Don't Stop Now (6 page)

“We need to pick some stuff up at the drugstore,” Josh says through bites of Pizza Hut thin-crust cheese-and-pineapple pizza. There are very few food options near the Don Q, and we wanted something quick, easy, and familiar. We called the Don Q to reserve Tranquility Base and were pleasantly surprised to find it available at such short notice. Maybe it's more popular during seasons of high space travel.

I pick out my salad from the salad bar, which I got because I always pretend I'm going to try and eat a little healthy on a road trip, when, really, what's the point? It's a road trip. But more important—what does Josh need at the drugstore?

When someone says they need to stop at the drugstore, particularly someone who will be staying at a hotel later in the evening, the first thing I assume is condoms. Does that make me a perv? Or just hopeful?

After picking out lettuce, tomatoes, croutons, and Thousand Island dressing, I return to the table with my response. “So what do you need at the drugstore?” Casual, real casual.

“Well, seeing as we didn't plan on a road trip, we'll need to get toothbrushes and multivitamins, stuff like that.”

“Naturally.” I nod.

“And what else, Lil?” He's prodding me to answer for him, to anticipate his thoughts and needs.

I would hate to be wrong on this one. Mortified to be wrong. So I just say, “I give up.”

Josh sighs. “
Hiding Out
, dude. The hair dye? We still haven't done our hair, Cryer style.”

“Right. Hair dye. Of course.” Remind me to hit my head against a wall later.

 

At Walgreens we scan the shelves of hair dye. I don't know how anyone chooses between walnut brown and espresso brown and hazelnut brown, except by what they might want to eat.

Josh saunters over to me with a box, holding it near his face as if straight out of a commercial. “What do you think?” He glances shiftily at the box. “Is it me?” I read the box, “Sunshine Blonde,” complete with bouncy-headed babe on the cover.

“Looks just like you,” I say. “Except she has blue eyes.”

“So who are you going to be?” he asks. “How about we do a
Legend of Billie Jean
on you?”
The Legend of Billie Jean
is yet another late-night TV movie of the eighties, about some small-town Southern folk who get themselves mixed up with the law after a lecherous old guy gropes the main character (Billie Jean), and something involving her little brother's bike. A little too complicated for my late-night lucidity. The most memorable part of the movie is when Billie Jean cuts off her long, blond hair into this tough short cut and gets all badass. She keeps shouting, “Fair is fair!” My other favorite part of the movie is when this other character thinks she got shot, but really she just got her period for the first time. They just don't make movies like that anymore.

“I never said I'd
cut
my hair,” I argue. “I need enough for a summer ponytail.” I scan the shelves for a color that I like. It's hard to look past the absurdly posing faces on the boxes to imagine what the hair color would look like on my head.

“How about this?” Josh walks up behind me, leans his head on my shoulder, and wraps one arm around me with the box in his hand. “You know I like your hair red,” he says in a way I want to describe as purring, but that would imply something. The color is called “Copper Rust,” which I think might technically be a shade of green. I take the box from his hand and walk over to a small mirror in the beauty aisle. Holding the box next to my face, I squint to try and imagine what it would look like translated onto my head. I don't know if it's really me. I've kind of always wanted to dye my hair dark, add a little brooding mystery to my look. Red hair doesn't seem very brooding, and how can I be mysterious if my tall red head stands above a crowd? But, Josh…

“OK.” I sigh with acceptance.

We pick up loads of other toiletries and snacks, as well as a local newspaper so I can read the comics and Dear Abby. I scan the last-minute-impulse buys while Josh spills the contents of our tiny shopping basket onto the less-than-ample counter. Thanks, Josh's dad.

 

We pull up to the Don Q Inn, an unassuming, almost barnlike building that I half expected to look like a castle. Strike two on the castle front. There are only four other cars in the parking lot. Maybe Sundays aren't the busiest nights. I'm picturing kinky couples on weekends and discreet affairs on weeknights. Sundays are sacred after all. So I've heard.

