It was God o'clock in the morning in the United States of America and I was sitting on a hotel bed flipping through channels on the decrepit TV. Sports. News. Music. News. News. Sports. Talk show. Clickity click fucking click. I had the worst hangover I'd had since the day after Tyla's engagement party. The paper was covering the cost of everything except the mini-bar, so I could sit here and wallow in self-pity as long as I wanted. Or, at least, until the conference started and I had to earn a living. Conference was being held at some fancy hotel on the other side of downtown Seattle, about as far from my lodgings as physically possible. Not that my editor wanted me to quit in order to save him the work of coming up with an excuse to fire me or anything, oh no. Clearly "appropriate accommodations" meant the Fleabag Motel in which the shower was dripping at the perfect rate to provide counterpart to the pounding in my head. A long time ago --twelve years-- I'd sworn that I'd never drink. Didn't want to lose so much control over my actions. My twenty year old self was young and stupid and far too taken with the idea of being a mysterious, untouchable Goth college student. We're all allowed our late teen and early twenties' indulgences, shut up.
I fell back on the pillows and reached for the phone. The call was long-distance, but the newspaper was paying for it. The newspaper was paying for everything and they could damn well cater to me as long as I remained on staff. Which was the most joyous experience of my life, by the way. Really. I loved my job. And the axe with which I was planning to slaughter every last one of my coworkers, too. I called Neil. His wife answered. I was all ready to hang up on her cheerful ass, but he picked up the extension before I got the chance. "I got it, Mel."
"Hey," I said, suddenly not sure why I was calling early Saturday morning from a shitty hotel room in Seattle.
"Hangover?" he asked immediately. I covered my eyes with an arm. He knew me a tad too well.
"Yes. Like you wouldn't believe."
"Where the hell are you?"
"Fucking Seattle. Covering the World-Peace Conference thing. All expenses paid."
"Prestigious," he commented dryly.
I snorted. "They're trying to get me out of their hair. What better method than sending me to the States?"
"They can't fire you," he said with too much certainty.
"Yes they can. And will, I'm thinking. I need a new career."
"What, haven't exposed any government conspiracies lately?" he asked. I could hear his smirk over the phone.
"Fuck you." It was an automatic reaction, brought on by the fact that he'd been needling me about the same thing for a good seven years.
"When're you coming back?"
I paused, thinking. "Tuesday afternoon. Everything ends Monday night, but I couldn't get a flight back until noon on Tuesday. Airports are packed."
There was a knock on my door. I frowned at the wall above the TV. People wanted to see me? What was the world coming to?
"Hang on," I told him, setting down the phone on the flowered bedspread and pushing myself up, stopping a second to regain my balance as all the blood rushed away from my head. I opened the door just enough to peer out into the hall. A short, balding man in a gray suit was standing outside, scuffing his shoe on the gray carpet. He looked up when I cleared my throat.
"The press van leaves in forty-five minutes," he informed me. I blinked. Not only did I have no idea who this man was or how he knew I was a reporter, but...
"We have a van?"
He nodded. "There weren't any busses, so we've got a few vans." He shrugged. "A young woman from the Toronto Sun got her hands on a list of Canadian reporters and booked us a couple of the vans. The vans leave in forty-five minutes."
Van. Van. Van. I contemplated reminding him of a few cardinal rules of writing. My hangover dissuaded me. I blinked. "Okay. Certainly beats taking a cab."
He nodded. "I thought so."
I backed into my room, nodded at him again and closed the door.
I grabbed my jacket on the way back to the phone. "Hey."
"Hot date?" Neil asked promptly.
"Oh definitely. Blonde, legs that go on forever, much hotter than your wife."
He snorted. "Yeah, right."
"She's in the room, isn't she?" I teased.
"That's not the point."
"We've got vans," I told him. There was a silence. "You know? Large moving four wheeled critters?"
"Yes. Why are you telling me this?"
"Because there's a giant white screen in the back of my head flashing the word "van" non-stop, and I thought I'd verbalize."
"Ah."
"I'm hanging up. I've got to go make myself look presentable and take a bottle of Tylenol."
"See you Tuesday."
I paused. "Will you?"
"Unless you've got someone else planning to pick you up from the airport."
"Right. No." Sometimes I wondered how I'd survive without him. ...sometimes. On occasion. Once a year.
"One day you'll get your license and the world will rejoice."
I dragged my suitcase up onto the bed. "I'm thirty-two. I think I've done pretty well without it."
"Exactly. You're thirty-two. You should have it."
"This conversation would be far more interesting if we were talking about my virginity."
"Car..."
I smirked to myself. "I really do need to go. I'll call you later. After the reception. And the rum." I did not wait for his answer.