Ron was up shit creek. No phone; no room key; no money; not even his slippers: an old man in silk pyjamas. He tried pounding on the fire exit. He knew it was futile, but he was venting; after this incident, the dementia jokes from his mates would never cease. The alley was forbidding. Auckland’s just large enough to have real alleyways; a third of Aotearoa lives in Tāmaki Makaurau - the land of a hundred lovers. The concrete was slick with water from a leaking pipe.
Pipe… he remembered that he still had his and took a puff. Ron gingerly began ambling down to the main street. Saturday night bacchanalia. Tourists and locals alike. The big crowds and loud noises were disorienting; Ron took in the scene, looking for the sign for the hotel. He looked to the left; he looked to the right. No sign. He chose to go left. A queue of people. Ron pushed to the front: the White Lady.
An Auckland icon, famous for their late-night burgers. Ron thought of ordering one, but he had no money. 'Would you take a watch?’ - Ron. ‘Sorry’ - the order-taker. 'All good.’ Ron moved on, heading around another corner. No sign of the hotel. This would be funny if I was a young man, Ron thought. A classic road trip faux pas that I could spin into a classic yarn; at my age, though, it’s embarrassing. He wanted to be back in bed; it had been a long day at the festival. Bill and Bruce would have known what to do: they’re still up on the new technology. After a lifetime of plumbing, Ron rather enjoyed being out of step with the times. When you’re old, you’ve got a licence to be eccentric; the silk pyjamas were an affectation. Ron saw retirement as life in the lap of luxury: a poor person can enjoy a quality of life today that was unthinkable even a few centuries ago. They’d had plumbing and pipes back in the Roman Empire, but living to 70 wasn’t very common. He was starting to get quite anxious. It was time for another puff. There was no dark alley nearby, but in the midst of all this noise, he reckoned that nobody would notice or care. He missed Wellington: there, it’s virtually legal to smoke in public.
‘Could I get a puff?’ Ron looked up: a young person, possibly a tourist.
‘Sure.’ He passed a small bud over to them. ‘Your pyjamas are cool.’ Ron ignored that. They took a puff from their own pipe… Eureka! ‘Do you have a phone?’ They continued puffing. A long smoke…‘Yeah. Why?’ 'I was smoking outside the fire exit of a backpackers, and it blew shut behind me.’ The young person laughs. See, I told you it was funny, thought Ron. They hand the phone over. Ron has to think for a second: all the numbers for the bros are in his phone; he hasn’t memorised a phone number in yonks. He tries a combination that seems familiar… ‘Hullo.’ ‘Bruce?’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘It’s Ron. Where’s the front entrance to this place?’ ‘Why?’ ‘I’m locked out.’ ‘What?’ ‘Locked out.’ ‘What?’ ‘I need you to let me back in.’
‘Where are you?’ ‘Near the White Lady.’ ‘Where?’ ‘Fuck you, Bruce! Wake up, you sleepyhead!! I’m fucking locked outside!’ - Ron.
‘Alright, alright. It’s up the block and to the right.’ To the right... That should have been obvious. My navigational skills must be waning too; thanks, Google Maps. ‘Thanks, kid.’ He returned the phone. ‘No, thank you for the smoke.’ Ron walked with purpose. He knew that he was on his way… The End.
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