NOT ON THE ROCKS

“And I’d like a ground floor room please.”

“Sorry, only second floor is available,” said the woman at registration.

“Then put me near the elevator,” was the best I could ask for.

I always ask for a downstairs room at hotels because I’m lazy and, moreover, I’ve got a lot of camera cases and equipment I prefer to schlep as short a distance as possible.  Fortunately it was a short walk from the car, to the front door, to the elevator and then to my second floor room.  For my fourth and final trip all I was carrying were maps, a Kindle and a flask of rum for a cocktail in the room before bed.

As luck would have it, this time I waited and waited and waited for the elevator to come down one floor of the only two-floor hotel.  Finally the ‘ding’ of the elevator announced its arrival.  The door opened and people came out, giggling little tourists emerged, one after another after another.  What’s so funny?  The elevator was like a clown car as I hummed the backwards lyrics of the old Genesis song I always think of when waiting for elevators to empty; you’ve got to get out to get in…

As the last one of the giggling little tourons exited the elevator I jumped in just as the door was closing.  Finally!  I stabbed the “2” button, the door closed and then it hit me:

The Fart.

Is this what they were laughing about?  A giant, hideous, smelly freakin’ fart had contaminated every molecule of air in the elevator!  This was no little stinker but a fully fermented, from the bowels of the bowel, weapons-grade motherfucking fart.  It was a close your eyes and hold your breath if you want to live kind of fart. 

It was hideous.  I’m sure it was infusing my clothing.

If anyone on the second floor was waiting for the elevator when I got off I was just going to say to them:  “Hey, it was in there before I got in, I didn’t do it!”  Luckily the ride was short (I was able to hold my breath) and there was no one waiting for the elevator when the door opened on the second floor.

Whew!  Next poor elevator-rider won’t have anyone to blame.

Sonofabitch, I muttered as I inserted my card-key into the door.  Safely in my room I finally took an uncontaminated breath.  I sniffed my clothing but it only smelled like my own sweat, I was lucky.

I washed a glass and retrieved a Coke from the mini-fridge and prepared to mix a drink with the contents of the flask in my back pocket.  Rocks?  I need ice.  Grabbing the ice bucket I remembered seeing an ice machine next to the elevator and stepped into the hallway outside my room.

No ice machine.

Damn!  That ice machine next to the elevator was on the first floor.

I decided right then that drink didn’t need any ice.

No way I’m getting in that elevator now, that fart is still in there, waiting for its next victim….