After a brief interval and some anxiety over the positioning of my left arm, the phone in our suite began to ring. Maureen shot up.
"That's for me," she said, and grabbed the extension. I imagined it was some member of the restaurant staff--and sincerely hoped it would not be her boss. I didn't know anything about Oompa-loompas, but I knew well enough that where small, angry men of authority are concerned, they do best to wax apoplectic in my absence. I could clearly envision him barging into our room, Maureen and I caught in the act of some extreme immorality, like watching Showtime, or eating take-out pizza on chic plates. His rage would radiate like an iron smelt at the nexus where professional duty met his private campaign to woo Maureen into precisely the same scenario--namely, bed--only by means of power instead of poverty. The betrayal would be all the worse for it, stoking his wounded pride and discarded authority into a murderous hemorrhage. It will be noted that I do not do well in these scenarios, where pizza dinner is suddenly recast into a high-plains African fracas for land and dominance. I have never cared for competitive athletics on any level (including billiards) and I resent circumstances which create for me this expectation to perform in a predetermined role of action: I am better suited to disappoint at my own discretion than to impress at someone else's.
"That was my roommate," she told me afterwards. "If you want to strangle me and cart my remains out of the building you're out of luck. She's home and will probably be calling every fifteen minutes now."
"What if I told her you went for a walk?"
"It's 10:30, sugarchicken."
"You decided to get a separate hotel room. You're right down the hall from me, doing well."
"Not on my salary. And she knows you don't have any money."
"Who ever heard of a poor mass-murderer?"
"This ass is not a mass, dear."
"Who ever heard of a poor single-person murderer?
"Hey, what's all the talk about murder, anyway? What if you just wanted to take advantage of my body against my will?"
"That's how all my dates turn out. Why can't you take advantage of my body against my will?"
"Then Debbie would have no reason to call."
"What's wrong with that?"
Maureen reeled back. "I'm alone in a hotel room with a stranger and you're saying a single girl in New York can't have a friend check in on her!? ....I would never take advantage of you against your will," she said obstinately.
"Well, what if I gave my consent?"
"Then I would have no reason to take advantage of you."
"What if you gave your consent?"
"Then Debbie would have no reason to call."
"What's wrong with that?"
"A Russian woman just disappeared not two weeks ago and you're saying it's safe to shack up with any strange, impoverished fool you meet over the internet!?"
"What if I wasn't saying it was safe to shack up with any strange, impoverished fool you meet on the internet?"
"Then you would have no reason to be dating me."
"What if I wasn't dating you?"
"Then you would have no reason to be poor."
"You have high-class tastes."
"I do."
"If I weren't poor I would never be able to afford dating you."
"If you weren't dating me you could never afford to be poor."
"Then Debbie would have no reason to call."
"Exactly."
That was when the phone rang for a second time.
