Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Whether I like it or not, I don’t know them.
Summary: Mr. Mullen helps a woman learn to trust people, and life, in a way she hasn’t really done it before.
U2 is in town, apparently due to play at the Rosemont in a couple days, and quite a few of the Drake Hotel’s staff are excitedly chattering about how they are going to stalk the Hyatt Regency to get autographs from the boys. I merely shrug and roll my eyes every time I am asked if I would – though, indeed, a fan, I also don’t want to be in that mad crush of people for an autograph I may or may not be able to get. I am dour; I am pessimistic. It just doesn’t appeal to me. Besides, there is no reason I couldn’t find another way to get an autograph; I often moonlight at the Hyatt and at Rosemont as an extra grip, when needed. And boy is it needed tonight, with all that razzmatazz U2 was insisting on! Techies like me are in high demand.
I grin cockily to myself and spin my tray up over my shoulder as I slid noiselessly among the tables, deftly avoiding fellow co-workers on my way to the kitchen with my dirty dishes. At least I don’t have to wash dishes or laundry tonight, so I leave early to head over to the Hyatt.
Depositing everything at the proper station, I remove my apron and gaudy red jacket, courtesy of the Drake; I turn and reach for my jacket and bag, and go to punch out.
“Hey, Lee, you leaving us for the dark side?” Andre jokes, pushing a cart of condiments towards the kitchen. “Peace,” I retort, flipping him a peace sign as I put on my headphones and begin singing ‘The Fly’: ‘Check, I gotta go – I’m running’ out of change! There’re a lot of things, if I could, I’d rearrange, YEAH!”
There are some startled looks from customers, some chuckles from staff. I am known for my rather odd tendency to sing lyrics at random moments.
And then, the dreaded sound: “Hey, Lee, wait! I really need an extra for tonight!”
“Jordan – I am already booked. Gotta go.”
“But – “
Should I start running like Bono did on the Elevation tour?
“Gotta go!” Oh, boy, I’d gotten his tone down right: nasal and deep.
“Li!”
“Gotta go!” And I book it, Bono-Barfly style. Man’s pretty fast; so am I. I’m out the door, and down Oak Street long before he even gets to the door.
I keep running, more for the exhilaration of it than because I needed to. I’d discovered running after a bad scare with my weight had nearly cost me a few broken bones. Understand, now, that I have arthromyalgia, leaning towards fibromyalgia. Painful, painful. But I can run for a very long time without hurting. In fact, it relieves the pain, to some degree, sometimes. Therefore, I do it every chance I get. And tonight, I weave through the crowd like a slender bit of wind, brushing past suited upper class yuppies who stare down their noses at a dreadloc’d, petite African woman whose muscle in no way denies her femininity.
It was good to be 35; very good indeed.
All the chaos of my youth was behind me; all the peace of age before me.
Needless to say, I couldn’t wait.
Having reached the relative safety (have you ever tried to get to work while being accosted by various security personnel anxious after the safety of their charges? I don’t recommend it. In fact, I strongly discourage it) of the Hyatt, I head for the freight elevator and the Dungeon of Doom known as the basement. Kitchens; my life is full of kitchens, I swear it. It’s a damned conspiracy; back to taunt me from my childhood spent being tortured for the sake of straight hair.
The door opens, and the last thing on Earth I had expected to see greets me: Larry Mullen and his girlfriend/wife wrapped in a very tight embrace, his long fingers in her blond hair, her arms around his waist.
Apparently, it’s been a very long tour for them both; they hadn’t noticed the elevator’s stopped until the bell rang, and I’d already stepped on.
Good thing I’m used to random sightings of couples sneaking away for a little alone time.
I manage to muffle my giggles as Larry lets Anne go, and she smoothes her hair. She’s really very beautiful, in an elegant, elfish kind of way, with remarkably blue eyes and gentle mouth.
Their children must be sickeningly gorgeous.
Seriously, it’s unfair to have two parents who look like they belong to the Grecian Pantheon of Gods, or, considering they’re Celtic, the Sidhe is the appropriate equivalent, I believe.
I digress; I begin to sound like the Edge on one of his technical bents.
You get the point. It’s altogether too annoying for words. And, in that ironic sort of paradox we sardonic, dour sorts learn to detest early in life, it’s all really very sweet.
I grin at her, mischievously.
Caught, she turns her face into his chest, and begins to laugh.
He looks down at her, kisses the crown of her head, stifling a shy chuckle.
“This was your idea, don’t hide now.” His soft Irish brogue is somewhat breathless, and thick with desire.
She merely giggles all the harder, unable to control her mirth.
He turns to look at me, and I can’t stifle my teasing retort on her behalf, “You didn’t seem to need much convincing, now did you?”
