I have to apologize to the subject of this blog. They are going to be embarrassed, or pissed. I sure hope they will eventually forgive me for telling this story.
Or I’ll be exiled.
I volunteer for a rather large anime convention. For the uninitiated, anime is Japanese animation. No, it is not “cartoons” and they are not all proper viewing for children. For those who still want to doubt me, I invite you to put “Elfin Lied”, “Helsing”, and “Grave of the Fireflies” on your little one’s playlist. Go on. I dare you.
As part of my volunteer duties, I travel to different conventions and talk to anime industry representatives about the latest releases, and what we can do to promote/showcase these releases. A few years ago I was new to the position, and as such I traveled in the shadow of a more seasoned volunteer. Let’s call him Frank. Frank is an expert on most things anime. I mean, ask him the year an anime was released, who the Japanese and American voice actors are, the company that owns the rights – he has all those facts swimming around in his head. Just don’t ask him about Miss Manner’s Rules of Etiquette.
The convention we traveled to is a rather large and popular convention on the West Coast. In a rather large and popular city. Because lodgings cost a ton, and are in short supply, Frank and I were to share a room. Because he is the senior, the room was in his name. So I had to wait for him to show up before I could check in to my room. Lucky for me there was someone else that I know who was attending the event, so I was able to leave my things in their room while I waited. Frank was actually in the city, just staying with friends, so it was not supposed to be long before he was able to get to the hotel and check us in. My friend and I met him for breakfast and he passed me the room key. I waited a few hours, explored the convention a bit before I returned to the hotel to move my things from my friend’s room to mine. When I entered the room I was speechless: he had gotten one king size bed instead of 2 queen beds. So I called him and asked what he was thinking. “Oh, I didn’t realize, I’ll have it changed when I get back.” Still didn’t put my name on the room, so of course I can’t do it. Remember what I said about rooms being in short supply? By the time he gets back there are no rooms available to switch to.
He shrugs apologetically and says he will sleep on the floor. Of course he is, because *I* am not.
Next morning we get up and get ready for the official first day of con. Frank has appointments to keep, I do not. I take my leave and find coffee, breakfast, and a view. An hour and a half later I come back to the room and Frank has left. Mission accomplished, because all of you know that a man and a woman cannot get dressed at the same time unless there are multiple bathrooms – especially if that man and woman are not romantically involved. I pull out my clothes, grab my toiletries and head to the bathroom… where I promptly lost my footing and almost slammed my head in to the beautiful marble flooring. I look around and the ENTIRE BATHROOM FLOOR is SOAKED! So I back out, find my slippers and carefully enter again. The bathroom mat, the one that goes on the floor in front of the tub so you DON’T bust your ass on the floor? Still hanging over the tub. And soaked all the way through. Oh but the tub…
Imagine you have a puppy. You take that puppy outside after a heavy rainfall. S/he is all over the yard, swimming in mud, digging holes, the works. Then take that puppy and drop them in a tub ¾ full of water and clean them until their fur sparkles. Take puppy out, then drain tub. Don’t rinse the tub, don’t swirl the water so the dirt drains out. Just pull the plug and walk away. Now think about what that tub looks like.
THAT IS WHAT THE TUB LOOKED LIKE. I declined a bath/shower that morning. I did a spot clean, got dressed and headed to the convention. That evening I came back, walked in to the room and almost gagged.
Frank had turned the HVAC to 80 degrees. In July, on the West Coast! Not only was the room sweltering but it STANK. Like rotting food in the kitchen garbage smell. I turned the thermostat down to 65 degrees, but I could not locate the source of the odor. Lucky for me the cool air helped to eliminate the smell.
This was my life for 5 days.
On the fifth day we are packing up to leave. I generally carry an empty luggage or bag with me in case there is swag and I can’t fit it in my suitcase. I did not need it this trip and was about to pack it away when Frank asks me if he can borrow it. It is a unique bag. It cannot be replaced. I do not want to let it out of my sight. I impressed upon him that this is my favorite bag. Please give it back to me in one piece. He all but pinky swears that he will. I relinquish the bag and continue packing. Frank then picks up a plastic grocery bag and says “I guess I don’t need these anymore.”
Now, I am a nosy broad. I asked him what was in it. He says they are some Japanese snacks that he was given just before he checked in to the hotel. I’m thinking Pocky, some ginger candies, maybe even those green tea KitKats I love so much. Frank tells me to check it out. I reach my hand in the bag…
…and immediately yank it out again, full of some oily substance that absolutely REEKS. I open the bag wide so I look in it. There are packets, about the size and shape of a gas station size box of condoms for well-endowed men. Inside these packets are fish, in oil. One of these packets was OPEN and leaking EVERYWHERE. Thus solving the mystery of the obnoxious smell. I was so happy that trip was over; I almost kissed the floor of my house when I got there.
A month later I get my favorite bag back. With a hole in it.
Never traveling with Frank again.
Chaotically Controlled 