A week ago, several of we Guild Girls spent a weekend in Portland, Oregon. If you read my Comes a Weekend post you know we ate and wrote. Not in that order. Anyway, Saturday night we sprang for delivery pizza. This required soda. I bummed change from Laura, took the drink orders and headed out to the elevator.
The Mark Spencer Hotel is a nice place. And moderately priced so it seems to have an interesting mix of guests. Just down the hall from the elevators was a party room complete with raucous laughter and music. I was listening to the music when the elevator finally opened.
Standing in the doorway of the car, slightly confused, was a slouching guy in a cheesy running suit. He looked up and down the hallway, then looked at me, and motioned for me to get in the car.
Now I watch about every crime drama on network television. I really like Criminal Minds with it’s weekly serial killer themes. This guy needs to audition. He’s got the vibe down cold. Saying this, you would think I’d smile and make an excuse. Did I? Nah.
Not wanting to look like a scaredy cat, or a suspicious rube, I got right in. All the while “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?! THIS IS DANGEROUS!” were clattering around in my head.
All the experts say that if you feel uncomfortable in a situation, get out of it no matter how it looks to others. Especially some creepy guy in the elevator you have to use to get the soda.
So, I’m standing to the back of the elevator car, considering there are no hand holds to use for leverage so I could kick him if he attacked me. But then I noticed something … he pushed the button with his finger covered with his track suit. The guy was a bit, or maybe a lot, germaphobic. **
That’s my ticket. I figured if he made any moves I didn’t like, BOMBS AWAY! In this case, I was hoping spit would be as good a pepper spray. At that moment I began to work up the biggest wad of spit possible. By the time we got to the lobby, I felt pretty doggone safe from this badly dressed, slightly confused guy with bad posture.
The door opened, he looked up and down the hall and lobby and wandered off. But I was safe. Me and my new weapon of choice.
I went back to the room and told Laura and Pamela. They laughed. Laura said I don’t get out enough.
Looking back, I wonder if that guy was also a fan of crime shows and was considering his options in case I turned out to be a serial killer. A fat, badly dressed serial killer with a handful of quarters.
**My co-blogger, Robin Helm read this and pointed out he might have been keeping his fingerprints off the button rather than being a germaphobe. She had a great point! For a crime drama fan, I have to say I felt like a real chump. But thinking back, he was hugging his corner pretty tightly. I think he was afraid I was radiating germs. Or anger. Or hunger. Who knows.
Any slightly embarrassing stories of distrust and suspicion?
Take care–Susan Kaye