Poached eggs, mimosas, clean sheets, & the New York Times
Posted: November 18th, 2011, 4:07 am
Room 983- Poached eggs, mimosas, clean sheets, & the New York Times early edition
1.
I was a night owl posed and sculpted in silver-toned metal on the middle of the hood of a 1964 Chevy, wings spread out to fly, but all I could do was coo. No hoots.
Hold your breath. I'm running on fumes from an exhaustion pipe. Morning came too soon, like madness enveloping a disappointed optimistic sunrise and I, not too wise about such things, decided to disconnect the ringer on my cell, fell head over heals for myself into the bed, beginning another day with instead of this or that until the chambermaid knocked, stating it was time to clean my room but all I wanted was a stack of sheets and white towels, two traveler bottles of shampoo, and a poached egg with asparagus on the side. Mimosas could wait until brunch.
2.
Forget the sheets," I said. "Make it a stack of pancakes instead. Hold the margarine. I don't do fake. Butter makes me happier. And can you please take my car in for a trade? I've been played like a twenty dollar bill in a parade of bets on a black jack table. All I need is a driver and a clean limousine. Thank you."
"OK," she replied through the focused eye in the middle of a metal 10" thick door. "And what more can I do for you?"
"Nothing," I said. "I'm done for the mourning night. Just make sure the Do Not Disturb sign is politely displayed on my brow. And dear, don't forget the orange juice. Fresh squeezed, please, clear like an empty mind pond, orange as dawn, no pulp on, not even one very demanding piece. Please."
"OK," she said, sneaking me the New York Times early edition beneath the threshold.
But I, cold, shaking blood-thrust tornado gusts, slipped back into bed, pulled the double-sheeted coverlets loose upon my head, with plans to dream of cream cheese frappes.
Oh how I dread the tap tap tap of the pancake delivery. My stomach cannot possibly be ready. I hope she makes a mistake and takes the cream for coffee from room number 983 and brings it to me instead.
.
.
dp.11.12.2011
1.
I was a night owl posed and sculpted in silver-toned metal on the middle of the hood of a 1964 Chevy, wings spread out to fly, but all I could do was coo. No hoots.
Hold your breath. I'm running on fumes from an exhaustion pipe. Morning came too soon, like madness enveloping a disappointed optimistic sunrise and I, not too wise about such things, decided to disconnect the ringer on my cell, fell head over heals for myself into the bed, beginning another day with instead of this or that until the chambermaid knocked, stating it was time to clean my room but all I wanted was a stack of sheets and white towels, two traveler bottles of shampoo, and a poached egg with asparagus on the side. Mimosas could wait until brunch.
2.
Forget the sheets," I said. "Make it a stack of pancakes instead. Hold the margarine. I don't do fake. Butter makes me happier. And can you please take my car in for a trade? I've been played like a twenty dollar bill in a parade of bets on a black jack table. All I need is a driver and a clean limousine. Thank you."
"OK," she replied through the focused eye in the middle of a metal 10" thick door. "And what more can I do for you?"
"Nothing," I said. "I'm done for the mourning night. Just make sure the Do Not Disturb sign is politely displayed on my brow. And dear, don't forget the orange juice. Fresh squeezed, please, clear like an empty mind pond, orange as dawn, no pulp on, not even one very demanding piece. Please."
"OK," she said, sneaking me the New York Times early edition beneath the threshold.
But I, cold, shaking blood-thrust tornado gusts, slipped back into bed, pulled the double-sheeted coverlets loose upon my head, with plans to dream of cream cheese frappes.
Oh how I dread the tap tap tap of the pancake delivery. My stomach cannot possibly be ready. I hope she makes a mistake and takes the cream for coffee from room number 983 and brings it to me instead.
.
.
dp.11.12.2011
