In the wee hours of Day 2 of the Buffalo Conference, I was getting some must needed shut-eye. Out of nowhere, I awaken to the sound of someone attempting to enter our room. I lay there, frozen, waiting for the door to open and cursing myself for not securing the bolt-catching thingy. A handful of seconds go by before – AHA! there it is again – someone is trying to get in the room. Apparently, Michael (the hubby) has also been lying in wait for the next attack as he quite literally sprang out of bed to pounce on the door.
“Is someone there?” I ask.
“No,” Michael mutters and plows back into bed. I am completely unsatisfied with this answer. Looking through the peephole and seeing nothing should obviously be followed up by a more thorough investigation of the hallway.
So, I lay there waiting for it to happen again. I look at the clock: 4:30 – not even teenagers should be playing pranks at this hour…
And then I hear it, only this time it sounds slightly muffled, and it dawns on me that it’s the door next to ours. Curiosity immediately switches over to annoyance. “What idiot is repeatedly trying to get in their door and not figuring out that it’s not working,” I thought. I listened to the fumbling a couple more time before deciding to put on my “Mom” hat and go regulate. Preparing for battle, I shuffle to the door in a night-shirt emblazoned with “I Don’t Do Mornings.”
I look out the peephole. Nothing. I open the door. Nothing. I crane my neck out and peer down the vast hallway. Nothing. Then I look to the right, and there, in all his glory, is the reincarnation of Sam Elliott staring back at me with startled blue eyes. I stared. I could not make sense of the sight before me. He was facing the wall and had opened the Fire Hose door strategically shielding his “parts” from view. In fact, the only discernible piece of clothing were his socks – impeccably white tube socks pulled up to his knees. I became aware that he was pleading with me to call the front desk and turned my head back into the room to summon Michael.
“Michael, there’s a guy out here that can’t get in his room. Can you call the front desk and send someone up?”
“No, he can do it himself.” Grumble, grumble.
“Uh, Michael (ahem) I think he’s naked,” I whisper as loudly as possible.
At this point, I close the door and tell Michael he must call the front desk as I can see no other way to remove the naked cowboy from the hallway. Begrudgingly, Michael dials down and in a sleepy stupor argues with the staff about sending someone up to take care of the situation. I wait for what feels like an eternity for them to show up. I probably should have told the guy they were coming, but I’m not feeling any more generous than I already have been. I mean, what the hell is a white-haired cowboy doing standing naked in the hallway at this time of night??
A male (thank God) staff member shows up and questions the cowboy. His Texas drawl informs the staff that he’s naked and embarrassed and would you please be so kind as to open the door? And then he’s asked his name, putting my ears on full alert. And yes, I fully admit to promptly pulling out my laptop to investigate further, and, no, I will not divulge the lurid details.
Satisfied that the situation had been fully resolved, I took my place in bed and dissolved into giggles – much to Michael’s chagrin.