The First Time I Was Mistaken For A Hooker

I dated The Doctor for three years and was madly in love with him because he was kind of a genius, having invented a baby heart monitor among his many achievements. He raced Formula Atlantic cars in Lime Rock, Connecticut and Watkins Glen, NY and we were both enamored of the more powerful F-1 cars. So one year we flew from NY to California to catch the Long Beach Grand Prix.  The high-pitched whine those engines make when they streak in front of you raises your blood pressure and probably your cholesterol. It's very sexual. Not the cholesterol part.

The Grand Prix was spectacular and afterward we went to an auto show to see the new Lamborghini's, Ferrari's, and other cars I couldn't afford but he could. Everything was fine until The Doctor decided we should spend our second night in California at a friend's house. This friend of his turned out to be a very pretty girl named Dakota. She lived with her boyfriend so naturally this made The Doctor assume we should swap partners. SURE, WHO DOESN'T DO THAT WITH OUT-OF-TOWN GUESTS? He hadn't seen Dakota in many years and now that he was balding, and still short, I thought for sure she wouldn't be interested. I was wrong. He was rich and rich trumps bald and short. And her boyfriend was all in. I thought it was horrible that both he and my boyfriend would even think of lending their girlfriends like we were in a bookmobile and could be returned the next day. But as I aged, which I'm not by the way, I realized men are the real whores and are always looking for strange.

The Doctor and I got into a fight over the swapping. A big fight. A fight so huge that I called information to get the number of a local cab company and then sneaked out of the house with my purse and small overnight. I had the cab driver drop me at the Beverly Hills Hotel because it was the only hotel I'd heard of. I checked in after midnight. As the hotel clerk gave me my room key, a man came up behind me and also checked in.

I unpacked, turned on the TV, and raided the mini-bar. Mercifully I've blocked out how much I took from the mini-bar because, hello, the Beverly Hills Hotel. 

Sidebar: The next morning I called my sister Lindy, who lived in Santa Monica, and asked her to come stay with me. We ordered room service and the only thing I remember from our breakfast was that a glass of orange juice was $5.00. In 1981. I was young then and had credit cards that weren't maxed out. That's not going to last, Suzy. Stop drinking orange juice in California.

The room phone rang. No one knew where I was so I assumed it was the front desk. 

"Hello."

"Hi."

"Who's this?"

"I checked into the hotel after you."

"Oh yeah, I saw you."

"I thought you might want some company."

"What? How did you get this number?"

"I looked over your shoulder and saw your room number."

If you know anything about hotel check-ins, and having spent over 20 years on the road as a standup comic I do,  I can assure you that even the cheesiest hotel does not routinely let guests see other guests' room numbers. This is how serial killers get started and your grief stricken family ends up on Dateline NBC. I hung up on him and called the front desk.

"Did you give my room number to that asshole who checked in behind me?"

"Miss, please...I can assure you there are no people like that in this hotel."
"Well, some asshole just called me and said he checked in after me so who the hell was that?"
"I don't know miss, maybe a friend of yours?"
"I don't know any ASSHOLES." Of course this was a total lie because I was currently dating one. "I just got here and can assure you I did not give out this room number to anyone. So he probably followed me because you gave him my room number and OH MY GOD, do you think I'm a prostitute?"

"You only had a small bag...and checked in very late."

I hung up on him, too. I looked down at my clothes. Jeans and a t-shirt. You know, your basic prostitute-y outfit.

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