My broken toe was irreparably damaged by the 7 hour drive to L'Ville, the bruise no longer cute or shapely, just bogus. The main thing I notice about being, maybe-a-lil-bit, older now is that any drive longer than six and a half hours makes me feel like I slept on a futon.
Ain't nobody sleeping in Derby City tonight though. After complaining about the toddler sacrifice and loud teenagers on floor 16, the front desk people put me on a high, higher floor where, as the women tells me there is NO ONE else occupying ANY rooms. So, the facts are that I am on an odd floor containing the number 9 and I can't shake the distant echo of hotel doors opening and closing and horses galloping and ladies fainting and bookies booking - all just far enough down the hall to not investigate. It all has me convinced that I am on a haunted floor or in a bad John Cusack movie or both. The view from my foggy top floor window at this rancid has-been hotel on the banks of the OH-Hi-O River may be my last. They say there are only two kinds of people that die in Ohio; one's going to hell and one's already there. (I totally made that up)
When I let him in, I told the room service guy that, I've got a hooker in the shower, lets not make a thing about it. I'd tried to prevent opening the door at all by screaming, JUST LEAVE IT OUTSIDE but he couldn't hear me or didn't think he'd get a tip that way. So I turned on the shower and shut the bathroom door to give the appearance of another person in the room just so he wouldn't notice that the glasses-of-wine-to-people-in-the-room ratio was way off base. Street smart solo travelers know how to 1) Travel Defensively 2) Confuse 3) Divert. But do they know how to stay alive?
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