Tuesday, August 14, 2007
The Case Of The Missing Suite
OK, OK, stop needling me. Here I am. I wanted to be here, but I ran out of gas. I, I had a flat tire. I didn't have enough money for cab fare. My tux didn't come back from the cleaners. An old friend came in from out of town. Someone stole my car. There was an earthquake. A terrible flood. Locusts. IT WASN'T MY FAULT, I SWEAR TO GOD!!!!!
That string of excuses sound familiar?
Anyway, I was at an international auto theft conference all last week. Good people, good training, well done! Throw in the hospitality suite, and you have all the makings for a good story. Mine starts Wednesday night. I couldn't get a room that night because the Wigwam was sold out. Cops and fraud investigators are my second favorite group to drink with, and a friend who had a suite offered me his fold-down couch to stay over. That beat the hell out of driving the 45 miles home across town, so I took him up on it. I swung by his room, dropped off my stuff, and headed (surprise, surprise)for the hospitality suite. There I found sufficient liquid refreshment, along with a rousing game of Texas Hold 'Em, so I settled in and stayed a while. When the Poker wrapped up about 1:00AM, the party moved out onto a patio for about another hour, and then I finally headed off to bed.
But I couldn't find it.
Now, in my defense, the Wigwam is weird layout. It's hard to find anything there, even when you're completely sober. It's several acres of lodges and cottages spread all over the place. Realizing I had not a clue which room I had a key card for, having hastily swept through only once, I did the only thing I could: I looked for my car, which I knew I had parked near the room.
After several minutes of wandering, I stumbled across what I was pretty sure was my car. I tried the remote. IT WORKS! I'M HOME! My celebration was premature, for as I looked around, I realized I had only narrowed my choices down to about four rooms. Now, it's nearly 2:00AM in a sold-out resort, with every room occupied, many by armed police officers, and I have to try four doors in hopes of getting the right one. I picked the most likely suspect, tiptoed up, and gingerly inserted my card.
No good.
OK, must be that one over there. Tiptoe, quietly, shhhhhh, insert key card.
Nothing.
Same for the other two doors. I knew one of them had to be correct, so I must have somehow demagnetized the stupid key card. Now what? Bang on doors until the right guy answers? No, of course not. Too rude, too dangerous. No, you go to the front desk, ask for your friend's room number and a new key card. Yeah, right. That'll work.
No, what you do is you crawl into your car and go to sleep. Of, course, with an overnight low of about 90 degrees, and being about a foot longer than my back seat.....Needless to say that wasn't working well. By about 3:45, I couldn't take it any longer. I was certain I had dozed and sweated out enough booze to be sober enough to drive home. In retrospect, I may not have been......but I honestly felt buzz-free and sober. So off towards home I went to catch a couple of hours of sleep before starting the process all over again.
Go the speed limit, Crime Dog. Don't draw attention to yourself.....you know you're fine, but good luck convincing the Highway Patrol. You're tired, had your contacts in for about 20 hours, your shit is scattered all over the car, and you're barefoot on an Interstate freeway. You're screwed.
It's amazing how many people are out at 4:00AM on the freeways of this city.....As I made my transition onto the 60, I looked over and noticed the Highway Patrol right beside me. Great. But, there was nothing weird about my driving, plenty of other cars out, and he was probably headed to breakfast anyway. He never even looked at me.
I finally arrived home, and not wanting to awaken TFMCD or my big-mouth dog, I verrrrry quietly unlocked the door and tiptoed into the house. Finally....bed.....so comfy.....but what's this? The bedroom door is closed. TFMCD never closes the door. At least, not when I'm home or expected home. But I was neither of those. So, I tried the door.
Locked.
Once again, it was too late (early?) to awaken someone else just because I'm an idiot. So, I ended up sleeping fully clothed on a couch, anyway.
By about 8:30AM, my cop buddies at the Wigwam had out a search party, certain I was asleep somewhere in some shrubbery. By the time I remembered to go back out to the car and get my cell phone, there was like a hundred messages....Crime Dog, where the hell are you?....Call right away!.......You OK?......We're worried about you!...You never showed up at the room.....
