get a room–the conclusion

Welcome to “Get a Room–Part II” if you haven’t read Get a Room – Part 1, go now. I’ll wait. Oh and mom, if you’re reading, you might want to skip this post.

As soon as the words “Let’s get a room,” left my Bonnie Bell frosted lips, I knew I had come up with probably the best idea of my entire life, second only to conceptualizing a dance routine to “L.A. Dream Team Is In The House” for our senior year homecoming pep rally (a separate post entirely). The four of us looked at each other with bright eyes and wicked little grins; a collective, resounding YES from all of us. It was on.

It was too late to make it happen for that night, plus, we had to find a way to convince our parents that we needed to stay the night at a hotel, oh, and why they should pay for it. Lord only knows what crazy, teenage logic and Jedi Mind Tricks we used on our gullible sweet parents, but whatever we said worked. By 11:00pm our hotel room for the next night was booked and we were half-way to heaven, to our Personal Jesus.

Pretty sure none of us slept a wink that night. Visions of kicking it with Gahan and Gore in their hotel suite were playing in our minds like a prequel to Almost Famous. We labored over serious questions like, What should we wear? And Should we use our real names?

At 3:00pm the next day, we checked into the room and began primping for the what would most assuredly be the best, most memorable night of our lives. I think I wore a bright pink, borderline fushia, satin, button-up blouse, just perfect for a Depeche Mode concert. My bangs were extra high, my eye shadow extra blue, and my lips extra bright (good lord, why did none of my friends slap me?). The butterflies in our bellies were in overdrive as we envisioned the possibilites. Maybe David would serenade us? Maybe they would want to play a round of Thumper* (though I’m sure their version of the game would’ve been quite different than ours)?

By 7:00pm, we were finally at our seats, standing, of course, despite our weak, wobbly knees. The anticipation was almost too much to bear. Throughout the concert, in between screams, and woo hoos, we gave each other knowing glances, smiling from ear to ear. Oh what a night we had waiting for us.

I am beyond mortified to admit what happened next. Beyond. Mortified. My face is getting flush just thinking about it.

Towards the end of the concert, one of us (I) had a brilliant idea to write a note to the band, letting them know what room we were in. You know, so they could find us. So I did. I found a scratch piece of paper in my purse, and used lip liner to write something that went like this:

Hey Guys, we’re staying at your hotel tonight. Room 1234. Hope to see you there.

I folded it up, called over the beefy security guard standing next to us, and asked him, psuedo-seductively, to deliver our top secret message to the band.

Yes. I. Did.

Excuse me while I bury my head in my kids’ toy box for a second.

Okay, I’m back.

Certain that the guys would be reading our note immediately after the show and then knocking on our hotel room door shortly thereafter, we could barely contain our excitement. What a genius addendum to our plot.

Immediately after the encore, the four of us ridiculously naive groupies (or should I say “Band Aids”?) bolted out of the stadium. And I mean bolted. I don’t think I have ever walked as fast or with as much purpose in my life.

Once at the hotel, we greeted the same hot valet guy from the night before with precocious grins and our ROOM NUMBER. Ha! Take that you car-parkin’, Spicoli-wannabe. We then scurried to our room, freshened up and plopped ourselves on the beds, smoked a few ciggies, because that’s what you do when you’re about to meet luscious European musicians (seriously Mom, stop reading), and anxiously awaited that imminent knock on the door.

Tick, tock. No knock.

After awhile of enjoying the silence, we decided, on the off chance that maybe, perhaps, they didn’t get the note, to head out to the lobby and greet them upon arrival. As we sauntered down the corridors of the presitgious Le Meridien’s corridors, we attempted to mask our tween-like giggles and act like the lame-ass mature young adult that we were.

The calm, quiet, frenzy-less lobby did not tip us off to anything amiss. The lack of hustle and bustle that would normally precede the arrival of the hottest band ever, raised narry a red flag. We would soon be face to face with our idols and life was good.

So there we sat. All four of us, like hormonally-charged, over-dressed sardines, on a mustard yellow settee in the middle of the Le Meridien lobby, tapping our toes, checking our Swatches, and holding in the nervous diarrhea. We looked around anxiously. We feigned adult-like conversation and threw our heads back with neurotic laughter. Certainly they were on their way, they just must have been caught up in traffic. It was only a Question of Time (and Lust) at that point, and we were ready to wait it out.

In the midst of our empty chatter and sucking in, we noticed a hotel employee scoping us out. After about his fifth pass-by in twenty minutes, he finally drew near and began to whisper something.

“You know, ladies, they’re not staying here tonight.”

Silence.

“Excuse me, what?” I said, trying to hold back heaving sobs.

He repeated, “They’re not staying here tonight. They’re on their way back to LA for their concert tomorrow night.”

De-Va-Station. For real.

For real, for real.

It was like rai-ai-ain on our wedding day or a black fly in our chardonnay, before Alannis Morrisette ever put her angry little hand in that pissed-off little pocket of hers.

We all looked at each other with shock, dismay and utter dejection. Talk about a Black Celebration.

With heads hung and hearts sunk, we moped back to the room. But before the key touched the lock we were in complete hysterics. Not tearful hysterics, but rather cathartic, laughter-filled hystyerics that echoed throughout the halls. The idiocy of our actions became painfully and absurdly clear. What were we thinking? Did we really think we were going to meet them? Did we really think that the two-ton bouncer would pass a lip-pencil penned note to Depeche Freaking Mode? And how were we to know they would be driving up to The City of Angels as we flapped our innocent wings in vain.

It was too much.

In an attempt to drown our sorrows, we ordered the cheesiest, greasiest items off the room service menu, wishing that one of us had a fake ID. Oh, how a nice, cold Bartles and James could have eased our pain.

And then, a knock, knock, knock at the door got our hearts pounding and our panties wet just a little.

No way.

“Room service.”

Oh.

We opened the door to find yet another Spicoli-wannabe. As he wheeled in our plates of regret and sorrow, we decided to share our story with him. “So, we hear Depeche Mode was here last night.”

“Oh Dude, those guys are crazy!”

“Oh my god, did you meet them?” We shrieked.

“Huuh, yeah man, I like delivered food and booze to their room like all night long.”

We did everything but hog-tie him to the bed and pried him for every little detail. What were they wearing? What did they say? What did they order from room service?

But before he could answer, we also asked, “Hey, can you bring us some beer?”

Within the hour, he was back in our room, with a fellow Spicolli-wannabe hotel employee, a case of beer and hours of stories from what he had witnessed the night before. Lots of black leather and switch hitting were involved. And apparently their version of Thumper was much different than ours, and I will leave it at that. But believe me when I say that our relatively innocent eighteen year old selves would not have been well-equipped to handle a knock, knock, knock at our door from Depeche Mode, had our masterfully crafted plan not been thwarted.

So, in the end, the evening turned out to be a blast, and yes, truly one of the most memorable nights of my life. And I learned some valuable lessons: 1) Always carry lip-liner; you never know when you’re going to need to write a note. 2) Never wear fuschia to a concert. Ever. 3) Never allow your daughters to stay overnight at a hotel before they are 21. Or leave the house, ever.

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* Thumper is an interactive drinking game that employs the use of hand gestures and memory skills. One of my faves, for sure. Am still curious as to what Dave Gahan’s sign would have been.