“How would you like it? ‘Hey, Bern, what’s with the blusher and mascara?’ And next thing you know the whole room’s gawking at you.”

“I said I was sorry. You took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“Yeah, it was a real sneak attack. We’ve been sitting here for close to an hour, and I just now snuck up and ambushed you.”

“Lipstick,” I said.

“Cut it out, Bern. It’s not such a big deal.”

“Long hair and lipstick.”

“Not long hair. Longer, that’s all. And the lipstick’s just to add a little color.”

“Why else would anyone wear it? That’s all it ever does, it adds color.”

“Right. So don’t make a federal case out of it, okay?”

“Lipstick,” I marveled. “My best friend is turning into a lipstick lesbian.”

“ Bern…”

“So long, L. L. Bean,” I said. “Hello, Victoria ’s Secret.”

“Some secret. You know how many of those catalogs they mail out every month? They don’t make money on me, Bern. All I like to do is look at the pictures.”

“If you say so.”

“It’s not like I’ve got a closet full of flannel shirts, you know. I’ve never dressed all that butch. A blazer and slacks doesn’t make me a diesel dyke, does it?”

“Far from it.”

“And it’s just a touch of lipstick. You sat across the table from me for a whole hour without noticing it.”

“I noticed it,” I said. “I just didn’t know what I was noticing.”

“My point exactly. It’s not blatant. Just a subtle touch.”

“Of femininity.”

“Of youth,” she said. “If I were a teenager I wouldn’t need it, but I’m old enough so nature can use a little help. Don’t look at me like that, Bern.”

“Like what?”

“Like that. All right, dammit. It was Erica’s idea. Are you happy now?”

“I was already happy.”

“She’s a genuine lipstick lesbian,” she said, “and that’s something I’ve never objected to, Bern, philosophically or aesthetically. I like lipstick lesbians. I think they’re hot.” She shrugged. “I just never thought I was going to be one, that’s all. I didn’t think I was cut out for it.”

“But now you’ve changed your mind?”

“Erica thinks it’s low self-esteem, and not feeling confident about my looks. And she thinks a softer hairstyle and a little lipstick will change my self-image, and I have to say I think she’s right. Anyway, she likes me this way.”

“Can’t argue with results.”

“That’s what I figure.”

“And you look nice,” I said. “I’ll tell you, I can’t wait to see how you look in a dress.”

“Cut it out, Bern.”

“Something low-cut, with lace trimming. That’s always nice. Or one of those scoop-necked peasant blouses, the gypsy look. That might work for you.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Or a dirndl,” I went on. “What’s a dirndl, anyway? What does it look like?”

“To me,” she said, “it always looks like a typographical error. Beyond that I don’t know what it is, and I don’t plan on knowing. Could we talk about something else, Bern?”

“Earrings,” I suggested. “Gold hoops would be good with the peasant blouse, but how will they look with the dirndl?”

“Keep going, Bern. What are we gonna talk about next? Panty hose? High heels?”

“And perfume,” I said, and sat up and sniffed the air. “You’re wearing perfume!”

“It’s a cologne,” she said, “and I’ve been keeping a bottle at the Poodle Factory for years. I splash on a little after work sometimes to counteract the doggie smell.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t look so disappointed. Listen, I can’t tell you how much I’m enjoying this conversation, and I’m glad you let me buy you those drinks. They really loosened you up, even if I was the one who drank them.”

“Well…”

“But all good things have to end,” she went on, “including this sparkling conversation. It’s time we got out of here. I’ve got a late date with a beautiful woman. And you’ve got a date with a bear.”

Since I’d missed lunch, you could say that I’d had two double shots of rye on an empty stomach. Thanks to Carolyn, I wasn’t feeling their effects. Still, I figured I’d better eat something, and on my way back to the Paddington I stopped at a West African place I’d been meaning to try. I ordered a stew of vegetables and groundnuts because it sounded exotic, only to find out that “groundnut” is another name for our old friend the peanut. Still, it tasted exotic, and the waiters were cheerful. I ordered a glass of baobab juice, which sounded even more exotic than the groundnuts, but don’t ask me what that tasted like, because they were out of it. I had lemonade instead, and it tasted like lemonade.

I walked the rest of the way to the hotel, and didn’t recognize any old friends in the lobby, unless you count the desk clerk, the same fellow who’d checked me in almost eight hours earlier. I went to collect my key and mentioned that he seemed to be working a long shift.

“Noon to midnight,” he said. “I’d be getting off at eight, but Paula’s got a show tonight. She’s a magician, and she’s working a bachelor party this evening.”

“A magician at a bachelor party?”

“She performs nude.”

“Oh,” I said.

“She’s covered for me when I’ve had auditions, and I’m glad to return the favor. I just hope she shows up at midnight, or I could be stuck here until Richard comes on at four.”

“And then you start in again tomorrow at noon?”

He nodded, then leaned forward and propped an elbow on the counter. There was a limp, boneless quality to him that reminded me of Plastic Man in the comics. “Yes, but I’ll be off at eight, so it won’t be that bad.” He frowned. “I know you’re on the fourth floor but I can’t remember the room number.”

“Four-fifteen.”

“That’s one of the smaller rooms. I hope it’s all right.”

“It’s fine.”

“I could probably put you in something larger in a day or two.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I’m only going to be here for a few nights.”

“That’s what I said myself, and that was over twenty years ago.” He smoothed an eyebrow with a fingertip. “And I’ve been here ever since. I’d been living here for, oh, seven years or so when Mr. Oliphant needed someone to fill in behind the desk, and he’d been awfully good about my rent, in which I was three or four months behind. So I filled in, and continue to do as time permits. I’m an actor, you see.”

He’d mentioned auditions, so this didn’t come as a surprise. And it explained why he’d shifted in and out of an English accent earlier.

“My name’s Carl Pillsbury,” he said. “You may have seen me onstage.”

“I was thinking that you looked familiar.”

He told me some plays he’d been in, all off-Broadway, then said that I wouldn’t have seen them, as I was from out of town. “But you might have seen me on television,” he suggested. “I was the airlines ticket agent in the Excedrin commercial a couple of years ago. And I’ve had small parts in Law amp; Order. Of course, you know what they say. There are no small parts, only small salaries.”

“That’s funny,” I said.

“Do you think so? It’s my own line, and I like it, but not everybody seems to get it. It may be my delivery. I had a stand-up routine that I tried at the comedy clubs, and the material was okay, but I have to say it fell flat most of the time. I just don’t think I’m particularly funny. Funny peculiar, maybe, but not funny ha-ha.”

Funny peculiar for sure. I kept up my end of the conversation with a few words now and then, which was all that was required of me, and he did the rest. He talked largely about himself, which was enough to erase any doubts I might have had about his really being an actor, but he also talked a little about the hotel and how living and working there was like being a member of a large loving family, albeit a dysfunctional one filled with wacky aunts and eccentric uncles.

He had me wondering if I too might turn into a permanent resident, extending my three days to as many decades. Maybe I’d wind up taking the occasional turn behind the desk myself, telling transient guests how I was only doing this as a stopgap while I waited for something to open up in my true line of work, breaking and entering.