Warn Me Out

I'm not rich, but I've been around. I've been to hotels where no expense was spared. They've got tennis pros and golf pros and ping-pong pros, and sultry, subservient women in diaphanous robes wandering the lobby offering complimentary newspapers, cigars and mudwrestling. There are gardens and fountains and golf courses, ballrooms and gift shops and trout ponds -- and that's just up in your room. In between all these you'll find fourteen big-screen TVs, six walk-in closets, vases of fresh flowers and truckloads of fresh fruit . . . and a bed the size of a postage stamp.

Is this somebody's idea of a joke? I wonder. They see me stroll into the lobby and get a brilliant idea. "Watch," the desk clerk says to the receptionist, "I'm gonna stick Lurch in the Billy Barty Suite."

To make matters worse, the bed has both a headboard and a footboard. Now, I don't mind headboards. As far as I can tell, it's the decorator's way of saying "Look! HERE'S THE BED!" It's a statement I don't find necessary, as, hey, I GOT EYES! The footboard, though, is where I draw the line. Tall men realize early on that they're going to dangle over one, if not both, ends of their beds, and eventually they get used to it. But the footboard allows no such thing. "The bed positively, definitely ends here!" they declare, like furniture Nazis. "And that's FINAL!"

I call the front desk and the clerk tells me all the beds are the same size. "Is the owner a dwarf?" I ask. "Are springs and ticking rationed by the federal government?"

My sarcasm zips over her head. "Some rooms don't have footboards," she says, "but they're all taken. You should have warned us you're tall."

"Actually," I correct, "you should warn people you've got a maximum height limit."

I know there are larger beds in the world, so I guess they're trying to save money. I'm picturing the hotel owner dropping by the Sealy factory and seeing the Triscuit-sized mattresses they're churning out. "We can't make our customers sleep on those!" he yells. "What if somebody tall shows up?"

The craftsman shrugs his shoulders and bits of fluff waft to the ground. "They'll just have to suffer," he mutters. "I mean, if we made them any bigger we'd need another six ounces of cotton, and three more springs!"

The men quiver like chilly chihuahuas and smelling salts are passed around.

Now, call me crazy, but I'm thinking it might be smarter to cut the Topiary Gardener back to part-time and spend that money on bedding. Because for the rest of eternity every tall guy assigned to this room will head back downstairs to point out the obvious to the desk clerk. "Er," he says, "perhaps you haven't noticed this, but America is a great, broad nation. The states stretch out far and wide, from New York to California, from Maine to Florida. Tumbleweeds spin across the horizon while coyotes dance in the shadows in search of prey, and buzzards circle overhead waiting for that lone pickup truck raising a trail of orange dust to flatten an unwary lizard.

"So why do I have to fold myself into quarters to get into your fucking bed?"

Being a problem-solver, the clerk is ready with a response. "You know," she says stoically, "if you lie across the bed diagonally, you should just about fit."

Now, this isn't helpful. I'm usually with somebody, and he can be tall too. We may even have sex occasionally, but that doesn't mean I want to connected with them at the groin all night.

Finally the clerk agrees to send up extra pillows. Like a construction crew we make ramps that lift our feet up and over the footboard, so they can hang over in peace. It works fine, and maybe it's even good for the complexion, but for three hours tomorrow morning we'll both stagger around like Bambi.

At the Beaconlight Guest House, a gay B&B in Provincetown, they stuck me in a room with preposterously low ceilings. It was slightly smaller than a dollhouse, and even little girls would have complained about all the pink. When I realized I couldn't wash my hair in the shower without moving most of me into the hall, I went to see the manager. Naturally it was all my fault.

"You should have warned us you're tall," he declared.

"Actually," I said, pulling myself up to my full height, "you should warn people you're renting out Hunchback Barbie's old room."

You could tell he was a pro, because he didn't show a glimmer of sympathy. "Most people are perfectly happy with that suite."

"Then tell most people they can have it," I said, "because I'm not spending the night."

The manager stood there with his arms crossed. I was absolutely justified in my complaint, and I wasn't giving in. I mean, the last I heard it was a God-given right to be able to stand in your hotel room. To make matters worse the place looked empty and he could easily have upgraded me to a room where human beings fit.

We stared at each other like it was high noon in Dodge City, and finally my traveling companions broke the silence. They had a room with reasonable ceilings, they said, and they'd be happy to switch.

Even after I'm settled in this new room, though, it's impossible for me to relax. All night I dream about fighting it out with the manager in court, except now I'm bigger than Alice in Wonderland. The jury twitches like lovesick crickets, fearful that I'm going to squash them, and the judge takes one look at me and explodes. "You didn't warn them that you were tall?" he bellows, his powdered wig quivering atop his head. "Ridiculous! Case dismissed!"

And now my friends act like I'm high-maintenance. "Those donuts warm enough for you, Roman?" "Have you caught a chill, Roman?" "Does Bibb lettuce offend your palate, Roman?" And I did absolutely nothing wrong. Really, when I go to a hotel, do I really have to justify my need to stand?

I got an email from the owner after I returned home. An apology, I thought -- better late than never. Instead it was just spam. He'd bought another B&B a few blocks from the first and wanted his customers to know.

I wrote back and said there's no way I'm staying at one of his places again, but if he found himself in my neighborhood he should stop by and say hello.

I hope he knows to warn me if he's got a problem with dogs, Crisco or chloroform.