drug paraphernalia. I found an empty champagne bottle, a hash pipe, and a bag of pot with the logo of a marijuana dispensary.

“Listen to me, okay? I’m here as your friend to help you avoid a mug shot and criminal arraignment, but we’ve got to move fast before the police arrive.”

The word police worked better than a glass of ice water in the face. A spark of intelligence actually appeared in Ethan Humphrey’s glazed eyes. He stared at me for a moment, scowled, and finally checked his zipper, notched his belt, and clumsily fumbled with his protruding collar.

“May I help?” I asked.

“Leave me alone, lady.”

I kept my physical distance, but continued conversing. “We haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Clare Cosi. I’m the manager of the Village Blend coffeehouse.”

Another flicker of recognition lit his eyes before it faded once more. As he continued putting himself together, I noticed the professor had taken his shoes off, and one foot was completely bare. I located the shoes, but there was no sign of the wayward sock. I placed the footwear in front of him and stepped back.

With a grunt he sat down on a footrest and put them on.

I spotted a pitcher of ice water, poured a glass, and—though I was seriously tempted to dash it in his face—simply handed it to him. Humphrey drank deeply until the glass was empty, tiny droplets running down his cleft chin. And just like that, the American werewolf was tamed.

“Thanks,” he grunted.

As disturbing as Ethan Humphrey’s behavior was, he’d never become violent. And it hit me why he’d barricaded himself in here. It was his way of hiding from his troubles. Just like the drugs. Same reason, I thought. It was just another version of running away.

From that moment on, I saw Ethan Humphrey for what he was. Not a howling-mad beast or a dangerous drunk, but a scared little boy in a university professor’s body.

I grabbed the hash pipe and pot and tucked them into Ethan’s lapel pocket.

“What about my Dupont?” he asked.

“Dupont?”

“There it is.” Ethan pointed at a gleaming silver rectangle on the rug. I scooped it up. The “Dupont” turned out to be a high-end lighter. I noticed a personal engraving on the side and read the quotation:

Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal

“Are these your words?” I asked.

“Me?” Ethan shook his head and wobbled a little as his slurred reply informed me, “Albert Camus gets the credit because after his death they found the quotation in one of his handwritten notebooks. But he was just transcribing a quote from a French actress and poet named Blanche Balain.” He waved his arm as if he were instructing a class. “Of course, she said it in French. And being a poet, she said it with more flare. Not ‘tremendous energy’ but ‘une force herculéenne!’ ”

“Herculean strength?”

“Yes.”

I read the quote again. “A lot of drug users feel this way, Ethan. Is that why you do what you do?”

He stared at me. “What do you think?”

Suddenly, all the air seemed to whoosh out of him. His shoulders slumped, his chin dropped to his chest, and he let out a low moan. I feared he was going to pass out.

“Do you need an ambulance?” I asked.

“Hell, no!” He waved his arm. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring you coffee,” I said sincerely. “You could use it.”

He looked up, pointed to the phone. “We can call for room service—”

“I’m afraid our welcome has worn out,” I warned. “And, anyway, I think they serve Driftwood.”

He stared blankly.

“Sorry, private joke.”

But it wasn’t my humor that dazed him. The seriousness of the situation appeared to dawn on the professor, and he felt an immediate need to escape. He rose, swaying unsteadily—and then bolted for the barricaded door.

I grabbed his arm as he stumbled by.

“Whoa, slow down. Let’s go out the other way. It’s easier.”

When he nodded in agreement, I tucked his engraved sliver lighter into his lapel pocket. Then I led him through the connecting suite and toward the promised land of the hotel hallway.