My Hotel Gift-Card

Here is an easy way to make me happy: Just give me a gift-card that can be used at any hotel, so I can show this card to the receptionist at the front desk, and I will be given a room, free of charge. I can go to any hotel in the world and stay for as long as I want. 

If you give me this special free-hotel-anywhere card, I will probably enjoy the rest of my life. I will first stay at the hotel across the street from my old house in Apple Valley. Then after about a week, I will go to a hotel in Burnsville and stay there for a few days. Then I’ll visit a hotel in Rosemount, and then find a hotel in Eagan, and maybe even stay at a place in Minneapolis, before I venture out of the state.

No, not Minneapolis. I’d rather just go straight to France, after Eagan; and then I’d find a hotel in Sweden, and then a hotel in Poland, and then a hotel in Russia. Then I’d stay at a hotel in Iceland, and a small hotel in New Zealand. Then I’d come back to Minnesota and stay at more hotels here.

I would just love to live modestly, eat as little as possible, & go on a lot of walks in new, interesting areas. I’d also befriend many women and offer them an evening of conversation in my cozy hotel room. And they would always leave by 9 p.m., which is my bedtime. 

Then I’d receive a telephone call in the morning, and I’d pick up the receiver and mumble: “Hello?” And the same receptionist whom I handed my gift-card to earlier will say “Mister Ray, rise and shine; this is your wake-up alert that you requested: it is now seven o’clock in the morning; exactly one half-hour before the sun rises. Also, you have a call on line seven.” And I would look at the base of the phone and note that the button labeled “7” is flashing bright gold, so I would say “Thank you, Tina. Please have the room-service people bring me a small glass of orange juice with an ounce of vodka mixed in, one plate of scrambled eggs, and a shotgun.” Then I would press the blinking “7” button and say: 

“This is Bryan Ray, the famous author; how may I help you?” And the personality on the other side of the line would answer: “Bryan! This is Tanya from last night — remember? We had a lovely conversation in your hotel room. I just wondered if you would like to go for a walk and look at the waterfowl.” 

“Absolutely,” I’d reply; “just give me a sec to finish my breakfast and shoot at the sun. How about we meet in central park, in New York. Or, better yet, why don’t you just wait for me in the lobby of my hotel. There are lawn chairs on faux grass near the soda machine.” 

And my latest friend would say “Sounds great! Sure thing! It’s a date!” 

And then the room-service squad would knock on my hotel-room door and I’d shout “Come in!” Then a group of smiling employees would set up trays around my bed and serve me my meal, and lean my shotgun against the wall. I would then hold up my gift-card and say to these folks “Could you all make sure that you withdraw an yuge tip for yourselves from this account? You’re doing a wonderful job.” And they would all smile and nod and leave the room. 

After finishing my complimentary breakfast, I would pick up my shotgun and head outside to attempt to murder the sun. Once all my ammunition is spent, I will toss the gun into the recycling bin and head to the lobby. 

“Tanya! Good morning!” I’d say, and Tanya and I would shake hands while locking eyes and yearning to fornicate. “Should we play a game of mini-golf before heading out?” And then we’d play a couple rounds at the hotel’s indoor course before taking a stroll around the beautiful pond nearby.

Tanya and I would then climb into the limousine that is waiting at the northwest arc of the walking path, and I’d tell the driver to bring my ladyfriend to Destination X, because she desires to go perform important work there — she is a scientist by profession — and after waving goodbye to Tanya, I’ll ask my limo driver “What’s your name?” and he’ll say “Ben,” and I’ll say “Ben, take me to the nearest hotel — except not the one that I was just staying at: I want to visit a different establishment, just for kicks.” And Ben will say “Okie dokie,” and I’ll instruct him to withdraw an enormous tip for himself from my inexhaustible gift-card.

Now I’m at a hotel that’s SUPER fun. There are soccer tournaments downstairs, and I end up playing for the red team and scoring the winning goal. Just as I am removing my outfit to change back into my business suit, an army bursts into the hotel and attempts to accomplish a coup d'état. I confront the soldiers and convince them to drop their weapons and give up this obnoxious enterprise. They all comply. Then I order them all private rides to their respective homes, and I also tell the hotel’s restaurant to ship a serving of their best bowl of soup to each of these excellent men, so that they can be rewarded for their good behavior with a hearty meal. I also order for myself another small glass of vodka, and some basmati rice.

At this point, I will decide to become a clown, not as a joke or to scare anybody, but rather because I believe that clowning has never been done properly till now. I put on my wig and paint my face and don my shoes. Now I go out and please folks. Everyone just loves the way that I do my clever routine: the children are laughing and their parents are astonished at my level of craftsmanship. “He’s a genius,” they whisper to each other — both parents and children whisper this, in earnest. I buy them all large buckets of spicy chicken wings as a parting gift when I decide to abandon this stage of my existence.

Then I visit a hotel in Taiwan, and I really love it there. I stay five nights. Then I visit a hotel in San Francisco, and I couldn’t be happier. After that, I return to Minnesota again and stay at the Holiday Inn by the airport. A woman whom I met in a flower shop accompanies me to my room and leaves promptly at eight fifty-five. Her name is Vanessa.

I meet up with Vanessa the following morning, and we solve some mysteries. We then purchase some land in Miami and throw a big concert with a live orchestra and invite all our friends. (We discover that we have countless longtime acquaintances in common — it is odd that we had never met each other until yestermorning.) Then I instruct my driver to drop Vanessa off at her law firm, and I myself proceed to the amusement park.

I ride the ferris wheel. Then I ride the roller coaster. Then I ride the “Octopus” (eight arms protruding from a central axis move up and down at random, while cars at the end of these tentacles spin freely). Then I go to the Food Tent & order nachos in melted cheese, plus another glass of vodka. Then I walk around the premises without any thought in the world, until the sun sets. I breathe the air, and it smells suspiciously attractive. I continue ambling throughout the night; I do not visit another hotel, on this occasion. 

Yet, on the morrow, once the sun rises, I ask a family who is camping near the place where I fell asleep if I can borrow their shotgun. They permit me, graciously, and I use up a fair bit of ammo; then I return the weapon, and the family’s father wishes me luck as I take my leave. 

I now enter the hotel across the highway; yet, when I approach the receptionist, I realize that my gift-card is absent from either of my pockets: 

“I think somebody stole my property,” I explain; “for I was given a card sometime after my birth which had a surplus of value infused in its magnetic strip; and, formerly, I was able to offer this item to hotel employees, and every being would honor its authenticity; but now the symbol itself seems to have gone missing. Could you, by chance, create a replacement for me?” And, upon hearing my explanation, the receptionist issues me a replacement.