Wednesday, December 08, 2010

Short tale for Christmas





Can you believe it? I'd been on the waiting list for a stay at The Despicable Inhospitable Hotel for over five years, then suddenly, I get a 'phone call from a man called Elvis: 'Mr Rudzinsky, it's your lucky day, we've got you a Christmas reservation, especially targeted at couples wanting a crummy seasonal romantic get-away.' Jesus, I thought, is that some kind of new spin on customer service?

The last person I'd want to take on a romantic get-away is my shapeless wife, Rachel.
I've been telling Rachel to go to hell for over thirty years.

As in all hotels of note, this one comes with the highest of highest recommendations, from the best of best people, though it depends on what you mean by 'the best.' I have a best suit which I wear at funerals, but it doesn't mean that I like it. I wear it a lot now, I guess I'm of that age. A person with a global profile, a power-wallet, and a big mouth, is all it takes to puff up an hotel. Everyone who is visibly a somebody, and even an invisible nobody-noddy, hungers to stay there. The Despicable Inhospitable, is the most expensive hotel in the world. I had to go there, in spite of that telephone call. I took Julie. Julie doesn't know I'm married.


Set off one of the most desolate spots on the planet, The Despicable Inhospitable Hotel, can only be accessed by a ski-plane. I can't take seriously a plane with propellers, it's like being inside an interminable whoopee cushion. Julie didn't know what I was talking about, she wasn't compus mentis, thanks to the Valium and three Barcardi and Coke's. She barely noticed the pop star, Morris Smacker, try hitting on her in the First Class Lounge. 'Who's the grandaddy?' he asked her, as we boarded the aircraft.


Once that can of sardines commenced it's turbulent descent, passengers were near stupefied by the sight of the hotel which shot out from the side of a mountain like a giant golden splinter. It stretched way way up into the snow clouds, and beyond.
It is fair to say that neither the namby-pamby nor the lilly-livered arrived at this romantic Christmas destination in one piece. There were a number of these guys traveling on our plane, they all had that flaky look, especially the younger ones. Within minutes of disembarkation, that nancy pop star was the first to be ripped apart by three hungry bears. Hunger always looks better behind expensive shades. I took off my sunglasses when the snow turned pink.
If you did chance to arrive at the hotel intact, there was no bell boy to take command of your suitcases, no bootlicking receptionist to greet you with a warm smile, nor a concierge to dance attendance to your every whim. Where is everyone? ‘Elivs? Elvis? Ya hear me?’ No answer. A gold key marked for my attention, was left on reception. Julie sighed and stretched out her arms. ‘Let’s just go to bed,’ she said picking up the key. I was thankful Morris had gottten gobbled up and not me. That stupid punk won’t be pawing Julie’s long soft limbs again.

We stepped inside the elevator and set down our luggage, some goof, dressed up as Santa, jumped into the cage. 'Ho, ho, ho, good evening, Mr Rudzinsky, I'm your elevator operator for this evening. You're staying in the Penthouse Suite, is that correct? Allow me, if you please' he went on, sliding the scissor gate shut and depressing a button marked 'Penthouse' on the control panel. I sensed his smirk whilst I fumbled inside in my coat pockets for my blue pills. Darn, if they weren't in my pockets maybe they were in my jacket, or in the suitcase? I should have taken one earlier. I didn't want bendable Julie falling asleep on me. 'Are you okay, Rudzie?' said Julie helping me take off my coat, 'you look awful unsettled.' 'That red moth ball gives me the creeps, it's like he's tanked up on something. I've never liked Santa. As a kid, I always thought he was a drunk. Santa tapped me on the shoulder, 'Mr Rudzinsky, Sir, you're wife called earlier, she wants to speak to you urgently regarding the matter of your daughter's twentieth wedding anniversary .' Julie's face screwed up, I've seen smoother looking walnuts. Examinations of the heart and soul are seldom complimentary, especially within the confines of a gilded cage. 'Julie, honey, that stupid crusty's got his wires mixed up. I've never been hitched.' But she wouldn't listen. If that punk hadn't opened his mouth, I'd be pawing Julie right now. When the elevator reached the top floor, Julie kicked me out .
I last saw Julie kissing Santa. There was no mistletoe. That crushed me. No goddam mistletoe. He was pawing her long legs. When she did manage to catch a glance at me, she yelled: 'Go to hell.'