His features are delicately masculine in the way of a Celtic god. He looks at me with eyes turned to quicksilver by the moonlight, by drinking, by being utterly limp with relaxation. For once, he doesn’t have to duck for cover, and he knows it.
He smiles at me, that slight, sensual curving of full, coral-red lips, that softening of the masculine hardness of features, the crinkling that just barely decorates the outer corners of his eyes.
His cyan, silk polo shirt is open beneath the nylon shelled, gray-fleece windbreaker he hasn’t bothered to close at all. His thick blond hair is completely loose, not a hint of gel to turn it greasy and mouse-dark. Leaning against the elevator wall, he looks at me and tries to pretend he doesn’t feel the least bit shy about being caught in the elevator making out with his girlfriend.
Of course, he fails so miserably it’s a wonder he doesn’t slide right under the Oriental carpet.
I grin, and look away. Whistling, I press for my floor. The doors close. They shift, uncomfortable and giddy as teenagers, fidgeting furtively with each other.
Cute: they’re trying to tickle each other without being seen!
Is there anyone out there, because it’s getting harder and harder not to burst out laughing at how cute they are.
May I at forty four have a love like they seem to have with each other.
The elevator stops at the basement.
Now, I’m not generally the romantic sort, lest you get the wrong idea about me; I hate kissy couples. But, in this instance, I have sympathy for the poor devils. They probably see each other once or twice a year while he’s touring. And they probably haven’t been left alone long enough to get in any personal face time alone.
I had help, in my own obscure, sardonic fashion.
“I haven’t seen anything.” I can’t resist taunting in an Al Pachino lilt (a la that damned penguin in that animated movie whose name I never remember) as I step off the elevator. “By the way, if you hit emergency stop, it doesn’t go off. The alarm is quite broken.”
He flushes, I laugh all the harder, and wriggle my fingers at them both. “Good night, children. Please don’t break anything useful to your career, Mr. Mullen.”
Anne giggles at the look on his face as I toss him a wink over my shoulders.
The doors close.
Did I mention it’s great to be thirty five?
Whistling, I stroll down the hallway to the employee lockers, and change into my uniform, and head back upstairs to begin the work of pretending to be friendly to people I’d rather see the back of.
Ah, well, if I get too annoyed, I will have to remember the Larry incident.
First time I ever saw that man looking quite that happy.
Perhaps they ought to consider having Larry’s love around more often – it seems to relax him, quite a bit.
Who knew he was that darned cute in person? He tried so hard to look tough.
I won’t tell on him.
Summary: Mr. Mullen helps a woman learn to trust people, and life, in a way she hasn’t really done it before.
U2 is in town, apparently due to play at the Rosemont in a couple days, and quite a few of the Drake Hotel’s staff are excitedly chattering about how they are going to stalk the Hyatt Regency to get autographs from the boys. I merely shrug and roll my eyes every time I am asked if I would – though, indeed, a fan, I also don’t want to be in that mad crush of people for an autograph I may or may not be able to get. I am dour; I am pessimistic. It just doesn’t appeal to me. Besides, there is no reason I couldn’t find another way to get an autograph; I often moonlight at the Hyatt and at Rosemont as an extra grip, when needed. And boy is it needed tonight, with all that razzmatazz U2 was insisting on! Techies like me are in high demand.
I grin cockily to myself and spin my tray up over my shoulder as I slid noiselessly among the tables, deftly avoiding fellow co-workers on my way to the kitchen with my dirty dishes. At least I don’t have to wash dishes or laundry tonight, so I leave early to head over to the Hyatt.
Depositing everything at the proper station, I remove my apron and gaudy red jacket, courtesy of the Drake; I turn and reach for my jacket and bag, and go to punch out.
“Hey, Lee, you leaving us for the dark side?” Andre jokes, pushing a cart of condiments towards the kitchen. “Peace,” I retort, flipping him a peace sign as I put on my headphones and begin singing ‘The Fly’: ‘Check, I gotta go – I’m running’ out of change! There’re a lot of things, if I could, I’d rearrange, YEAH!”
There are some startled looks from customers, some chuckles from staff. I am known for my rather odd tendency to sing lyrics at random moments.
And then, the dreaded sound: “Hey, Lee, wait! I really need an extra for tonight!”
“Jordan – I am already booked. Gotta go.”
“But – “
Should I start running like Bono did on the Elevation tour?
“Gotta go!” Oh, boy, I’d gotten his tone down right: nasal and deep.
“Li!”
“Gotta go!” And I book it, Bono-Barfly style. Man’s pretty fast; so am I. I’m out the door, and down Oak Street long before he even gets to the door.
I keep running, more for the exhilaration of it than because I needed to. I’d discovered running after a bad scare with my weight had nearly cost me a few broken bones. Understand, now, that I have arthromyalgia, leaning towards fibromyalgia. Painful, painful. But I can run for a very long time without hurting. In fact, it relieves the pain, to some degree, sometimes. Therefore, I do it every chance I get. And tonight, I weave through the crowd like a slender bit of wind, brushing past suited upper class yuppies who stare down their noses at a dreadloc’d, petite African woman whose muscle in no way denies her femininity.
