The Pot o' Gold

Good Lord, this is gonna take me two and a half hours to get straight, but we just had some frankly unbelievable behavior/drama/dialogue unfold here over the past half-hour. I'm trying to provide an amalgam of comparable literary ingredients, but honestly I'm stumped. I almost think this story ushers in a whole new genre of literature. I'm just gonna try to relate everything chronologically so you can experience the same narrative roller-coaster I just did.

c. 4:45 a.m.--Cute-as-a-button Irishwoman, in her early thirties with auburn hair in a longish bob, wanders in. She pauses at the desk for a second, seeming a little dazed, then moves on. I think to myself, "Is she wearing shoes?" I start to say something, but then imagine her yelling at me that its none of my business, so I don't say anything.

4:50--She comes back down. She's definitely not wearing shoes. I should mention that it is 25 degrees outside and that it's been snowing all day.

4:52--She starts talking. She seems to be in some kind of glazed panic. "Can you look behind the bar?" she asks. It's going to be important to remember over the next thirty minutes that there is no bar in the hotel.

4:53--"I can't find my brown bag," she is saying. "I left it behind the bar. Its got my passport. Couldya look for it, please?" I tell her that there is no bar in the hotel. "Yes, but couldya look for it?" she asks again. She's repeating herself and is fixated on this non-existent thing in a way that reminds me of someone on acid--um, at least that's what i heard--and I'm pretty excited because this would be my first hallucinogenic drug experience at the hotel.

4:55--I think maybe she just means behind the desk where I'm sitting, which would be the simplest explanation since people leave stuff to be stored behind the desk all the time, and the desk does bear a vague resemblance to a bar. Unfortunately, with drugs the simplest explanation is rarely the right one, and that proves to be true in this case, even though she tells me that yes, she meant behind the front desk. The first search proves fruitless.

4:58--Maybe she means the storage room, I suggest, where people often leave bags. Yeah, she echoes, the storage room. Were you in the storage room? No, she says hesitantly. But could you check anyway, behind the bar?
On the way back from the storage room, we see an actual bar. Its in the back room, through the lobby, where one of the bosses has put in some comfortable chairs and thrown some terrible thrillers onto the bookshelves. The only problem is that it hasn't been used since I started here, and probably since people used to do lines on it ten years ago. She didn't even to have to ask.
But she did. No bag, though.

4:53--Back to square one. I try to go over it again. So you left your bag and your passport somewhere in the hotel? Behind a bar? She nods. But there is no bar in the hotel. Yeah, but could you just look for it?

4:59--A flash of inspiration, swiftly diminished. Maybe you went out to a bar? She lights up. Oh, tha's right! Do you remember which bar? She frowns. Oh, no, sorry i di'know. But could you check anyway?

5:00--After I tell her that sadly this isn't possible, she takes a breath and then starts to cry. "My passport! My passport!" she whines.

5:07--After seven minutes that were preeeetty uncomfortable, I get one last idea. There is an Irish pub three doors down or so that is the preferred drinking spot of probably 75% or our adventurous clientèle. Maybe you left it at O' O-O's?, I offer.
Ooh, yes, she coos. Could you get it fer me?
Hmm, you know, its probably closed.

5:08--I am sliding through the slush to allay her tears and fears.

5:10--The bar is closed. I pound on the door until some Hispanic cleaner-uppers who don't really speak English come to the door, and we eventually settle on the fact that they have no idea what I'm talking about. Come back, 9:00.

5:20--I come back into the hotel. The lass is standing in the middle of the lobby. She has changed into her pajamas, which are electric light blue and look like they belong to a seven year-old, complete with footies. There is a shabby gentleman in a black coat standing near her, handing her a little frapuccino brown bag, along with two boots, some socks, a scarf, and one or two other articles of clothing.

This man seems to me to be in the wrong century. He looks like a villain from Dickens, albeit one out to save his own skin rather than driven by misguided ideology or pathological cruelty. He looks like a cross between Willem Dafoe and Nicholas Sarkozy. He looks like the devil, and I am a bit wary of what he is demanding in return for her belongings.

"I left them in the car," says the woman glassily. This seems to explain some things, even if it still leaves the whole situation with a coating of vacuous grime. The woman left some things in the car after a few too many Irish coffees. No crime there. And what a diligent, upstanding cab driver to come all the way back to return her things.

Except something is off. The driver is standing just a little too close to the woman. He almost seems to be nuzzling her.

The driver starts to talk to me. It becomes obvious that while he hasn't left this planet like his forgetful customer, he has certainly been imbibing. He has a French European accent. He tells me that he works in a French hotel a few blocks away. This doesn't really make sense to me, but I can't imagine you much care at this point, either. Anyway, he starts insisting that I give him some sort of validation that he actually brought all her stuff back. At first, I think he wants some kind of receipt, but finally it seems that all he wants is acknowledgment. Unfortunately, the acknowledgment that I am giving somehow isn't pure or redeeming enough for him, so we are at an impasse.

5:30--I decide its a good idea to walk the lady up to her room, so I do that. Her friends all jump up as soon as they hear the key in the door; it's obvious they've been worried sick. I drop her off, and tell her friends that they should probably check out her bag and make sure everything's there.

5:32--The driver finally starts to accept my assurances that I'll vouch for his bringing all the stuff back. He starts telling me how he could have taken all her stuff, no trouble at all, because his car is black and she didn't know his name. But she was such a sweet girl. Then he tells me a little more about the hotel where he (also?) works, how he's worked there for years, and how he also he frequents that bar just down the road, almost every night, y'know the one, O' O-O's?

Gears are starting to turn in my brain. Something is very wrong here. Something cataclysmic is about to happen.

"She was such a sweet girl," he says. "She hardly said anything at the bar. Had a beautiful smile, though." Scenes are replaying in my head, freshly, sinisterly colored with semi-ominous music. The girl entering the hotel, somehow without her shoes, and, now that I remember, much of any cold-weather clothing, despite the frigid temperature. That dazed look on her face, sated yet distraught. "She almost lost her coat and her bag in the bar, but I held on to them. I didn't want anything bad to happen to her. You know, if these European girls lose their passports, its big trouble."

Mephistopheles leans back in his chair. "You know, in the bar, with all her clothes, she was very quiet. But, in the car, with zero...well, I do not need to tell you what happened."

The music is swelling now, and there are blurry close-ups of faces that originally appeared one way, but can now be seen in a light that is starker, bluer, grainier, darker.

After he leaves, there is an uncanny and unsettling feeling in my stomach. What just happened?