I spent most of the days that followed looking for an apartment, writing a little, and doing most things by myself, including walking around aimlessly like a homeless person. I had forgotten what it was like to walk around by myself with no one to talk to. Being alone was hard enough. Being alone without the woman I loved was devastating.
It was on one of these sad days when I decided to take a walk over to The Manhattan offices. Just to stop in and say hi to Carl. All right, I’m lying. I wanted to talk to Karen so desperately that it drove me to confronting her at work. Another low point for me. Is anyone keeping track?
Getting past the front desk was a snap. After all, I’m pretty famous around the office. I hopped in the elevator bank and hit number 25. When I got off the elevator at Karen’s floor, Carl met me at the door.
“She’s not here,” he said.
“How did you know I was coming up?” I asked.
“Security called,” Carl said.
Damn you, security.
“Anyway, I didn’t come to see-”
“She’s not here,” Carl repeated himself.
“Oh, she’s not,” I tried to sound smooth, “Where’d she go?”
“She’s in London, helping to edit a piece for next month’s issue.”
I obviously looked like a beaten dog.
“I’m actually beginning to feel sorry for you. You know, in an emergency we can give out the whereabouts of our employees,” Carl winked.
“Funny you should say that. There’s been an emergency, and I need to find Karen immediately,” I said.
“You don’t say? Wait right here. Let me see if I can get you that information,” Carl reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with Karen’s info written on it, “She’s at the Piccadilly Hotel. Room 602.”
I was so grateful that I just stood there like a statue in front of Carl.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Go get her!” Carl yelled at me.
I arrived at the airport as fast as I could, considering the cab driver recognized me and took the long way there.
“Why are you on Lexington? I told you to take 2nd down,” I said.
“Listen, my friend, 2nd is murder this time of the day,” the Indian cab driver told me.
“Yeah, but it’s completely out of the way. I’m in a hurry.”
“We’ll get there, my friend.”
I’m not your friend.
“I know you,” the cab driver began.
Here we go. I stared at his Vishnu air freshener and dreaded the conversation that was about to ensue.
“Na, I just look like someone you know,” I said hoping to end this.
“No, I know you. You are on TV, no?”
“No.”
“Give me a minute, my friend. I’ll figure it out.”
Good luck.
We were now on the Van Wyck on our way to JFK going 50 miles per hour. Thank God, this journey was coming to an end shortly, albeit slowly.
“I know who you are. You’re that guy that wrote that story. Haha! I’ve got a celebrity in this taxi,” my Hindu friend said.
“I’m hardly a celebrity,” I said.
“I saw you on TV. That makes you famous, my friend. I saw your girlfriend, too -”
“She’s my fiance. Well, technically, we’re kind of nothing right now.” Why was I discussing this with the cab driver?
“You know, that girlfriend of yours is very pretty.”
“Thanks.”
“You know . . . ” He said in a way that made you think something weird was going to come out. His voice rose a bit. I didn’t like where this was heading. “. . . do you have any nude pictures of her?”
“What?!” Was this guy serious? “No. Why the fuck would I take nude photos of my girlfriend?” I questioned why I was even justifying this question with a response.
“Easy, easy my friend. I take pictures of my wife all the time. I love my cell phone. We have a lot of fun.”
By this point, I’d had it, “OK, enough. Stop fucking milking the meter and step on it. I have a plane to catch.”
When I finally arrived at JFK I ran to the ticket counter. I needed to book myself a flight to London.
“When’s the next flight to Heathrow?” I asked the stewardess behind the counter. Are they still stewardesses if they are not on the plane? Are they flight attendants now? Who knew the airport could be so confusing. I’m going with stewardess. I like it better.
“It leaves in an hour. They’re boarding soon, but you can still make it. The next one leaves tomorrow morning at nine.”
“I’ll take a ticket for the next flight.”
The stewardess hit a few keys on her computer. “Very well sir, we have one upper class seat.” She had a sweet, British accent. “That will be $2,862.20.” Somehow, that price didn’t seem so outrageous when delivered in a British accent, plus I deserved to travel in style.
Luckily, I also could now afford the ticket price of $2,862.20. I paid the lady, and after being frisked going through security - seriously, do I look like a fucking terrorist, asshole? - I made it to the gate with plenty of time to spare. I boarded the plan without being recognized and settled into my seat next to a smartly-dressed, older woman. I saw her eyeing me as soon as I walked through the cabin door. She had that worried look on her face like ‘please don’t sit next to me’.
