Our Nashville Adventure, Told in Several Unnecessarily Dramatic Installments ~Part 3, Awkward Side-Hug

PART 1 ~Hotdog Money~
PART 2 ~The Creeper~

PART 3 ~Awkward Side-Hug~

Bridget and I stand in front of the Hampton Inn, peek around the bushes at the man across the street, and pull with futile strength on the door handle. It doesn't budge. We see a plaque beside the door that says "guests only, use room key for entry." We stand in shock for a moment, until all of a sudden the door swings open and a couple walks out. They glance nervously at our tense faces, but they hold the door open as we scurry inside. The warmth of the hotel lobby swirls around us and makes us shiver, partly from cold and partly from nerves. We continue to skulk around the lobby and try to see out of the high windows to where we had left our perceived stalker. Unable to see him, I decide to take charge of our current bleak situation. Back when we discovered the car was missing, I had instantly decided that I was going to handle this ordeal on my own, without calling my parents. Now I rededicate my energies to this challenge. I am 25 years old, I think. I should be able to take care of myself without having to call my Daddy. I feel independent and confident, if a little shaken by all of the fleeing that we have been doing. I think Bridget just feels cold.

We head toward the front desk to ask for sanctuary, much like Quasimodo in his bell tower (My purse is starting to feel a little heavy at this point, so my stooped posture probably bears a passing resemblance to the famed hunchback's). As we approach the desk, I observe a man and a woman standing behind it, and what I at first think is a school-age child, dressed in a bellhop's uniform, standing beside it. Then the child speaks to me, and I realize the person I had taken for a preteen is, in fact, a diminutive adult. Simultaneously I discover that not only have I mistaken the age of the tiny valet-- I am also unsure of its gender. Is this a pubescent boy or a masculine yet dainty woman dressed in nondescript black and white? A first glance is not sufficient to make the call, and I realize that I have completely missed what he or she said to me.

"I'm sorry?"
"I said 'can I help you?'"

We tell our whole sad and scary story to our rapt listeners, and they quickly agree that we should stay inside the hotel lobby while waiting for the police to arrive.We settle ourselves into some cushy armchairs and get ready to wait. I busy myself with calling the dispatch office to tell them our location change, the hotel to let them know we'd be fairly late checking in, and the various tow places again to see if any of their trucks had brought in my car (no luck). By this time it is about 10:30 at night, and Bridget has had a full birthday, to put it mildly. She gets comfortable and starts to relax. We try to make plans for the rest of the night.

Our gender-neutral friend, or "Pat" as I've begun to call him/her privately, comes over to us every once in a while to check that we are ok. He/she offers us coffee, hot chocolate or a number of vending machine choices from the hospitality center. Bridget takes a cup of hot chocolate, mainly to take advantage of the warmth it gives off, and I reject the offer. "My stomach is too nervous to eat," I say. Our friend keeps going back and forth to his/her post at the front door, and each time he/she comes back, the offers of refreshment grows stronger, especially toward me.
"I must look like I'm in shock." I say to Bridget. "That person really wants me to eat something."
"I'm sure that's it." Bridget says, a little smirk on her face.

The fourth time that I am offered a drink, I say "maybe in a little while" in an attempt to get some peace. This apparently is seen as encouragement, as my new friend leans down, puts a hand on my arm and says
"My name is Katie. You just let me know if you need anything, and I'll get it for you, free of charge."
My first thought as she is speaking is, of course, ohhh. The mystery is solved!
"Katie!" I say with a bright smile. "Thank you so much!"
My second thought is to notice the hand on my arm, the more than generous offer, and lastly, the wink that accompanies her statement.


...uh oh...


As Katie walks away, Bridget struggles to hold in her giggles. I smile gamely and say "well, at least we know her name is Katie!"

After a few mixups with the dispatch office, a police officer finally arrives and informs me that I can't file a claim with the police department unless I have proof of ownership, which is, of course, in the car. He does, however, take my information and promise to keep an eye out for it. I thank him and grab a taxi that is letting out passengers at the hotel's front door. Bridget and I slide into the cab, then I am stopped by my conscience. I can't just leave without thanking Katie. She was very nice and helpful.

I step out of the van and find Katie around the corner smoking with her coworker. I tell them what the officer said and that we are heading to our own hotel now. She pulls out a pen and says
"You have to call me and let me know when you find your car. Be sure and call me. I mean it, don't forget. And if you're ever in Nashville again, give me a call..."*
I let her give me her number, and then I attempt to climb back in the van. But before I can fully get in, I find myself in the midst of the most awkward side-hug in the history of the world. And I have had some awkward side-hugs. This one definitely took the cake. I am in mid-hop when she grabs me, and her short little arms barely reach the opposite side (although that might be my fault, fitnesswise). She gives me one hard squeeze with strength that surprised me coming from such a small person, and then lets go. I fall clumsily into the taxi, and the door closes. We watch her grow smaller in the distance as the van pulls away from the curb and Bridget almost falls out of her seat laughing.

The police officer calls twice on the way to the hotel with information about my car. The first time, I'm pretty sure he has pulled over some lady who drives a blue Galant with Alabama plates. I can hear her in the background yelling "I told you this is my car!" The second time he calls he tells me that he has found my car! It is in an impound lot and we can pick it up in the morning. Our spirits buoyed by the good news, Bridget and I go to bed without too many more interruptions, and she sleeps like a baby while I start awake at every noise, convinced that someone is breaking into our room to get us. I must not have been as calm throughout the whole thing as I thought I was.

The next morning, Bridget and I eat a delicious breakfast and take another cab to an impound lot run by an old mountain man with a ZZ Top beard. There is my car! We run to it, overjoyed, and pop the trunk to make sure all of our valuables are still there. So relieved to find everything is safe, I walk toward the driver's door... and step in a big, steaming pile of dog poop. I look down at my favorite TOMS shoes, sigh, and chuckle.

A fitting end to our big, steaming Nashville adventure.



*I know you're wondering, and no. I never called her.