Lee Heads Back for some Ibuprofen
Lee is pretty thrilled with the quality of the hotel—he’d feared it’d be far worse. The sheets smell good. Tegucigalpa isn’t known for its bagels, but the ones here are fresh every morning, and the tone of the alarm clock is gentle. But best of all is Steph, the girl who works weekday evenings, doing her temporary tenants the favor of choking back the horror of her drugged-out existence for long enough each day to be the most pleasant daily interaction they can count on having.
Lee’s had a couple of long weeks selling detailed replicas of popular sci-fi characters, but he’s done well for himself. He’s here for the 1974 World’s Fair—a title that makes note of the 1,974 booths for attendees to visit but is nonetheless confusing for a fair that’s been held from February 1st-February 31st anually since 2020. It’s a shoddily organized affair, but that’s part of the charm. Most people here expect it to end at least 2 days early, probably 3, but some suckers still hold out hope that it sticks to schedule.
Lee’s fingers are raw from demonstrating his action figures, and he’s got a nagging headache. Things slow down every day around 3 and pick up again about 5, so he’ll leave his daughter in charge of the booth while he heads back to the hotel for some relief.
He steps onto the elevator, jabs his finger into the 4th-floor button, and taps his foot while the elevator takes him up. Lee woke up with Sheryl Crow’s version of D'yer Mak'er stuck in his head, and it’s making things worse. Lee hurries off the elevator, scuttling past some flowers that weren’t there when he left in the morning. “So nice of them,” he thought, “rarely do customers feel this loved.”
As he speed-walks to his room, he wonders if the flowers are real. Surely a hotel this lovely in a country this beautiul would use real flowers. Lee wondered if they even had fake flowers in Honduras. Or anywhere else, really.
Lee felt a bit of panic after shoving his key card into his door and seeing the light flash red, and a little more panic when he tried again with the same result. Had his credit cards demagnetized his key card? Lee had heard of such a phenomenon, but was unsure if he was remembering it correctly. Surely a hotel key can withstand the invisible forces of a credit card. I mean, what the fuck, right?
After trying a third time, Lee notices his mistake. This is room 543, on the fifth floor, and Lee is staying in the room directly below it on the fourth floor. “Always in such a hurry, and this is where it gets me,” he thinks to himself. He runs—not full-sprint; more of a business-casual run—back to the elevator. He waits patiently, greets the women already on the elevator, jabs the fourth floor button, and holds the door for the Swedish couple who arrive at the elevator bay last-minute. “Just a few extra seconds, no big deal” Lee thinks to himself as he smiles politely and shifts so the elevator can accommodate their Swedish luggage.
One floor down, and Lee jets off the elevator again. Another business-casual run to his door, another stuff of the keycard into its slot, and another red light. Lee looks at the door and is astonished to see the room number: 343.
Lee is becoming agitated and decides to avoid the elevator.
He jogs around like Lees do when they’re panicked but at a loss for a solution. He notices the third floor doesn’t have fresh flowers and has a moment of empathy for the visitors there. Finally, a stairwell. Lee rushes through the door hopeful that these stairs wouldn’t let him down.
Walking up the stairs, Lee has time to take stock of his situation. Of the 200 ibuprofens he had when he arrived, he’s got about 50 left. He’ll restock on the way back to the fair; running out is not an option. He has more than enough bottled water. Maybe he’ll take a hot shower, that oughtta help.
Lee walks through the first door he sees and is terrified to find that he’s in the hotel’s parking garage. “I’m pretty sure I was walking up,” Lee thinks to himself, before realizing he’s unsure if he had been walking up or down the stairs. Lee takes a seat. He’s got a lot to think about.
“I’m definitely still in the hotel, the airport van is right there,” he thinks, not fully reassured but less frightful. Lee is frozen with indecision. The elevator and stairs both appear to be malfunctioning, and there’s nowhere to go inside the building if he can’t find his room. Leaving the premises, though, is even riskier. Where would he end up? Could he find his way back? Does it matter?
As his mind races, frantic for conclusion, Lee forgets to notice that his headache is gone.
The tinted sliding glass doors open to reveal the hallway to the front desk, and within a minute Lee is standing there, paying for a room on every floor in the hotel without explaining himself. Bewildered, the young functionary hands Lee 17 hotel key cards and tells him to enjoy his stays.
Lee gets on the elevator with a hotel maid, deciding to get off on whatever floor she chooses. The door opens on the fourth floor, and Lee walks to room 443, jabs his keycard in the slot, and lets himself in. He rummages through his luggage for some ibuprofen before realizing his headache is gone. It’s about time he get back to the fair.
Sweat beads on his forehead, Lee reaches for the doorknob. He takes a deep breath, makes sure he has his key cards, and steps back out.