The cabin doors were locked and we were ready for take-off. About an hour into the flight the woman next to me tapped me on the shoulder.
“I hate to be rude, but, are you David Michaels?”
Shit. Busted on the five-hour flight.
“Yes, that’s me,” I said in a monotone drawl trying to quickly appease her curiosity and dismiss the conversation so I could partake in the thrilling in-air entertainment. After all there were three very bad movies on that I had to watch.
“I loved your story! Very funny. The ending even made me cry.”
I always have some time for adoring fans, “Well, thanks. I’m glad you liked it.”
“I read that you’re turning it into a novel. I can’t wait. When will it be out?”
“I don’t know yet. Should be a few months. I’m still working on it.”
“Can I be in it?”
“What?”
“Well, since I’m a big fan, I mean, do you think you could you make me one of the characters in the book?”
“What kind of character would you like to be?”
This woman was smartly dressed in a cream colored, one-piece, casual-dress. From what I could tell, she had a pretty good body for some lady in her late 50’s. However, I believe I was wrong about her: she must have been thinking ‘I hope this guy sits next to me’ when I walked in. Especially after, I caught her gingerly brushing her thigh with her finger and moving the hem of her dress every so slightly up her leg, “I don’t know. Maybe an older woman that seduces David on a plane.” She kept moving her dress up her thigh. “What do you think?”
What did I think? At any other time in my life I would have jumped on this opportunity in an instant. But not today. Not now. I love Karen.
“I’m flattered, but I’m engaged.” I said.
“That’s not what I heard,” she said. Suddenly, her hand was rubbing my shoulder, and she cozied up to me.
“Yeah, well, I’m working on that. That’s why I’m on this flight.” I moved her hand off my shoulder.
“Tell me more, stud.” She returned her hand to my shoulder and tried to lean her head there, as well.
“Lady! I’m on my way to get Karen back. I’m not looking to meet someone new.” I said, sternly. I delicately removed this woman’s head and hand from my shoulder.
I saw the rejection in her face. That’s not a very attractive look, especially on an older woman.
“I was only trying to give you some ideas for your book,” she was trying to save face.
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll write something about this incident. But, don’t worry, in the book it will work out.”
She smiled. “You are cute. Thanks.”
When did I become such a stud? Good for me!
The lady chatted my ear off for the next four hours and, to be honest, I reciprocated in good fashion. I told her the whole Karen and Sandy ordeal and she listened, then she offered this advice, “I think you need to show her how much you really love her. Women like to be shown how much they are loved.”
“But, how can I do that?”
“Well, that’s up to you. Showing up out of the blue is a good start, but you need to honestly tell her how you feel. Not just apologize for what you’ve done. You have to be honest, and then, the best you can hope for is that she believes you.”
She did give me some good advice, but our chatting kept me from achieving my goal of catching a few hours of shut-eye before I confronted Karen. I haven’t been sleeping well since she left me. Plus, I would be arriving in London when I normally went to bed. Needless to say, I was exhausted by the time we arrived at Heathrow. As we touched down I thought of the old adage: ‘Who needs sleep? I’ll have plenty of time to sleep when I’m dead.’
I found myself leaving Heathrow Airport in a taxi heading for Piccadilly Hotel in central London. And, oh yeah, it was three in the morning - London time.
When I got to the hotel, I was met with a bit of resistance in the lobby. Apparently, these unfortunate Brits didn’t realize who I was in their country.
“Sir, where are you going?” asked the concierge in a snooty, British accent. I had inadvertently run right past him.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m just heading up to room 602. Thanks for checking,” I said, and I waited for the elevator.
“Excuse me sir. I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Room 602 has only one registered guest, who appears to be a female,” he said.
Ummmm, no shit, Sherlock.
“I know. I’m her fiancé. I just got in from New York. I was going to surprise her. You know, keep a little magic in the relationship.”
“Well, there isn’t going to be any ‘magic’ here at the Piccadilly at 4 a.m.. I’m afraid that since you are not a registered guest, we’ll either need to wait until 7 a.m., at which point we can contact her, or we can call the authorities right now and see if they would be willing to contact her for you.”
