Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [93]
“Is ‘crucify’ with an ‘s’ or a ‘c’?”
“Jesus, Greer. What kind of letter are you writing?”
She snorts at me. “You have to word these things strongly if you want to get anywhere.”
“What do you want from them?” I ask.
“A year’s supply.”
“It’s crucify with a ‘c.’ Now leave me alone.” I start adding my hotel room, tax and meals for each day. Then I see the minibar charge. The total is sixteen hundred dollars. “How is this possible?”
“What?” Greer says, turning to me.
“What the fuck?”
“Augusten, what is it? What’s the matter with you?”
“My minibar charges. Look.” I hand her the bill.
“These aren’t your charges?” she says, looking over the bill.
“Of course not. No. I only took bottled fucking water.”
She stops chewing her gum. “You did read the little notice on the minibar, didn’t you?”
“What little notice?” I say.
Greer, ever the A student, recites the notice from memory: “For your convenience, you will be automatically billed for each item removed from your minibar.”
“But all I drank was the water!”
“Okay. But did you take things out and then put them back?”
“They bill you for that?” I say, horrified.
“Of course. All the good European hotels do it now.”
We weren’t in fucking Europe. I say nothing.
“What did you do? Take all the liquor bottles out every day and then put them back?” She laughs like this is not something within the realm of actual possibility.
Unfortunately, it is. Because that’s exactly what I did. I fondled all the bottles, constantly. Sixteen hundred dollars’ worth of fondling. That’s like hiring a prostitute every night for a week. And not even having a drink to break the ice.
Back in my apartment, I phone the hotel and explain the unfortunate situation.
“I’m sorry,” they tell me.
“And . . . ?” I say.
“And that’s why we put the notice on the minibar door,” the customer service representative tells me with great smugness. Smugness that seems to say, Richard Gere wouldn’t bitch about this.
That’s it. I lose. Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic. For the rest of my life, there will be a bar tab.
“He’s German, he’s supposed to be punctual,” Greer says, annoyed, checking her Cartier Panther watch. “I could have used this extra time to sleep!”
I’m sitting in conference room 34A with Greer, Barnes, Tod and a few other people who make up the “Beer Team” at the agency back in New York. We need to show the Nazi the commercial we shot and get his approval so the spot can be shipped to the networks and, regrettably, aired.
The Nazi is half an hour late.
Half of the pastries that the catering department brought into the room for the meeting have been eaten, croissants with their corners spitefully pinched off, the jam centers of donuts scooped out by fingers.
Barnes, the account guy, looks at his watch, spits a breath out of his mouth. “Guys, if he’s not here in fifteen minutes, why don’t you go back to your offices and I’ll call you when he gets here. This is so rude.”
Greer leans over, whispers in my ear. “How much do you loathe advertising?”
“I despise it,” I whisper back.
The conference room phone rings and Barnes answers it. He places the receiver to his ear. “Conference room 34A,” he says. He widens his eyes, looks at us and nods.
“Get your armbands on, the client’s here,” I say under my breath.
Barnes hangs up. “I’m just going to go stand by the elevators for him,” he says as he leaves the room.
“I am not in the mood for him today,” I say to whoever’s listening.
A few moments later, Barnes returns with the black-eyed, frowning client. The client’s nasty black leather briefcase is attached to his fist. Everybody rises from their seats, a courtesy. I am tempted to hail him with an outstretched arm.
The Nazi walks directly to the table with the bagels, cream cheese, pastries, coffee and lox.
“Wouldn’t it be hilarious if he took some lox?” Greer whispers.
“Shut up,” I say back with an evil grin.
Nazi pours a cup of coffee, flips a couple of the pastries over with his fingers