Tardy

"Mr Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the pop-holes. With the ring of light from his lantern dancing from side to side, he lurched across the yard, kicking off his boots at the back door, drew himself a last glass of beer from the barrel in the scullery, and made his way up to bed, where Mrs Jones was already snoring." Animal Farm, written by George Orwell, Copyright 1945, Estate of Eric Blair

chapter 6
"Sorry," the hotel clerk said, "we held the room for as long as possible, but when you failed to show, our policy here at the Rosemont Holiday Out, is to release the room to the general public." "I'm afraid that is all we can do for you at this time gentlemen, good day." Young Elvis was fit to be tied. "Are you fuckin kidding me?" he shouted, "I am 30 minutes late and you give my reservation to the first pachuli reeking, stoned out-of-his-mind, tie-dye wearing hippie that walks up to the counter," he added, "Bull-fucking-shit!" Red faced and spitting, Young Elvis screamed, "I demand to speak to a manager."

The immaculately dressed manager appeared and approached us with a slight smile. "May I help you gentlemen?" he said politely but apprehenively. Before Young Elvis could begin his venomous tirade again, I sofyly interjected, "Yes Sir, yes you can." Times like these require a tact, forethought and a subtlety that I neither possessed at the time, nor had the energy to fake. I choose a totally different method of attack, the bold-faced lie.

The hotel manager, an effeminate slight man of forty plus years, I deduced, was taken back some when I gently grabbed his elbow and led him aside. "One moment Sir, if you please," I wispered. "My associate is, well, somewhat agitated given the present situation. We are in need of a room and the clerk has been dismissive and rude which caused my associate to react poorly. Now I don't want to caution you but my friend is a man of some import, his dress and appearence aside and I don't want to cause any problems for you but..."

Five minutes later we were headed South again, this time toward the Holiday Out near Ohare Airport. Upon arriving the bellmen assisted us with our luggage and we were warmly greeted. A little too warm for Young E. The clerk smiled and said, "All apologies gentlemen, we only have a regular room available, all the suites are occupied. Will that be satifactory?" "Fine, fine," I replied, "that will be just fine." Our luggage was loaded on a cart and we were directed towards the elevators.

"What the fuck did you say to that guy back at the other hotel?" Young Elvis asked as he eyed me sheepishly, "What?" "I informed him that you were an especially important guest that required immediate service thats all," I said. The bellhop took us to our room let us in and opened the curtains. "If you need anything, let us know immediately," he said "no need to tip this time Mr. Capone, er I mean Mr. Flintstone," and with that he left. "Capone? Al Capone? What idiot would believe that crap?" I smiled and nodded in agreement. "Actually, I told the manager that you were Al Capone's grandson. Young Elvis looked at me and we both burst out laughing hysterically, no problem I thought, unless the Capone family found out we were using his name. But what were the odds of that happening?