What a dick. I would have to wait.
“Can I wait here? It’s only three hours,” I asked.
“You may wait here, but you may not sleep here. We do not allow sleeping in our lobby.”
Again, what a dick.
“Okay, then. I’ll wait,” I said.
The lobby was quintessentially English. Ornate, classy and stuffy all at the same time. The entryway was checkered white and black marble that led to a beautiful pine-wood floor with a giant Persian rug in the center. The check-in area was to the left, with the staff working behind a long, art-deco, reception desk. Above me, were 40-foot ceilings with four stained-glass, dome-skylights. There was an abundance of crown molding along the ceiling and pilasters that made the lobby look quite stately. I moved over to the right-hand side of the lobby, directly across from reception desk, and pulled up what looked like the most comfortable chair that they had in the place - a tapestry-upholstered club chair. My other options were a few, scattered arm chairs. I concentrated on staying awake for the next three hours.
There was a copy of the paper on the coffee table, so I took a gander at that. Seems the Brits aren’t very fond of the Prime Minister these days. I tried getting through an article about the economy, but I started feeling my eyes getting very heavy. Before I knew it, I started to dream.
Karen and I were riding horses through an open meadow. The sun illuminated the high sky as we rode. First, a light trot, then a gallop. We were somewhere in the west. I looked at Karen, beautiful as ever, her long, blond –
“Sir. Excuse me, sir,” someone was speaking to me.
“Shut up, you dick,” I said in my dream. The serene scene disappeared. Something or someone was making noise.
“Sir,” I felt a tap-tap on my shoulder, “Excuse me, sir. Please wake up, sir. I would like a word with you if you don’t mind. Sir? . . .” he kept tapping me until I opened my eyes.
“Yes,” I finally mumbled after being tapped back to reality by the glorified doorman.
“Sir, you were sleeping. I indicated to you earlier that you may wait here, but you may not sleep here. You, sir, were sleeping. We cannot have this unfortunate incident again. Is that understood?” The concierge asked.
Holy shit, I was being browbeaten by a doorman.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” I said, even though I knew I was.
“Sir, your eyes were closed and you were snoring. I distinctly heard a grumbling, nasal sound followed by a whisper of ‘Puhhhhh’ coming from you as you exhaled. This would indicate to me you were asleep.”
Smart chap, even for a concierge.
“Maybe I dozed off for a minute. I apologize. You have to understand, I’ve been up all night. I just arrived from New York and I can barely keep my eyes open,” I tried to plead with him, but quickly found myself yelling. “Please! Just let me rest!” My nerves were on edge. I was never any good on no sleep. I was getting frantic. I tried to relax, and I knew that yelling at this guy wasn’t going to get me anywhere.
“That’s quite a shame, sir. But the hotel policy is no sleeping in the lobby. Thank you for understanding.” He returned to his post behind the counter.
Apparently, I was his number-one priority this morning. I pulled out my cell and sent Jon a text message. He should be up. It was only eleven back home.
I’M IN LONDON TRYING TO GET KAREN BACK. ANY ADVICE? A few seconds later, I received Jon’s reply.
YEAH, COME HOME!
That wasn’t very encouraging. Seconds later, I got another message.
KIDDING. JUST MAKE SURE YOU ARE REAL. GOOD LUCK.
That was the extent of Jon’s good advice, I guess. To sum up, I had to dazzle Karen, according to Michelle. Get Karen to trust me again, according to Carl, and be real, according to Jon, and be honest according to that chick from the plane. Shouldn’t be that hard to accomplish in London with no sleep.
The text messaging didn’t take very long, and I was running low on how to occupy my time. Now what? I still had three long hours to go. I figured I would get some writing done while I waited. I asked the concierge for some paper and a pen. To my surprise, the prick was ready to help. He gave me a legal pad and a nice pen. Thanks, prick – at least he’s a helpful prick. Minutes later, I was again sleeping.
Tap. Tap. “Sir! Please wake up,” The doorman again.
“I’m up, I’m up,” I mumbled trying to focus out of a deep sleep.
“Sir, please –” he wasn’t going to ask again.
“Okay, I’m up. I’m exhausted.”
“Tragic,” he said, and then walked back to his post at the desk.
