Born to be a Bellhop

He spoke slowly, sure. There were odd pauses and pronunciations but by and large he sounded pretty normal. Except when he answered the phone. Then he slowed way down. "Lodge Bell Service. This is Larry." "Lodge" was "laahhdge." "This" rose like a question and fell to his name with a lazy drawl. It took three seconds.

If you were calling to say you'd be late or had issues at the airport, you had to wait. When the front desk called, they had to wait. When guests called for more glasses or even an emergency, they had to wait.

A front desk girl used to the staccato "Bell Service!" from the rest of us finally asked. "You see," he said, "I wasn't here long before I realized that a lot of people who call the Bell Desk are angry about something, and they'll yell at you. But if they think you're retarded...."

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The Last Summer Night in Charlestown

They don't know it's the last one. How could they?

Tomorrow they'll close their windows, trapping the click and clank of forks on their plates inside again. The low murmur of their conversations and unexpected bursts of laughter will be private once more. The breezes won't flip through the magazines on the counter or chase the napkins across the table. Happy dog barks and little babies' cries will grow quiet, taking some joy with them into the silence.

Soon, they'll draw the blinds at sunset — streetlight-torn darkness is no fun to look at and strangers can peek inside too easily.

The smell of barbecues (and fresh pops of new beers) will disappear, replaced by nostalgic smoke that falls from the chimneys to the streets.

Temperatures will drop, the jackets will come out, and we'll all wait for the snow. And for summer's inevitable return.

As My Buddy Lay Sleeping

He flopped over and passed out in her lap. She turned to me and asked, "You know what celebrity you look like?"

"Well, the only one I've ever heard is Andrew McCarthy which is funny. I've always thought he was kind of dorky looking."

"I think he's hot," she said.

"Yeah, right. Especially in Weekend at Bernie's."

As her boyfriend slept, she talked about how hot she thought I was, too. The cabbie said nothing. Neither did our friend Curt, who sat there silently in the front seat pretending to hear nothing.

Desperate for a new topic I blurted, "Hey, look. That's the field where I play soccer."

"You play soccer? That's sexy." She ran her fingers through my hair and added, "You know what I think? I think there's an animal in you that you never let out."

Thank god she didn't work out. He's marrying someone great this month.

What's everyone doing on their phones all the time?

White sneakers, blue jeans, and a brown sweater. Dirty blonde, shoulder-length hair. Just another anonymous 40-something at a conference of over 1,000 people, most of whom were white women from outside the country's Internet hotspots.

I sat next to her against the back wall for the simple reason that I was late, it was crowded, and the chair was empty. A presenter from Instagram had the room laughing, and leaning in, as she explained how she convinced a bunch of irritable programmers and designers to care about the writing, too.

My unremarkable neighbor was typing on her phone faster than a teenager. For a while I was oblivious. Then impressed -- such diligence. And, inevitably, curious.

I glanced. It was email. I looked again. There it was. In the middle. In Helvetica. "I have some of the traits many Dominators look for in a Submissive."

You just never know, do you?