Lugging the bag, I lightly knock on Dean’s door.
“Dean?” I call for him.
No answer. I knock once more, but with a little more ferocity. Still, no answer.
“Dean!” I call in my best loud whisper, careful to maintain my voice level so as to not disturb the neighbors. As if we had neighbors and were not the only people staying in this decrepit place.
90 seconds pass and I start to get nervous. What if he choked on his puke in the middle of the night? What if he had alcohol poisoning and didn’t wake up? I knock once more on the door for good measure, and still no answer. Even though my body is panicking, I try to stay rational.
What’s the most logical thing to do in this situation? I pace two steps, and immediately decide the best course of action is to have the front desk get the door unlocked and do a wellness check.
I lug the suitcase to the main lobby, where the same woman from last night is still stationed. I approach the counter, walking in a zigzag because of the bum wheel on my suitcase.
“Hi, yes, hello,” I’m huffing, out of breath. “I need you to check on my friend. He went to bed really drunk and I’m worried about him because he’s not answering the door.”
She hesitates as she tries to figure out what I’m asking of her. I just want her to simply unlock the door for me, so I can make sure he’s okay. All I want for him is to be okay. He’s my ride home and out of this mess.
“Can you open the door for me?” I ask, shaking my head up and down, subconsciously willing her to say yes.
“Are you the police?” She asks me.
“Um, no,” I say politely. “But I’m really worried about my friend.”
“Well, we have protocol policy here.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” I’m practically begging her.
“I guess I could call the room.”
“Yes, please do that.”
She picks up the phone like it weighs a million pounds, and flips open a big, laminated binder. Thumbing through the pages, she pinpoints a number and dials it into the phone.
It feels like eternity waiting for the phone to ring. The dial tone is deafening, but on the fifth or sixth ring, Dean picks up.
“Hello? Who is this?” His voice is muffled and sleepy.
“Hello. This is Angel at the front desk,” She says. “Your friend…”
“Madeline,” I interject.
“Your friend, Madeline, is here with me.” Angel says, clearly unburdened by my worries.
“My friend?” Dean’s voice is haggard and confused.
“Just give the phone to me,” I insist, but she refuses.
“Are you okay, sir?” Angel asks him.
“I’m fine,” Dean sounds more awake now, but still bedraggled.
“Your friend is fine,” Angel relays to me, even though I heard the whole conversation. She hangs up, and I grimace. At least I know Dean is okay. She drums her fingers on the worn, wooden desk “Have a nice day, now,” Angel says.
Grabbing the handle of the suitcase, I begin dragging it back towards the rooms. By the time I get there, Dean is standing in the hallway, leaning on the door. He looks dressed and completely polished and not at all like he was totally smashed less than 12 hours ago and is wearing the same clothes from last night.
“What the hell was that?” Dean sounds like he wants to stamp his feet.
“A wake up call?” I’m asking myself that question.
