True Stories of John 20: Naked and Bleeding in a Hotel

In September 2011 I shared a writing prompt based on real life. It was a sentence I spoke out loud in a hotel in Maryland:

"I've only been in this perfectly nice hotel for ten minutes and I'm already naked with blood on the floor."

I promised to tell the truth behind it if enough people wrote stories inspired by the line, or if everyone nailed Danielle La Paglia's birthday challenge. Well, last week you all nailed the latter. Now it's time for me to fess up.

It was the first day I realized just how old I am. I passed through a grand lobby with a complimentary piano, took the wide elevator by myself, and slid into an air-conditioned hotel room replete with HD television and a view of a busy metropolis - and my first thought was, "Joy, they've got an ironing board!"

There's no good way to confess that I ironed the sweat out of my clothing. It was a toiling sojourn in 100-degree weather and I only brought so many shirts. When I realized how easy it was to freshen up my button-down, my t-shirt followed, and then my underwear. Don't you judge me. We all do stupid things when we're alone, I just confess them, though I may also take them further than others.

If I loitered any longer my body would register that the travel was over and collapse, so I waddled into the bathroom to get shaving out of the way. I've got an Irish potato face, the pores begging to betray me on any stroke of a razor. This time my skin held up until the last swipe, at which point my chin opened up with what I still feel was unnecessary vigor.

I spun around and bent to get toilet paper to stop the bleeding, but the sudden motion just made it worse. My blood spattered onto this otherwise pristine beige floor. One drop hit my bare knee and gave me unwanted perspective about a naked fat man bleeding in his hotel. It got funnier when I smelled the iron burning my used underwear. It kept getting funnier all night, even after I got clothes on again.

This Photo Is Lying

On Sunday we celebrated my grandfather and Danielle La Paglia's birthdays with a little game. There was a photo of how I write. Everyone was invited to guess what was untrue about it. The ladies and gentlemen of the jury nailed five deceits, including one I hadn't really thought of before.

I'd really rather write on the deck.

 
The Five Errors

1. I don't keep an OED that close to me. It's on my shelves a short walk away, and I consult it a little less often than Etymonline or simply googling a word.
-Guessed by Anonymous N, Helen Howell, Cathy Oliffe-Webster and Larry Kollar.

2. I do not type on a Mac Book. I don't even own one; I borrowed it for this photo since that seemed easier than lugging my PC into the bathroom. I really wanted that computer in the tub with me, though.
-Guessed by Michael Tate.

3. I do not write fully clothed. In fact that thing I wrote that time, that you found the most touching and thoughtful of my works, was probably done in a t-shirt and underwear. For decency, I'm wearing socks while writing this post.
-Guessed by Catherine Russell and Larry Kollar.

4. The most obvious, but I have to count it: I don't write in the bathroom. The Bathroom Monologues are an oral tradition; I type them up later. Approximately ten Bathroom Monologues have been scribbled on toilet paper or in the margins of an available New Yorker.
-Michael Tate, Richard Bon and Peter Newman.

5. Richard Bon split a perfect hair: "At least part of the time you probably have your eyes closed while you write." I can't fight that. I do blink, and static imagery betrays this. This supplants the stealth-error that I'm not actually writing. The Mac is only booting up.
-Guessed only by Richard Bon.



The One I Wish Was True

From Anonymous N: "John Wiswell does keep the dictionaries on hand; it's where, after battles unnumbered, he has managed to imprison all the words he will ever need. While he knows them all by name and never needs to open the pages, he does need to keep an eye on them so they don't cause trouble."

Three You Might Think Were Errors
1. Several people doubted the absence of coffee or liquor. I've actually never drunk alcohol and abhor coffee. All my absurdism comes from a lucid mind. If I have to, I'd rather have a hot cocoa with whipped cream.

2. I do actually smile when writing. In fact if I can trick myself into laughing, I usually take it as feeling I've done a good job. Typically I'm pretty self-critical.

3. That is my soap. It knows me better than it wishes it did.

John Writing in a Bath Tub, OR, Birthday Games

For about as long as I've known her, Danni has insisted that I write all my posts in the bath tub. On her special day, in the heart of her special month, I want to give her the best gift of all: being right.

Click for high definition embarrassment.

There you go. Photographic evidence that I edit in the tub. It's good that I have a window right there for natural light, but damn is it hard to hit backspace with a pruny pinky.

I'm actually away today, celebrating my grandfather's birthday. He does not wish to see me in any sort of tub. But because of the duality of celebrations, I'd like to extend a party game to all readers, no matter when you were born (or now pretend you were born).

The above picture misrepresents at least five things about how I write. There are doubtless more than five, but five in particular strike me. If the readers can guess all five, or some of the actual five and some other things more amusing than the actual five, then I'll post something even more embarrassing about myself than a photo with a Mac Book in the tub. Something about blood, nudity and a fresh hotel room.

You have until Thursday to guess. It's open to anyone, and everyone is allowed up to five guesses total. No one person has to get all five; you only need five points amongst everyone who plays.

Happy guessing, and happy birthday!