Standing behind the desk is a vulture-bald man wearing a mustard yellow suit jacket, red tie, and white shirt. He stares ahead, not at us, not at a TV, or even a wall, but in that locked stare that means your body may be present but your mind is somewhere else. Maybe he's picturing himself in one of the suites, I'm thinking Mid-Evil, with a saucy wench.

A hotel bell is perched on the desk in front of Mustard Man, and even though by this time the man has unenthusiastically noticed us (his eyes now look at, not through, me), Josh finds the need to ding the bell.

“Yes?” Mustard Man breathes.

“Hello. We have a reservation for Tranquility Base. Under Erdman,” Josh says formally.

Mustard Man lets his index finger fall onto his keyboard. Tap. Pause. Tap. Pause. I take a long look around the lobby as I wait for Mustard Man to finish his turtle typing. There's a rustic charm to this place, if you enjoy wood paneling, wagon wheels, and hideous patterned carpeting. The theme is hodgepodge, by the looks of the flowered sofas, brick walls, and multiple television sets. The centerpiece of the room is a large, round, metal fireplace, complete with midsummer fire, and surrounded by what are either old-fashioned dentist chairs or old-fashioned barbershop chairs, but I don't know which since I'm not old-fashioned. Whatever they are, they all come in a variety of pleather colors, sure to delight any dental or barber patron.

Mustard Man scares me when he says too loudly for being so close to him, and, well, being one of only two people in the entire grand room, “You want Tranquility Base. That's one of our deluxe suites, which goes for a hundred seventy-four a night.” He looks at us dumbly.

“We just need one night,” Josh tells him while he pulls out the old man's credit card.

“But of course you do,” Mustard Man replies without affect. “I'll just need to see proof of age.” He points with his handy, all-purpose index finger to a sign that reads, two adults, 18 and over in suites only. I dig into my purse, really just an old canvas bag I bought with a picture of vintage Pinocchio on it, and fish out my driver's license. Mustard Man nods after thorough inspection of both IDs, and proceeds to tap on his keyboard. Still tapping, he tells us, “Indoor pool is down the hall. Outdoor pool is outside. Local calls are free, as is the continental breakfast. Checkout is noon. Your room comes with a hot tub, and there are extra towels in your suite. Call housekeeping if you need more. Just down that hall to the left.” His lips strain out a millisecond smile, and he hands us a key card.

“Just curious,” I ask Mustard Man. “What other rooms are people staying in tonight?”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, I cannot divulge that information.” He's serious about enforcing whatever hint of power he has here. I'm guessing he's just too lazy to look them up.

“Well, thank you anyway,” Josh says jovially, and we head off to Tranquility Base.

 

There's definitely suspense as the key card enters the slot. The light flashes green, click, and we're in.

“Noooo way,” Josh exhales. He's right. No way does this place exist anywhere but in some basement dweller's sick imagination. The walls are faux moon, craggy and gray, alternating with dark blue walls covered in planets of various sizes and colors. To the right of the door is a regular old hall closet (just like in outer space!), and to the left is a regular old bathroom. I walk farther in and spy the hot tub, center stage, fully tiled and surrounded by moon rock. Above it and around it stands a lunar module. Maybe it would look authentic (umm, authentic hot tub on the moon?) were it not for the twenty-inch television next to the average leather chair next to the window air conditioner. A not-at-all-spacey lamp sits on a table with a less-than-futuristic hotel telephone.

“I do not feel as though I am in space,” I disappointedly tell Josh.

“Maybe it's not supposed to feel like we're
in
space, just that we're pretending like we think we're in space? But more important, how many people do you think have done it in that whirl pool?” Josh asks, sounding both disgusted and intrigued.

“I hope they have a thorough housekeeping staff. What if it's just Mustard Man and his index finger?” I shake my head at the thought.

We're exploring the room, when I note, “There's no bed.” Then Josh discovers some gloriously snot green carpeted steps hidden among the crags of the moon. “Lead the way,” I command, and I follow him up the narrow, winding stairway to the top of the lunar module that we saw from below.

