Arnold - A Bell Hop

Arnold, momentarily paralysed by the fluttering eyelashes and smarting a pinched cheek, reacted as any normal teenager would do in fear of a smothering matronly aunt and hopped it sharply, leaving his arm behind to collect the cash. Mrs Leibermilch was always amazed by her powers of persuasion. She entered the elevator and soared.

Back at the Front Desk, Mr Gonzales was his usual picture of sartorial elegance. Immaculately turned out in his morning suit with a button-holed pink carnation, he grovelled with the finest sycophancy over a new arrival. "Yes indeed madam, the room is one of our finest and should you desire anything, anything at all" he said with expertly feigned sincerity, "we are totally at your service," whence he promptly slapped the counter bell with all the finesse of an orchestral conductor.

"Arnold! Take the lady's luggage to 515 this instant!"

Flustered, the courgette attired porter was about to explain that an errand was imminent, but thought better of it. Mr Gonzales was intolerant to hesitation. Besides when the pencil moustache quivered below the aquiline nose, visions of Don Corleone entered the poor boy's imagination.

As Arnold bent to collect the young lady's bags he realised they belonged to a pair of pins which caused his own to teeter. Cautiously he followed them from ankles, upward through tanned and toned calves, until eventually to a pair of thighs barely concealed by a skirt which oozed desire.

Just as his tongue was about to crash to the floor, a voice, which he realised was his own and an octave higher than normal, suddenly uttered follow me miss as he led the way to the elevator whose previous occupant was just emerging some floors above.

Meanwhile outside on the busy street, Ed Zucker, resplendent in crimson livery and matching regimental cap, doffed it deferentially whilst opening the door of a yellow cab as it pulled up outside the hotel. He was proud that regardless of the occupant, he could never make a servile stoop so low as long as it resulted in a greenback. A noted lesson learned from the Uriah Heep Academy of Humility and Servitude.

"Those mugs deserve to be ripped off" he would proudly declare at his regular poker night where the purple haze of cigar smoke and the oak aroma of bourbon hung over the cards like an enchanted mist. "They don't give a crap about me, so who cares if I screw them out of a few bucks more?" He paused as another shot hit the gullet "Hell, I'm only trying to earn a crust! Screw the jerks, and screw this lousy hand. I'm out!"

Welcome to the Grand, Sir....such a pleasure to see you again!

Arnold, eyes focused on the dash as the elevator rose, had left reality on the ground floor. His senses, wafted by French cologne, and overcome by close proximity to the vision of his dreams, drifted into fantasy. He was James Bond. Suave, debonair, sophisticated and escorting a beautiful femme fatale, a secret Russian agent, to wine and dine and charm.

Here she would collapse in his arms, whisper sweet nothings in his ear, whilst he would implement his magnetic watch which would slowly unzip her dress from behind. He'd seen it in the movies. They would slip into silken sheets, their lips would part, and with refined masculinity he would....

"Oy mate! You've missed the bleedin' floor for Gawd's sake!" Suddenly the dream was shattered, and Sonya Petrovich, the Kremlin's top operative, was non other than Tracy Simpkins, late of Clapham, London!

"Didn't you 'ear that stuffed shirt downstairs? It's the fifth floor not the bloomin' sixth!"

"Sorry miss, it's the KGB!" Arnold blurted without thinking.

"An' wot's the Cagey Bee when it's at 'ome? Is it a nightclub?"

"No miss, it's a mistake, very sorry miss!

"I should coco! Blimey, I've been travelling for ten hours and my feet are killin' me. Bleedin' British Airways. I should have listened to my mate Sharon. 'Don't go on them Tracy' she said all lardy dah. 'Go Virgin!'

"Go Virgin?" I said. "Me? You're 'avin' a larf ain't ya?" An' gettin' 'ere from the airport was a joke. An' who's that snooty crawler down there? Looks like 'e's got a poker up 'is arse!"

"That's Mr Gonzales miss"

"Ooh, Mr Gonzales" Tracy replied with laced sarcasm "Well you can tell Mr Creepy that the next time 'e looks down at my tits, I'll slap 'im wiv a kipper!"

"Yes miss. Here's your room miss".

Arnold descended. Perhaps Tracy was incognito, perhaps the dollar bill she'd given him held secret information. Perhaps the allusion to Mr Creepy was a codename. Perhaps tits and kippers were espionage signals?

He looked at the tip, turned it over, examined it, scrutinised it, and as he returned to the lobby with a bump, he suddenly remembered. Zucchini! Mrs Liebermilch!