If they're dumber than any novel reader would believe, they may be staying at the Residence Inn where I am currently. Let me recount the last...oh...20 minutes for you.
Phone rings. I answer, sure some horrible tragedy has occurred, and not quite certain why anyone would call on the hotel phone rather than my cell.
Prepubescent teen male voice, kind of giggling: "Code word: rugmuncher."
Me: "You have a wrong number."
Him: "No, dude..."
I hang up.
Phone rings. I answer, now certain there's no tragedy, just a whole lot of idiocy.
Him: "Dude, where's my weed?"
Me: "You have the wrong room. Whoever you think is staying here, they're not."
Him: "No, dude!" His voice is now edging into hysteria, shouting slightly. "211, dude, 211. You told me..."
Me: (in words I won't put here) "I don't care who told what, they lied to you."
I hang up.
Phone rings. Now, I am seriously pissed off. My wake-up call is in three hours. I have to haul my butt out of bed early to set up for a trade show I wasn't in the mood for in the first place.
Him: "Dude..."
Me: "The next time you call this number, I am calling the police."
I hang up.
I call the hotel operator. It's three o'clock in the morning, so it takes a while to get someone on the line. I explain the situation and ask her if she can track where the calls originated, since I am sure they are room-to-room. No, she can't. She apologizes. Actually, she "sincerely" apologizes. I explain that if the police arrive, it will be because I've called them. She is stumped by that, and apologizes again.
If I wrote this scene into a book, no one would believe it. What kind of moron gives a drug dealer money without getting the drugs then and there? Without even being sure they know what room the guy is staying in? Who calls a drug dealer "dude?"
Go ahead, use that scene in a book. I dare you. People will say your characters are "totally unrealistic."
Truth may not be stranger than fiction, but it sure is dumber.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
It's 3:18AM. Do You Know Where Your Children Are?
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5 comments:
So if I say "rugmuncher" to you, you'll sell me some weed? Dude?
(What's a rugmuncher?)
Dude- I hope he scored skunk dusted with pesticide. The beauty sleep is sacred!
Though I admit it sounds most like amateur hour, it also read to me like maybe he saw you carting around your hippie beadwares and assumed you were Madame Ambassador of Birkenstockia come to set him up tall on the sweet leaf. Hope the Red Bull and poppers keep your eyes open through the trade show :)
Elaine- If you really mean it, and I hesitate even to hint, the term defines a lady who's fond of the ladies.
Clare- Ah. Yes. Thanks. That makes sense. A-hem.
OK, I'm outta here...
Dudes and dudettes, I am never staying in that hotel again...
Laura, you ask:
"What kind of moron gives a drug dealer money without getting the drugs then and there?"
The same kind of moron who gives some guy on 47th street $30 to buy phony proof of age and then WAITS while the guy goes somewhere else to get it. That moron will age long past twenty-one before he ever sees his fake id or his money.
Then there is the female moron contingent. They usually travel in pairs because no bad thing can happen if you are with a friend. They are the kind of morons who agree to meet the drug dealer on a really quiet corner in a respectable residential neighborhood at two in the morning. Of course the dealer takes their money, gives them nothing in return and shoots out their front tires before he peels off, so they can't follow. (Because the dealer knows they are morons and would probably try.)
I could go on and on, but,fortunately, since I retired the moron memories are getting dimmer each day.
Sorry about your lost sleep and I hope you get some extra zzzz's tonight.
Terrie
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