It was good to be 35; very good indeed.
All the chaos of my youth was behind me; all the peace of age before me.
Needless to say, I couldn’t wait.
Having reached the relative safety (have you ever tried to get to work while being accosted by various security personnel anxious after the safety of their charges? I don’t recommend it. In fact, I strongly discourage it) of the Hyatt, I head for the freight elevator and the Dungeon of Doom known as the basement. Kitchens; my life is full of kitchens, I swear it. It’s a damned conspiracy; back to taunt me from my childhood spent being tortured for the sake of straight hair.
The door opens, and the last thing on Earth I had expected to see greets me: Larry Mullen and his girlfriend/wife wrapped in a very tight embrace, his long fingers in her blond hair, her arms around his waist.
Apparently, it’s been a very long tour for them both; they hadn’t noticed the elevator’s stopped until the bell rang, and I’d already stepped on.
Good thing I’m used to random sightings of couples sneaking away for a little alone time.
I manage to muffle my giggles as Larry lets Anne go, and she smoothes her hair. She’s really very beautiful, in an elegant, elfish kind of way, with remarkably blue eyes and gentle mouth.
Their children must be sickeningly gorgeous.
Seriously, it’s unfair to have two parents who look like they belong to the Grecian Pantheon of Gods, or, considering they’re Celtic, the Sidhe is the appropriate equivalent, I believe.
I digress; I begin to sound like the Edge on one of his technical bents.
You get the point. It’s altogether too annoying for words. And, in that ironic sort of paradox we sardonic, dour sorts learn to detest early in life, it’s all really very sweet.
I grin at her, mischievously.
Caught, she turns her face into his chest, and begins to laugh.
He looks down at her, kisses the crown of her head, stifling a shy chuckle.
“This was your idea, don’t hide now.” His soft Irish brogue is somewhat breathless, and thick with desire.
She merely giggles all the harder, unable to control her mirth.
He turns to look at me, and I can’t stifle my teasing retort on her behalf, “You didn’t seem to need much convincing, now did you?”
His features are delicately masculine in the way of a Celtic god. He looks at me with eyes turned to quicksilver by the moonlight, by drinking, by being utterly limp with relaxation. For once, he doesn’t have to duck for cover, and he knows it.
He smiles at me, that slight, sensual curving of full, coral-red lips, that softening of the masculine hardness of features, the crinkling that just barely decorates the outer corners of his eyes.
His cyan, silk polo shirt is open beneath the nylon shelled, gray-fleece windbreaker he hasn’t bothered to close at all. His thick blond hair is completely loose, not a hint of gel to turn it greasy and mouse-dark. Leaning against the elevator wall, he looks at me and tries to pretend he doesn’t feel the least bit shy about being caught in the elevator making out with his girlfriend.
Of course, he fails so miserably it’s a wonder he doesn’t slide right under the Oriental carpet.
I grin, and look away. Whistling, I press for my floor. The doors close. They shift, uncomfortable and giddy as teenagers, fidgeting furtively with each other.
Cute: they’re trying to tickle each other without being seen!
Is there anyone out there, because it’s getting harder and harder not to burst out laughing at how cute they are.
May I at forty four have a love like they seem to have with each other.
The elevator stops at the basement.
Now, I’m not generally the romantic sort, lest you get the wrong idea about me; I hate kissy couples. But, in this instance, I have sympathy for the poor devils. They probably see each other once or twice a year while he’s touring. And they probably haven’t been left alone long enough to get in any personal face time alone.
I had help, in my own obscure, sardonic fashion.
“I haven’t seen anything.” I can’t resist taunting in an Al Pachino lilt (a la that damned penguin in that animated movie whose name I never remember) as I step off the elevator. “By the way, if you hit emergency stop, it doesn’t go off. The alarm is quite broken.”
He flushes, I laugh all the harder, and wriggle my fingers at them both. “Good night, children. Please don’t break anything useful to your career, Mr. Mullen.”
Anne giggles at the look on his face as I toss him a wink over my shoulders.
The doors close.
Did I mention it’s great to be thirty five?
Whistling, I stroll down the hallway to the employee lockers, and change into my uniform, and head back upstairs to begin the work of pretending to be friendly to people I’d rather see the back of.
Ah, well, if I get too annoyed, I will have to remember the Larry incident.
First time I ever saw that man looking quite that happy.
Perhaps they ought to consider having Larry’s love around more often – it seems to relax him, quite a bit.
Who knew he was that darned cute in person? He tried so hard to look tough.
I won’t tell on him.
Looking forward to more. I like the two different perspectives that you've told the story from so far.
