We'll Always Have Parrots(3)

“Good question,” I said. The bathroom didn’t even have a window—only a ventilation grate, and Michael tested it to find it firmly bolted in place.

The parrot leaped off the vanity with a flutter of wings and walked over to the room service cart.

“We want a shrubbery,” it announced. It looked up at the cart, then ducked its head under the tablecloth and disappeared.

“Bingo,” Michael said. “It came with breakfast.”

“I don’t recall seeing fricassee of parrot on the menu,” I said. “And it looks underdone to me.”

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” the parrot said, poking its head out from under the cart.

“At least it’s a reasonably amusing parrot,” Michael said. “I mean, a parrot who can quote Monty Python—”

“—Is no more likely to be house trained than any other parrot,” I said, picking up the phone. “I’m going to call—hello?”

“Hello? This is the reception desk,” a woman’s voice said, on the phone. “Is anyone there?”

“I’ll see if I can catch him,” Michael said.

“This is room 207,” I said. “Room service brought us a parrot along with our meal.”

“Only one parrot?” the woman said.

“Only the one parrot, yes,” I said. “But we didn’t order any parrots at all. Could you please have someone come up right away to remove it?”

“I’m afraid we’re giving priority to people with multiple parrots,” the woman said. “We’ll put you on the waiting list, and I expect we’ll get to your parrot sometime later today. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

I was so taken aback that I couldn’t immediately speak. The woman at the reception desk took that for a no, wished me a good morning, and hung up.

“The nerve,” I said, slamming the phone down.

“What did they say?” Michael asked.

He’d begun to chase the parrot around the room. The parrot was enjoying this, if the maniacal laugh was anything to go by. Michael wasn’t. The parrot was either unwilling or unable to fly, but he could travel very fast on foot, his huge beak and hunched-forward posture making him look rather like Groucho Marx.

“They seemed to think I was joking,” I said.

“It is a little unbelievable,” Michael said.

“They could still be polite,” I said. I rummaged through my tote bag until I found the digital camera. I was supposed to take pictures of the convention so my nephew Kevin, who ran Michael’s official fan website, would have new material to post. Meg Langslow, girl reporter. I took several close-ups of the parrot, and several shots of Michael chasing it, which I suspected he wouldn’t let Kevin post.

“There,” I said. “I’ve got proof, in case they think we’re kidding. I think I’ll stop by the manager’s office a little later. Recommend some remedial training in customer service for that desk clerk.”

“Good idea,” Michael said. He sounded a little breathless.

“Do you think you should tire yourself out so close to going on stage?” I asked. I had moved to the window to snap a few pictures of the fans huddled on our balcony.

“Probably not,” he said, sitting down on the bed and shaking his head. “I don’t think I can catch him, at least not without getting all sweaty just before I go on. How much time do I have, anyway?”

“Um…about fifteen minutes,” I said, as I began to throw on my clothes. “Wasn’t someone from the committee coming to escort you down?”

“They’re supposed to,” Michael said. “What if they forgot and the stupid alarm clock in this room is slow and I’m already late?”

“Or maybe it’s fast and you’re just very early. God, I hope we’re early,” I added, grabbing a comb. Humidity is not kind to my hair. Overnight, the long, dark mane of which I was usually so proud had turned into a giant tumbleweed.

“Maybe we should go on downstairs?” Michael murmured.

But we both knew better than to venture out unescorted. Apart from the problem of lurking fans, the hotel was a sprawling maze, with at least a dozen wings added at various times in different styles, though none of them were more than two stories. Apparently, management had recently begun to renumber all the rooms, but then abandoned the project in mid-stream, so in many cases there were two rooms with the same number, distinguishable only by whether the number plate was old brass or new plastic.

At least when Michael and I arrived at our room, it was empty. I’d already heard several tales of people who entered their rooms to find them already occupied by other guests.