Hotel Living Read Free Page A

the cover of The Economist .”
    They were dressed in dark suits and sunglasses, and I couldn’t tell what their costumes were. Men in Black? I didn’t get it. I did both my shots and tried to read those Latin type A’s—the lollipop, the lazy body language, their snubbing of the overachievers on the dance floor. “What are you dressed up as?” I asked.
    â€œInvestment banker,” replied the investment banker.
    I waited for my jolt to fade, contemplating whether his exotic confidence was expected of me too. I wondered if Iwasn’t meant to become a screw-you Greek guy with a success story that would make me a “game changer.”
    â€œI need a beer,” I finally said, and walked to the massive tub. I reached for a bottle, but I was fought off by our Finance professor, who had showed up as Muammar Gaddafi.
    â€œYours.” I let Muammar keep the disputed Stella.
    â€œYou should become a Muslim,” Muammar yelled to a Swedish-Chinese Lara Croft by the tub.
    â€œCan’t teach old cats new tricks,” she replied, with no trace of hesitation on her face.
    â€œBitch!” Muammar said. He turned to me: “I need to get some, man. My three-year-old is visiting from London next week.”
    â€œBring her to campus. Could help,” I said.
    â€œUh, you—you think so?” Muammar asked, wasted but dead serious.
    â€œI’m kidding.”
    He looked lost. “Uh, they tell me you’re good at backgammon.”
    â€œRumor,” I said.
    â€œRumors in this forest tend to be true.” Muammar’s sweat kept dripping down his medals and beer. “I know. Been stuck here five years now.”
    I pointed toward the end of the catacomb, where Alkis was posing with the snake. “I gotta go bid him up,” I said, starting to make my way through Gomorrah, but Muammar grabbed my Spartan outfit.
    â€œHey!” he yelled.
    I turned.
    â€œManaging for . . . ?” Muammar asked.
    â€œValue!” I pointed to him with my index finger.
    â€œMy Greek whiz! Teaching for . . . ?”
    What? “Huh?”
    â€œPussy!”
    â€œWell, maybe it is time you went back to Georgetown,” I said. “For a bit.”
    â€œ Pussy! ” Muammar yelled, spitting an ice cube my way, taking a tumble, and hitting Paul, who was being trained as a dog by the two Argentineans. Before I realized what exactly was going on, Paul’s collar had gotten stuck. He started hyperventilating. With no one around sober enough to unbutton him, Paul looked at me in red fright.
    â€œThere’s an army knife in my car,” I said, and Paul toppled behind me toward the dungeon’s exit.
    The three minutes to the parking lot felt like ten. I was numb under my costume’s skirt. My feet, in tight open sandals, were needled by frozen grass. Paul was chasing me, cursing and moaning like a bitch: “Cut it now! I can’t breathe!” he cried every five seconds.
    I placed the knife between the collar and his neck, and felt his heart racing. I twisted the knife and Paul choked.
    â€œDo it!” Paul ordered me after he stopped coughing. I pushed the knife hard, and vodka mixed with pieces of leather and sausage suddenly covered my feet.
    â€œ Bastard! ” I yelled.
    Paul bent, roaring, and a second burst landed inches from my sandals. He was shaking.
    â€œYou okay?” I said.
    â€œI’m okay. Will you drive me home? Please?”
    I was seriously drunk. Plus, I had to pick up this American dude, Erik, from the train station in a couple of hours and still hoped for a nap—a write-off, given where Paul lived.
    â€œI’m fucking wasted, Paul,” I said, feeling his vomit freeze on my toes. “Where the hell’s your fiancée?”
    Paul shook his head. “She stayed in London. Whore.” Then he vomited again.
    I looked away in disgust. “I’ll take you home,” I said.
    Driving