My ass got chewed out about twelve times that day. I'm a near lock for a Bent Screwdriver Award, which is the association's way of gently informing you that you are a fuck up.
What can I say? I am, after all, The Crime Dog.
Oh, and it was Room 302.
|
That string of excuses sound familiar?
Anyway, I was at an international auto theft conference all last week. Good people, good training, well done! Throw in the hospitality suite, and you have all the makings for a good story. Mine starts Wednesday night. I couldn't get a room that night because the Wigwam was sold out. Cops and fraud investigators are my second favorite group to drink with, and a friend who had a suite offered me his fold-down couch to stay over. That beat the hell out of driving the 45 miles home across town, so I took him up on it. I swung by his room, dropped off my stuff, and headed (surprise, surprise)for the hospitality suite. There I found sufficient liquid refreshment, along with a rousing game of Texas Hold 'Em, so I settled in and stayed a while. When the Poker wrapped up about 1:00AM, the party moved out onto a patio for about another hour, and then I finally headed off to bed.
But I couldn't find it.
Now, in my defense, the Wigwam is weird layout. It's hard to find anything there, even when you're completely sober. It's several acres of lodges and cottages spread all over the place. Realizing I had not a clue which room I had a key card for, having hastily swept through only once, I did the only thing I could: I looked for my car, which I knew I had parked near the room.
After several minutes of wandering, I stumbled across what I was pretty sure was my car. I tried the remote. IT WORKS! I'M HOME! My celebration was premature, for as I looked around, I realized I had only narrowed my choices down to about four rooms. Now, it's nearly 2:00AM in a sold-out resort, with every room occupied, many by armed police officers, and I have to try four doors in hopes of getting the right one. I picked the most likely suspect, tiptoed up, and gingerly inserted my card.
No good.
OK, must be that one over there. Tiptoe, quietly, shhhhhh, insert key card.
Nothing.
Same for the other two doors. I knew one of them had to be correct, so I must have somehow demagnetized the stupid key card. Now what? Bang on doors until the right guy answers? No, of course not. Too rude, too dangerous. No, you go to the front desk, ask for your friend's room number and a new key card. Yeah, right. That'll work.
No, what you do is you crawl into your car and go to sleep. Of, course, with an overnight low of about 90 degrees, and being about a foot longer than my back seat.....Needless to say that wasn't working well. By about 3:45, I couldn't take it any longer. I was certain I had dozed and sweated out enough booze to be sober enough to drive home. In retrospect, I may not have been......but I honestly felt buzz-free and sober. So off towards home I went to catch a couple of hours of sleep before starting the process all over again.
Go the speed limit, Crime Dog. Don't draw attention to yourself.....you know you're fine, but good luck convincing the Highway Patrol. You're tired, had your contacts in for about 20 hours, your shit is scattered all over the car, and you're barefoot on an Interstate freeway. You're screwed.
It's amazing how many people are out at 4:00AM on the freeways of this city.....As I made my transition onto the 60, I looked over and noticed the Highway Patrol right beside me. Great. But, there was nothing weird about my driving, plenty of other cars out, and he was probably headed to breakfast anyway. He never even looked at me.
I finally arrived home, and not wanting to awaken TFMCD or my big-mouth dog, I verrrrry quietly unlocked the door and tiptoed into the house. Finally....bed.....so comfy.....but what's this? The bedroom door is closed. TFMCD never closes the door. At least, not when I'm home or expected home. But I was neither of those. So, I tried the door.
Locked.
Once again, it was too late (early?) to awaken someone else just because I'm an idiot. So, I ended up sleeping fully clothed on a couch, anyway.
By about 8:30AM, my cop buddies at the Wigwam had out a search party, certain I was asleep somewhere in some shrubbery. By the time I remembered to go back out to the car and get my cell phone, there was like a hundred messages....Crime Dog, where the hell are you?....Call right away!.......You OK?......We're worried about you!...You never showed up at the room.....
My ass got chewed out about twelve times that day. I'm a near lock for a Bent Screwdriver Award, which is the association's way of gently informing you that you are a fuck up.
What can I say? I am, after all, The Crime Dog.
Oh, and it was Room 302.
