The dark haired lady talks about how the hotel we are staying at is one of the most exclusive hotels in All of Stratford. Charles and Trevor are still inform us that we don’t have to worry about checking in or about our luggage or anything. That if we just go straight ahead past the lobby there is a banquet room and lunch is already waiting for us. Trevor then tells us that he wants us all to eat together at least for the first couple of meals.
The hotel we are staying at is located in the center of Stratford-upon-avon and looks like it was furnished out a bevy of faun-flavored cigar boxes and is known as the Moathouse though there appears to be no Moat in sight.
Bodies adorned in menstruating-red spring jackets are everywhere. Mark is no where in sight. Both Liz and Mary Jo are waving us in the center room telling us all that they know it has been a long day and a long flight but we’ve finally made it and now it is time to eat. Due to the onset of jet lag it feels like I am floating. All I can think about is that I need a cup of coffee. When I ask the server for a cup of coffee she tells me that all they have at this hour is water and tea but she friendly would be more than happy to brew me a cup if I don’t mind the wait, love.
I tell her I don’t.
After lunch as I will learn everyday is customary the time when Liz Madigan steps up to the front of the banquet hall and addresses the group as a whole. She starts out particularly looking at the younger groups and asking them how many of them enjoyed their first international flight before inquiring via show of hands how may of us in the group is completely exhausted and jet lagged. Hands rise like stalks. She then addresses the group as a whole and inquires which of us was in the group that had the flat tire near Oxford Union this morning and then asks the remainder 80 percent of Young Columbus’s to give this group a hand for their tenacity and willing to improvise in terms of accommodations after a lengthy flight.
Liz tells us that, in the first time In Young Columbus history, one thing we do have to be thankful for is that everyone’s luggage safely arrived at the scheduled terminal. She says that that is a blessing. More applause is heard. She then addresses the group again as a whole and inquires what we think of England so far. There is a pause splintered when one of the high school yells out like he’s a pep assemble stating that it’s wet, spawning a rippling effect of laughter and nods across the intoning chorus of the room.
“Fortunately the sun is scheduled to come out later today and the forecast for tomorrow calls for sun.”
Sir Charles is opening up an envelope and Trevor is commenting for Big Ten to give it up. States names orally topple as if in preparation for some geography bowl. Our bodies are limp, red-eyed, correlating with the dye of our jackets. Our bodies once again huddle to form a steeple of masculinity. As if he is in the process of announcing the award for best supporting Big Ten cast member, Sir Charles opens up the envelope and begins to shuffle through twenty plastic keys shaped like credit cards.
“Your luggage is already right outside the doors to your room, so you guys don’t hafta worry about that.”
“Everyone gets a key” Trevor notes while distributing the plastic shards as if he has just cut the deck of cards as a poker tournament. “Put it in your wallet because if you lose the key they charge you twenty pounds to replace it.”
Both Justin and myself are handed a credit card shaped key.
“I’m tired. I don’t even care about going out and seeing Startford.” Justin notes as we enter the room
“Yeah, but there’s gonna be a lot of cute girls on our trip. I mean, that must be an incentive to go out and see those cure girls.”
“I told you, I got a girlfriend back home. She’s hotter than any of these girls”
“You got a picture of her man?” Justin swipes his head. He tells me that he doesn’t need one. He tells her that the only picture he needs is in his mind. He points to the University of Michigan logo on his cap when he says the word mind.
This is my girl from back home. I tell him, flapping open my wallet as if I am speaking with authority and ducking under a stream of yellow tape at a recently christened criminal investigation scene.
Next to the British pounds and a few travelers cheques I still have to convert there is the picture of Renae. I hand it to Justin. He first says not bad.
“Yeah, I was madly in love with her. Her name is Renae. Renae Holiday.”
If you squint close you can make out the front of Renae’s bra through the diaphanous white blouse she is wearing.
“She’s really sexy.” Justin notes. “Yeah, and she gave me this.” I hold out my wrist and point to the identity bracelet that gave me so much shit when I was trying to go through the metal detector and get on the plane.
“Do you plan on writing her on the trip. I’m sure she misses you.”
I tell Justin that it is not like that.
“We actually broke up. We broke up a week before I won the contest.”
Justin inquires what happened. I tell him that it’s a long story. He asks why I still carry her picture on me and am wearing her identity bracelet even though we are not together.
“Because I guess I still love her in a way.”
Remembering what Trevor said about having to replace the key a place the slice of plastic behind the picture, place my wallet in my back pocket. I walk to the end of the room and look out the window. Slowly the clouds are beginning to disperse. Everything is wet. Everything smells like rain.
The room looks like something Marsha Brady might have decorated while being obsessed with the color green.
The tv had a transmitter at the top and a nipple similar to the one Nat was fondling overhead on the Skipper.
Justin publically grouses that he was hoping for the bed closest to the window.
“How about this, once we get to London you can have the bed closest to the window. Justin says whatever by offering out a little shrug, telling me that he doesn’t know why I want to have the window anyway since its not like all it doesn’t do here is rain all the time.
“It’s faught waning.” I say, in medias yawn. Closing my eye, exhausted, my entire anatomy parachuting through the cascading garage doors ponds of my eyes, there is Renae Holiday only I can see through both her blouse and her jeans and she is looked at me and inviting me into a back room at Anne Hathway’s cottage, British man telling us to mind our head as he begins to list off Midwestern states, pausing several times when he gets to the word Ohio.Renae is completely naked and it is raining outside and her hand resembles the anemic rail of an umbrella and she is leading me to that place below her naval, telling me to touch it. Telling me to stick my tongue into it. Telling me that the insides taste like spring.
There is more rain. Renae is talking with a New York accent. The British guy is now in the room with his hands pretzeled behind his back and he is making grunting noises. He still has trouble uttering the word Ohio. Renae is trying to peel at the center of my jeans. There are more grunting noises. On the desk there is a dossier of poems by William Shakespeare with a copy of Journal Star announcement, the group picture from when it was announced that I won the contest only I try to make out Nat Pfleder’s face and cannot. Renae is talking with a Brooklyn accent saying that she is having a hard time trying to release the helix of my zipper. It is obvious from the manner is which the Mind-your-head old man is grunting that he is trying to get me to notice something. With Renae still trying to finger the combination of my jeans I momentarily avert my vision and notice that there is what looks like a dead daschund with little question marks of steam rising from his carcass station at the old man’s feet.
“Not there. There.”
He says, sounding like a butler, pointing with his chin.
Behind him there is a window where everyone is wearing a trench coat boarding some sort of train. I can see only their backs. In the reflection I see the man who sold me the issue of Details at the bookstore in O’hare I purchased when Nat was ignoring me. I see the reflection of the man with the pony tail and the laptop back in the terminal at the Peoria airport. I see my own reflection staring back at me and then I am startled by a shrill. It sounds like a tornado siren erupted. It is nasal and loud and Renae is trying to grope at the center of my anatomy like it will grant her respite from the fracas and the next thing I know my eyes are welded open and I find myself in a hotel bed in Stratford-upon-avon, the phone reverberating next to me. Justin asleep on the opposite bed.
I pick up the receiver and say hello.
It is Trevor’s voice. He addresses me as hey, Illinois. He asks me if Michigan is awake yet. I tell him no. He’s a sleeper state.
“Well wake him up and meet us down in the lobby in fifteen minutes. The adventure is about to begin. "
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