Late Night with Miles - Hotel Stories aka That Time I was Called a Beacon of Sanity

Peter was one of the Scottish Golf Group, not to be confused with the Irish Golf Group who’d stayed at the hotel the month before. While the Irishmen went out to the bar every night promptly at 6 PM, the Scots brought their own beer and sat around the pool drinking, singing, and calling my name whenever any hotel staff member  passed through.

"They're calling you," Lindsey grumbled.

"What do they want?"

"Dunno. Every time they can see me they start yelling DEBRRRRA! DEBRRRRA!" She huffled into the back office, letting the door slam.

One night, though, I found several of the Scots at the pub on my way home from work. I can’t remember whether I was drinking, but I want to say I wasn’t, because that happened - I often went to the bar and didn’t drink. I also found my friend Phyllis, who wanted a ride to see her boyfriend working the graveyard shift at the Adult Bookstore. Peter the Scottish Golfer was not content to go back to the hotel at closing time, and wanted to come with us.

“Where's that you're going—Toys R Us?” Something like that, yeah.
 
We somehow ended up with a two-car convoy going from Palm Springs to Palm Desert, Peter and some miscellaneous people riding with me. Everyone piled into the shop and mulled about while Phyllis made doe-eyes at her boo. About the time the employeess at the counter showed us the sawed-off shotgun, I realized Peter was missing. I found him outside at the pay phone, whispering into the handset.

“…I’m truly in fear for my life here, but for one person who seems a beacon of sanity—wait, here she is. Excuse me, could you come say hello to my sister in London?”

So I talked to his sister in London, who said the weather there was quite nice actually, and I assured her that I would deliver her brother in good health to his hotel room. Edified, Peter went back inside the sex toy shop with me. We walked the aisles and made ridiculous comments. On a count of three, we each inserted a forefinger into a rubber vagina which was advertised to be lifelike, and we both pulled out, screaming like girls.

We decided that Peter should, for the complete American Experience, go back to Phyl’s house for some authentic African-American-made Fried Chicken and Potato Salad. It’s true that hers is the best: everyone from family members to myself has gotten the shopping list and brought the ingredients for her to cook the meal. She’ll make it for anyone, even if her family is eating something else, but she will not let us watch her put it together.
 
We ate fried chicken, talked socio-politics and listened to funk and soul, and finally Peter thought it was best I deposit him at the hotel. We pulled up in front of my workplace at the merest hint of dawn.

"I wish I were home," Peter said. "I want to be home at my place, chilling with some pot, listening to Miles. You know Miles Davis, yeah?"
 
Yeah, Peter, I do. My fireman friend once tried to tell me I couldn't listen to Miles, because it's too hard. Or I'm too white, I said. Fireman had laughed. But I didn't bother telling all this to Peter.

He wanted to kiss me goodnight, and I let him, but I stayed in the car and he got out. I went home and chilled with Miles until the sun was truly up.