I yawned, and got back to writing. Now, the time really started to fly by. I was well into the story when I noticed sunlight coming through the window. The time was quickly approaching when Karen and I would be reunited. I dug in my pocket and pulled out a mint. Fresh breath would be very important this morning.
I decided not to ring Karen at seven on the dot. I thought it would be better to let her get ready without the major distraction of me suddenly thrust into her life. That way, she would have a normal start to her day and, hopefully, be nice and calm when I actually got a chance to see her. My plan was to catch her on her way out of the hotel. Minutes later, the elevator door opened - and there was Karen. I jumped out of my chair and waited for her to recognize me. To be honest, I wasn’t looking very good. I had even grown a two-week-old beard.
As she got closer, my heart was pounding through my throat. When she did recognize me, the color left her face. “David,” she was nearly whispering. “Is that you?”
“Yes. It’s me,” I said.
“What are you doing in London?” Apparently, she couldn’t believe I was standing here in London in the lobby of her hotel.
“I came to get you. I mean, tell you I love you, and that I want to be with you forever, and that I want you back,” I was babbling.
“You came all the way here to tell me that. You could have just stopped by my apartment.”
FUCK!!! APARTMENT!!! I NEVER THOUGHT OF THAT!!!
“How did you know I was here, anyway?” The look on her face belied confusion.
“I stopped by your office, but you weren’t there. I made Carl tell me where you were, and I ran to the airport to get here as soon as I could, but the concierge wouldn’t let me go up to your room, and I had to stay here in the lobby until seven, but here you are now and I just want to be with you. I don’t want to spend any more time alone without you,” I was speaking a mile a minute. When I finished, I reached for Karen’s hand and added, “I love you.”
Karen stared back at me and sighed, “Oh, David.” She took a deep breath. “I love you, too.” I pulled her closer and kissed her.
“I want to go home with you,” she said.
“You must have read my mind,” I replied.
We both hopped a taxi on the first leg of our journey back to America. Then I opened my eyes. Was I dreaming? Where am I? Fuck! I’m in the fucking hotel lobby. No! What time was it? I looked over to the concierge desk. I did not recognize the man standing there. Oh, Fuck! I couldn’t have been asleep. As I was told on numerous occasions, there is no sleeping in the lobby. I may wait in the lobby, but I must not sleep in the lobby. But I had definitely been sleeping!
“What time is it,” I called over to the concierge.
“Good morning, sir. It’s half nine,” he said.
Good morning? Shit. I had fallen asleep. I did feel rested, though.
“Was I asleep?” I asked.
“Sir, you were asleep for hours,” he replied.
“I thought there was no sleeping in the lobby,” I said.
“Usually there is no sleeping permitted in the lobby, sir. But this morning, when I arrived, Nigel told me to let you have a rest. He felt bad for you. Said you had a rough day, flying in from the States and all.”
What the fuck? Nigel wakes me up twice, and then lets me sleep when I needed to be up. I had to put the absurdity of all this aside and try to focus on my situation. At least I was up now. I got off the chair, and hustled to the front desk.
“Can you ring Karen Gold, please, in room 602,” I asked, politely.
“One moment, sir. Let me see if she is in,” he checked the computer for a moment and then said, “There is no one by that name in room 602, sir.”
“That’s impossible. A few hours ago there was. Karen Gold. That’s G-O-L-D. Can you check if she is in another room?”
“Surely,” he tapped on the keyboard for a few moments, then said, “Miss Gold was indeed in room 602 as of 8:35 this morning, but it appears as if she has checked out of the hotel.”
“What?” Oh, no.
“Karen Gold checked out of the hotel this morning at 8:35.”
“Shit.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Why didn’t you wake me up? That’s the whole reason I was waiting in the lobby. I needed to see Karen Gold. Shit!”
“I wasn’t aware, sir,” polite as ever.
“Fuck!” I screamed. I ran out of the hotel, and flagged down a taxi.
“Where to sir?” The taxi driver said.
“Heathrow. And step on it,” I said.
“American, eh? We don’t step on it here, but I rather fancy your John Wayne American swagger. I’ll get you there as soon as possible, sir.”
I like these British cab drivers. They’re efficient. They know their way around - unlike my Hindu friend in New York - and these cabbies will actually get you there ‘as soon as possible’.
“Are you from New York? What is it with your mayor? Sending the city to piss, eh?”
And, they’re informed.
