Rick, by the way, does something involving software. He writes code or designs websites or plays computer games all day long—something like that. You and Sandra are going to tell them next weekend, after the appointment with the counselor who is going to, in a friendly way, prepare you for what is to come. If she mentions the words adult diaper then you’re going to pry up that floorboard.
Good news—you are still sane. You are still you in every way. You lost your watch this morning and it’s not on the A Place for Everything shelf. But more good news—soon you’re not going to need a watch. Bad news—you fought with Sandra, and you hate that. You’ll make it up to her. You’ll buy her some flowers when you find your credit card. Oh yeah, that’s the other bad news. Your Visa is floating around the house somewhere, God knows where. Good news—at least it’ll be a low bill this month.
It’s the thought of a buffet breakfast that gets Jerry’s stomach grumbling. He sits on the edge of his bed and he rubs his eyes and stretches his legs and stretches his back and hears something click into place. There’s a copy of Vault on the bed. It’s a novel about a bank robbery that goes horribly wrong, the twist at the end is that it all actually went horribly right. It’s one of his earlier books, though he can’t remember reading from it last night, and he’s not sure what it’s even doing here. He usually travels light.
He heads into the shower, and when he comes out he switches on the TV. He leaves it on the first channel that comes on, which is the news, and he guesses the last person who stayed here must have been English because it’s on an English channel, or perhaps it’s just the default setting of the hotel. His stomach kicks into overdrive. One of the best things about traveling for writers festivals and book signings are the nice hotels and big breakfasts. Suddenly he’s very keen to see what this hotel has available. He can’t remember the details of his schedule, but it normally involves a train in the morning as they travel from one part of the country to the other. And Jerry loves being in Germany, even if he does only know a couple of phrases—Mein name ist Henry, because Henry is who they think he is. Henry Cutter. He looks around the hotel room for his watch but can’t find it. No matter. He’s a morning person and has never slept past ten o’clock in his life. It can’t be much later than ten o’clock now. If it were, his German editor, who he’s traveling with, would have pounded on his door already. But not knowing where his watch is is somewhat of a worry. He had his wallet stolen once while in Germany, so these days he tends to lock his wallet and passport in the safe—which is probably where his watch is too. Though, for the life of him, he can’t remember the pin code for the safe and, come to think of it, where is the safe? A quick look around the room doesn’t reveal one, which must mean he’s left everything down in reception.
The hotel is a little drab, he thinks, as he steps into the corridor. He rounds the corner where two old people are standing outside a door, each of them wearing robes, and as he passes one of them nods and calls him by name. Probably somebody he met in the bar last night, or somebody he signed a book for. The man just says Jerry, which means it must be somebody he liked enough to have given his real name to, but with just the one word he can’t tell how good the man’s English is. He can’t find the elevator, but he does find the dining room, which probably means he’s on the ground floor anyway. In the dining room is a mishmash of people, most of them elderly, some of them staring into the distance, some wearing pajamas, some with food all over their mouths, making him wonder exactly what kind of hotel this is. In fact one person is being spoon-fed by another. His editor isn’t here—he’s either still asleep or out having a cigarette. He finds a table and waits for one of the waitresses to come over—they normally do with coffee, and to check your room number—but nobody shows up, which is okay, because he can’t actually think what his room number is, and, come to think of it, he must have locked his key card in the room. He starts checking out the buffet selection, which is, he thinks, not what he was hoping for. He grabs some soft-boiled eggs, toast, and a bowl of cereal, and makes his way back to his table.
He’s halfway through his cereal and has just spilled some when he realizes he’s still wearing the robe he put on when he got out of the shower. He pulls it aside and sees he’s wearing nothing under it. An intense feeling of embarrassment comes over him—this is exactly the sort of shit Sandra said would happen if he drank too much while on tour, and who the hell forgets to get dressed in the morning? He stands so suddenly that he knocks the table and tips over his glass of orange juice. It’s an effort not to swear, but he manages it. It’s an effort not to look out at all the people who are now staring at him, but he manages that too. There is something strange happening here, he can feel that, but he can’t quite figure out what. He keeps his head down and walks out of the dining room, and once he’s in the corridor he starts to run. He wants to get the hell out of here—next city please—and tonight, cross his heart and hope to die, he promises he’ll leave the gin and tonics alone. This is just like one of those dreams where you show up at work naked. He reaches his room and puts his fingers on the handle, hoping the door will be unlocked.
“Jerry, hey, Jerry, are you okay?”
A man is walking down the corridor towards him. He’s in a white uniform—he looks more like a chef than a doorman or concierge or whatever his title is at Hotel Wherever. He’s a big guy—the kind of guy who might have been a rugby player back in the day—whenever that was. He can’t be much older than forty. He has the kind of hairline that Jerry has always been frightened of getting, where there’s hair around the sides but nothing else. He has a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that need a wipe, and a thick set of eyebrows hanging over them. His jaw protrudes further than his nose, it’s big and square and well shaved.