We spilled out of the taxi into the forecourt of The Edgewater Hotel in Seattle, having been transformed into eight year-olds.
Mularski paid the cabbie, and we skipped into the lobby, straight up to reception.
“Two rooms,” I said, with all the authority I could muster.
“Name?”
I assuming she’s toying with me.
“Bucky,” hissed Mularski.
The receptionist accessed her computer. Yes, I have two king rooms, facing Puget Sound. Credit card?”
I passed her my Amex card, any moment expecting security to pop out and go Boo! And ask where our parents are.
But nothing like that happened, and I suddenly thought of Nebraska. “You need a room, too—don’tcha?”
Nebraska bit at her lip, and shook her head. “I don’t want to be by myself.”
Everything I’d previously known about Nebraska, which wasn’t much, suggested that she was an extremely independent individual. Which also suggested there was more going on with her—us—than just looking like eight years old.
“You can share with me if you want,” I said.
“Uh…” This was Mularski. “I don’t want to be alone either.”
The receptionist looked at us comically, as if we were joking.
“Say, do you have connecting rooms?” I asked.
Wordlessly, she clacked at her keyboard, studied her screen. “I can give you a king connected to a twin room.”
“Perfect.”
The receptionist issued key cards and we made our way to the elevator and up to the third floor and into our pair of neighboring rooms.
On the bed, centered between two pillows, was a brown teddy bear.
I turned to the other two. “Are we being set up for something?”
“Not only that,” said Nebraska, “How do you explain this?” She held up a yellow rubber duck, which she’d plucked from the snack tray.
“I give up,” I said.
“Screw the duck, quack-quack,” said Mularski, plagued by aboiement. “They got Oreos!”
I started to explain that the mark-up for those items by the hotel was ridiculous, but Mularski quickly opened a mini-pack of Oreos and wolfed them down. And then I noticed a pack of M&Ms, which I opened and ate all at once. And they were the best M&Ms I ever had.
Nebraska, meantime, had gone around to the other room and unlocked the connecting door.
“How could they let three kids check into a hotel?” I wondered aloud. “She didn’t blink an eyelid.”
“I have a theory about that,” said Mularski.
“What theory?
“The cabbie, the hotel receptionist… they all see us as adults. Only we see ourselves as eight year-olds.”
“How does that work?” said Nebraska, studying herself as an eight year-old in the bathroom mirror.
“You’re asking me?” said Mularski. “I don’t know how any of this works. But there’s a simple way to prove what I’m saying. Follow me.”
We scampered after Mularski out the door, back to the elevator, down to the lobby and into the bar, where he climbed onto a barstool. “You open yet?” he called to the bartender.
“Sure, what’ll it be?”
“Vodka martini, up, olives.”
The bartender went to work, pouring and dashing and shaking, then emptying his mix of liquid crystal into a chilled martini glass.
“Wow, do I need this,” said Mularski. He raised the glass, toasted Nebraska and me, and brought the potion to his lips. “He sipped, swallowed—and spewed. “Yuck!”
The bartender loomed up. “Something wrong?”
Mularski was still spitting into his hand. He looked up sheepishly. “Uh, yes, no—uh, mister, can I just have a Coke?”
Nebraska and I scrambled onto stools either side of Mularski. Nebraska was giggling again.
“What happened?” I whispered.
“That tasted terrible!”
“So let me get this straight,” I said. “To everyone else we look like adults, but we have eight year-old taste buds?”
“Unless the bartender’s playing a mean trick on us. Mister!” Mularski called. “How old do I look?”
“Excuse me?”
“Guess my age.”
“Well, the way you’re acting, I’d say about eight,” he replied, chuckling. “But I’m guessing it’s a mid-life crisis because you look about fifty.”
“See! See!” said Mularski.
“What about me?” asked Nebraska.
“About thirty.”
“So I can order a drink?”
The bartender considered this. “I better check your ID.”
Nebraska fished around her bag, found a wallet from which she plucked her driver’s license.
The bartender glanced at it. “What would you like?”
“A glass of chardonnay.”
Mularski and I watched curiously as the bartender poured a glass, delivered it and Nebraska sipped. “It’s okay,” she said to us. “My parents let me taste wine when I was a little girl.”
“I’m gonna check out the gift store,” said Mularski. He jumped off the stool and ran out.
I poised myself to jump after him.
“Don’t leave me,” said Nebraska.
I whipped around to face her. “I don’t get you. We’ve only met a few times, but you struck me as one of the most un-needy people I ever met.”
“I had a cold upbringing,” said Nebraska. “My parents were never affectionate, never hugged and kissed me. I don’t know if that’s the reason, but it’s really hard for me be me to show any affection, or to make a connection, though I long for one. The only guys I know are one-night stands, because I don’t let it get beyond that. And now I’m scared.” A teardrop formed in the corner of Nebraska’s left eye, until it grew big enough to drip onto her cheek.
I touched her tear with my forefinger and brought it to my lips, tasting salt. “Whatever it is that’s happening, it’s okay. Don’t be frightened.”
“I don’t want this wine. It tastes like fish.”
“C’mon, let’s go.”
When we reached Mularski in the gift shop across the lobby, he was running around, excited. “They got Scooby-dos! I didn’t know they even made them any more!”
“Look out there!” Nebraska pointed out the picture window, other side of the lounge.
“That’s the ferry,” said Mularski.
“I wanna go on it,” said Nebraska.
“Me too,” said Mularski. “But let’s go to Pike Place Market first.”