“How did you know?”
“You’ve got a bit of an accent,” he said.
“Yeah, I’m from New York. The city has already gone to piss. It’s even urinated on me a few times.”
He laughed, “Here on business or pleasure?”
“I wish I could say pleasure, but it hasn’t been very pleasurable.”
“Have you taken in a show on the West End?”
“I’ve only been here a few hours.”
“And you’re heading back already?” He was concerned.
“I’ve got no choice. I’m trying to win my fiance back and she just left for New
York,” I was still holding onto the illusion that Karen and I were still engaged.
“Things will work out, ol’ boy. Just hang in there.”
I liked this guy.
Twenty minutes later, we were at Heathrow. After paying the driver, I scrambled out of the cab and into the terminal. It looked just like JFK. Airports suck. The stewardess behind the counter was cute, though. Short, bobbed, black hair in her purple outfit, complete with neck scarf. I bellied up to the counter.
“Can you please tell me when the next flight to New York is leaving?” I asked the lovely lady behind the counter.
“Let me see . . . that would be flight 14 leaving at half ten this morning, sir. That would be in fifteen minutes. Would you like me to go ahead and see if we have an available seat? I’ll see if they can hold the plane.”
“Can you tell me if Karen Gold is on that flight?” I asked - OK, I begged.
“Sir, I’m sorry I cannot release that information to you.”
“But, I’m her fiancé.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, but it’s airline policy not to release passenger information.”
“You don’t understand. I just flew here from the States seven hours ago. The woman I love broke up with me, and for the last month I haven’t been able to do anything. I can’t eat, sleep, work - it’s killing me. I know she is somewhere in this airport and she is going to fly home without me telling her how much I love her. I need to see her. Can you please help me?”
The attendant looked at me with pity in her eyes, leaned over towards me and whispered, “She’s on this flight.”
“God bless you. Can I get a seat on that flight?”
“Let me see,” She was trying to help, “It appears that this flight is completely sold out. I’m very sorry.”
“Oh, no. When is the next fl-“
“Wait a minute! It looks like we have one seat left, but it is an upper-class ticket.”
I now travel in style, I thought to myself, “Okay. How much is that?”
“That would be £1,880.30 sir. Would you like me to go ahead and book that for you?”
I paid the nice lady, got my boarding pass and headed over to the gate. Thank God, I didn’t have any luggage with me. I passed through the metal detector and it went off. Of course. I tried it again, and it rang for a second time. Now, I got noticed.
“Sir, please step over here,” the security officer said.
They pulled me over for a spot check. Why, Lord? Why do you toy with me so? I was patted and scanned up and down - I passed the security check. All the while, valuable time was being lost.
Then I heard, “Final call for flight 14 non-stop from Heathrow to New York.”
“That’s my flight,” I said to the security officer, as he finished the pat down. “I have to make it.”
The security guard got on a walkie-talkie and spoke to the gate. “Let’s go,” he said to me and we ran over to a motorized airport cart. I like those things. I have always wanted a ride in one - who hasn’t? Off we went, speeding along between three and five miles per hour.
This was like an inside-the-airport limo. As we rode, I observed all the other travelers walking, jogging, rushing along. Not me, I was riding in style.
We got to the gate with no time to spare.
“Oh, my God! Thank you so much,” I said to the security guard, and then took off towards the terminal hangar door and onto the plane.
“Mr. Michaels?” The lovely stewardess asked.
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you made it. Your seat is right this way.” She escorted me over to the second
row and into my plush seat. “I’m glad you’re flying with us today.” Then she whispered, “I know who you are. I saw you in the paper the last time I was in New York. If you need anything just let me know. My name is Charmane.”
“Well, there is one thing you can do...”
A minute later, the door was shut, and Charmane’s voice filled the airplane, “We apologize for the brief delay, but we are now quite settled and ready to begin our flight.”
I took a minute to catch my breath.
I wanted to run back and find Karen, but I couldn’t get up until the seatbelt sign was turned off and we were free to move about the cabin. One false move these days, and you would find yourself on the evening news, being escorted to a holding facility, where miscreants waited to be interrogated for terrorism. So, I sat there and waited, with the words of Michelle, Jon, Carl and of course, the cougar from the plane ride over, running through my head. Once we were at cruising altitude, I called Charmane over.