Twelve

The ice bucket was nowhere to be found. I first ventured to trace the trajectory of its flight from the site of my collapse; but this ultimately proved fruitless--I could no longer distinguish the direction I was heading from the direction whence I had come. A mounting frustration weighed itself upon my spirits, prompting me finally to flail and kick about the darkened corridor, jerking my already beleaguered anatomy hither and thither, in the vain hope I might smite the accursed thing with some piece of me, thereby revealing its location. I felt myself being reduced to hysterics in short order, half-cursing and half-sobbing my way along the thoroughfare--now pleading with the article that it should return to my possession, now vowing its certain and wholesale destruction when it did. If I did not find this wretched ice bucket, and procure some god-damnable ice, then surely the terrorists would win.

Finally I sat down. My physical exertion had once again produced a feeling of lightheadedness and nausea, and I found it hard to breathe, what with the peculiar tightness in my chest. I am not any kind of athletic person, after all; my present dilemma being enough to daunt even the most splendidly capable brute, I thought I did rather well for myself, all things considered. At least I had not lost consciousness or been trod upon by any of the hotel wait-staff. I was a special operative deep behind enemy lines, having suffered a string of indignities, but never to compromise my tactical imperative of stealth and concealment! Why, my very objective remained concealed, even from me!

When Maureen appeared alongside me with the ice bucket in hand, I was still crouched in the darkness, contemplating my central role in the war and in the valiant cause of homeland security. What next I remember was waking in bed with a damp towel across my head.