“The bed is the lunar module!” Josh exclaims. “Oh, man. Too cool.” He dives onto the bed and lays on his side. “There's a TV in the walls of the bed! And check this out.” He runs his hand along the pillows lining the inside of the module. “Vellllllvet.” He draws the word out in a velvety way. I sit down on the bed and look around at the space paintings on the walls. “Where do you think they find round sheets to fit the round bed?” Josh asks.

“Probably just use regular sheets and tuck them in, I'm guessing.”

“Don't ruin the mystique.” He flips around the channels of our in-bed TV. I scooch in so I can see the small screen, and so I can be closer to him on the bed. I'm assuming we'll sleep together tonight, since there's only one bed. And by that I mean snooze-type sleeping together, not the other kind. Josh obviously has no interest in the other kind as he settles in with an episode of
South Park
and guffaws at the TV.

“I'm gonna go dye my hair,” I decide. I want there to be a note of spite in my voice, like, if you ignore me maybe I
will
go away, but Josh doesn't detect it.

“OK. I'll do mine when you're done.”

I head downstairs to the bathroom and follow the directions on the package. While I let the color sink in, I decide to run the hot tub. Just to see. Josh hears the jets and calls down, “What are you doing? I can't hear the TV!”

“I'm filling the hot tub. Might as well get our money's worth,” I yell.

“I'll be down after this episode.”

The glow of the digital clock, another not-exactly-spacey detail, helps me time my hair color as I slip out of my socks and shorts. I unhook my bra through the back of my T-shirt and wriggle the shoulder straps over each arm, then out the holes of the sleeves. The tub is almost full now, so I set one foot in gingerly to acclimate the rest of my body, then the other. I sit down in the hot, foamy water, experiencing the weird sensation of being in a hot tub wearing cotton underwear. The water hits only halfway up my T-shirt, weighing the rest of it down. I stretch my legs out and touch the bubbly jets with my toes. Using my big toe as a stopper, I plug the flow of bubbles, then open it. Plug. Unplug. I close my eyes for a few minutes, recalling the drama of the day.

It all started with “
I did it
.” And she did do it—I'll give her that. But who
does
that? I remember being little and planning elaborate runaway scenarios when I was mad at my parents, going so far as to pack a bag with only the most essential items—my blankey, my Snoopy nightgown, a copy of
The BFG
, and a roll of Life Savers (in case I choked, I could breathe through the hole until it melted).

Faking your own kidnapping seems like so much trouble to go through to get away.

I almost drift off to sleep when I hear Josh clomping down the green stairs. My eyes open and adjust to read the time on the digital clock. My hair! I jump up out of the hot tub, wring out the butt on my shirt, and grab a nearby towel to wrap around my waist like a skirt. The bathroom has a tub-shower combo, so I turn on the tub spout until the water is nice and warm. On my knees, I flip my head forward under the faucet and watch as the Copper Rust showers from my hair down the drain. When the water begins to run clear, I sit up, grab a towel, and dry off. I toss the towel on the floor and see I have stained it with orange blotches. Will they charge us for that? Or will they think it's some menstrual mess and just bleach the crap out of it and pass it along to the next unassuming FantaSuiter?

My hair looks darker than expected, although I definitely see the brightness of red underneath the dusky, wet strands. I pull the hair dryer from its resting place on the bathroom wall and dry my hair until I can see the true color. It's quite pretty, actually, shiny and fiery. It could almost look natural if it weren't for the dye stains around my forehead and on my ears.

“Ta da!” I walk out of the bathroom for my hair debut. Josh is in the hot tub, shirtless in his boxers.

“Rrreddd,” he drawls. “Lookin' good.”

I walk over to the tub, feeling brazen with my new look, and drop my skirt towel on the floor so that my undies show. I step into the hot tub and slither down next to Josh, not touching, but close. He slides away, just the slightest bit, to get a better look at my hair. “Now no one will recognize you,” he says.

I so want him to look at me like I see him look at other girls.
Real
girls to him. But he pops up out of the water and says, “My turn,” then drips water all over me as he makes his way out of the tub and into the bathroom.

I extend my legs, plug the bubble holes with my toes, and hang out, alone, in Tranquility Base. As tranquil as the name suggests.