The Convention
The lovely Mrs. Borengasser and I are attending a convention.
But this is not your everyday, garden-variety convention.
No, indeed.
This is the Annual Romance Writers Convention.
As the cab drops us off at the hotel where the convention will be held, the lovely Mrs. Borengasser, a romance writer herself, tells me there could be as many as three thousand women here. Three thousand women. This is more than three miles of women, all who write romances, would like to write romances, or just want to hang out in a swanky hotel.
We enter the lobby. There are hundreds of women milling around, a regular Whitman’s Sampler of females, a potpourri of ladyfolk. There are big women and small women, young women and old women, dark women and light women. They are all talking.
I’ve always known that men’s and women’s voices are different. A woman’s voice is generally softer and higher than a man’s. I discover that two or three hundred women’s voices sound like an aviary, possibly a water fowl refuge. Anything over five hundred voices begins to sound like a hydroelectric plant.
Shouting over the din, the lovely Mrs. Borengasser tells me she’s going to register for the convention while I check us in.
One of the Great Rules of Innkeeping is: “During a convention, always understaff.” I stand in a long line that snakes its way through the lobby, while two hotel employees try to check us all in. They’re in no particular hurry, having obviously trained for this position at a driver’s license renewal office.
But I finally make it.
Another one of the Great Rules of Innkeeping is: “During a convention, adjust the elevators so they stop at every floor. And make sure that at least one elevator is inoperable. If necessary, hang an ‘Out of Order’ sign on a good elevator.”
The wait for a working elevator is so lengthy that boarding becomes quite competitive. When the door opens, petite, dainty women are suddenly transformed into NFL linebackers, as they rush for the limited space. A misguided sense of chivalry and politeness, as well as a traumatizing fear of being trampled to death, force me to miss the first few opportunities.
But I soon adjust. Using elbows, raw animal cunning, and basic hypnosis, I manage to board an elevator and make it to our room. Thankfully, there’s a minibar.
The main event of the convention is the awards banquet, a very dressy occasion.
Entering the banquet hall, I am astounded. I’ve never seen so many sequins in my life. It is blinding. I quickly realize it’ll be dangerous to even glance at one of these spangled gowns without protective eyewear. Ray-Bans will work, but an arc welding helmet would be even better.
The ceremonies are so long and drawn out that I look back with fondness on checking in and waiting for an elevator. I drift in and out of consciousness till the festivities come to a merciful end.
The conference concludes the next day. As we head home, the lovely Mrs. Borengasser says, “Quite a weekend, huh? What did you enjoy the most?”
I think about it. “There were so many special moments that it’s hard to choose just one,” I reply. “But I suppose it’d have to be the brisk three hours of checking out.”