Page 13 of The Player in New Zealand
So far, my seven weeks of dorm life had been a huge disappointment, and I was worn thin.
“Goddamn it,” I muttered as I dropped my clean T-shirt on the wet floor of the bathroom for the seventh time that week. I’d learned the first day that it was a no-no to walk around with a towel on, even if you forgot something from the dorm room. But seriously, couldn’t the shower stall have more than one hook? I had to balance my clean clothes, dirty clothes, and a towel.
The towel was a whole other drama. No, I didn’t know to bring my own towel, thank you very much. I’d had to rent one the first few nights. Now, after weeks of watching people, there was an additional shopping list of things I needed to get to make my stay more comfortable. People carried their toiletries around in little bags they could hang in the shower and had cheap flip-flops theyonlywore in the shower stalls.
Dressed in—relatively—clean clothes, I returned to the dorm room. Since I’d worked the day shift, it was late afternoon and the hostel was buzzing. Actually buzzing—oh wait, that was my phone.
“Good evening,” Iris said cheerfully.
I grumbled something that might have been polite but probably was not.
“Did I wake you up? Wait a minute... what time is it?”
“No, you didn’t wake me,” I told her. “I’m off work and just out of the shower.”
“Why are you so grumpy, then?”
“I’m always grumpy.”
“You know I love your bitchy face, but you sound... not yourself. Did the owner yell at you again?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I did talk to Nina today about the cocktail menu. She liked the drink I made.”
Iris snorted. “Of course she did. It was delicious.”
“You can taste it from there?” My voice carried too much snark in it and I cringed.
“Claire, what’s going on?”
I dropped the attitude and sighed, leaning my head against the bunk above my bed. “I think I bit off more than I can chew here. What was I thinking?”
“Babe, give me specifics. What are theactualthings that are wrong?”
I told her about the towels, the roommates, the loudness, the wet side of my T-shirt where it had touched the grimy floor that never seemed clean or dry.
“It sounds like you have a hostel problem.”
“I didn’t realize living in a hostel had such a learning curve. People know what they need and how to pack it and I had to go buy a towel the other day because renting one was ridiculous and, apparently, I didn’t buy the right one. You know how I like the super-big ones that actually cover my ass? But everyone owns these special thin ones that dry fast and fold up super small. How was I supposed to know that was a thing?”
There were typing noises in the background of the call.
“Where are you?” I asked her.
“At home, getting ready for bed. Chris is working late so I thought I’d call you. Now, let’s see. What’s the name of the place you’re staying at?”
I told her the name of the hostel and she pulled up the website.
“Are you paying fifteen dollars a day?” Iris shrieked. “How do they even make money off of that?”
“Well, no, I’m paying a little bit more than that.”
“Are you aware this place is rated four-point-five—”
“That well?”
“—out of ten on Hostelworld?”
“Um, well, no. I just googled hostels.”
