Day Two.Five: Arrive Utah.
The hotel manager thinks I’m a prostitute.
I arrive wearing jeans, flannel shirt and a pony tail. As I’m checking in the manager asks me how many keys I need. Since I’m staying so long, I say, probably two. He asks what my stay here is about, travel or business. I say I’m a working girl. He laughs. I unload a ridiculous amount of luggage.
My son arrives. He wants to take me out for dinner. I dress in what I have readily available. Grey cargos, black cami, jean jacket and flip flops. I notice the twenty pounds I’ve lost when the cargos keep slipping down my hips. I try to make up for the dressed down attire by adding extra accessories. Lots of bracelets and dangly earrings. I fix my makeup. Nothing can hide the fact I’ve cried for a week, but a little eyeliner helps.
Total, we’re in my room for about 20 minutes. He’s concerned he might run into someone else from the company we both work for (he doesn’t want to get looped into visiting) so he acts antsy. I’m whining about the budget busting tires and not paying attention to what I’m doing. As we’re leaving, I realize I’ve locked my keys in my room. I stop at the front desk and ask the manager for another. While he’s getting my key, my son gets a generous hair up his nose and hands me four hundred dollars with no explanation. Then, because he is notoriously uncomfortable with emotional scenes, he says he’ll see me outside.
I turn to face the manager, who looks from me to the door where my son just left, and then back to the wad of cash in my hand.
I’m speechless. I’ve only been in town for 15 minutes and I’ve scored a 400 dollar client.
I laugh.. nervously.
Oh what the heck. I don’t even try to explain: I just take the key and leave.
I may be a hooker, but at least I’m expensive.
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