Marinating in Misdirection

I'm seventeen again for a moment. Trudging along somewhere between 14 and 25. Glancing around at the happy couples, I feel grossly misplaced. Looking over toward the pool, at the grinding crowd of single students, I feel grossly misplaced. Limbo in a hot tub time machine remembering that this year I'll be 23 as I'm offered a bucket of beer for the twentieth time today.
Any drinks from the bar?
No, thank you.
You sure? Buy four beers and you get one free.
No.
The more you spend the more you save. I pray that no one for no one's sake would fall for such a transparent marketing gimmick. I'm strung and stretched between carefree and maturity. Having to angle the bar so that it will support the heavy shower curtain. Drenched and collapsing just when your mind wanders to other things.
The sun beats down on us as I apply more sunscreen to my bald head. Maybe I'll be 30 this year. I don't want the peeling to be too severe. The same waiter walks by without so much as a glance in our direction. I see on his user-friendly name tag that he's from Zimbabwe. Hello, Mickel, how may you serve me today? As Mickel tears the name tag away from my groping eyes and throws it overboard. And so the revolution begins. I can only imagine what he's thinking while he traverses the deck. Does he think that this is a good job? Does he prefer Bud Light over Corona Light? Is he laughing secretly at them? At us? At me?
How much disdain can a Zimbabwean mask behind a grin?
My two twitterpated friends are getting into a tickle war. I laugh and watch as they embrace happiness. No longer seventeen and gagging again. Instead I am proud to have such happy friends. Moving away to the opposite side, I distract myself with the hair on my forearm. As the suds dry, the hair remains slicked down as if I used gel. If my arm hair were long enough, would I spike it or trim it? Or alternate the two?
The Zimbabwean waiter is watching us. Upon eye contact he turns away, back to his shadow.

Lady in the Lovers' Room

We arrived this afternoon. Dan and I checked out the guys' room, but it already looked overcrowded. The womens' room was of course out of the question and just as crowded. I had already paid for this place and it was already too late to consider heading back down to the city. Today's trip from Interlaken to Gimmelwald had consumed the greater part of my day.
Lying in bed I review the events that led me here to the lovers' room. Dan is lying silently next to me, but I doubt that he has managed to fall asleep already. After checking in this afternoon we were directed to the guys' room. There was hardly enough room for our bags let alone for ourselves. Standing among so many travelers' baggage I had walked to the window and looked out. It was beautiful outside. More beautiful than any place I've ever seen. The Swiss Alps stretched out before me covered in pastures of blossoming flowers and glacial scars. Dan crosses the room and stands beside me. I point into the distance and say, "That's the Matterhorn over there," while referencing the map that I found on the train today.
Dan asks me how I'm so sure.
"Look, on the backside of the map there's a drawing of the mountains as seen here from Gimmelwald. That one is obviously the Matterhorn."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. What are we going to do tomorrow?"
"Do we really need anything to do? Look at this place; it's like we're in a movie."
"Yeah, okay," Dan mutters.
I turn my head toward him. He obviously has no idea what we should do, so I tell him that I've been thinking about hiking to the top of this mountain tomorrow.
"Really?" he says incredulously, "but the gondola ride all the way to the top is pretty expensive."
"No, dude, I want to hike it. We're already so far up that I'm sure we can handle it."
"Ha, I wonder what the girls will think of that idea."
Out of frustration I went back to the mistress of the hostel and inquired as to where we were supposed to sleep. She plainly told me that in the event of an overflow we could just sleep in the couples' room. "The beds are better in there anyway," she tells me after I roll my eyes. Dan and I walk down the hall past the stairway and find the door to our room on the right. On the wooden door a pink heart has been lovingly painted around the words "Lovers' Room." I sigh, push the door open, and walk in. In the corner a man whispers something to his girlfriend as she changes behind the blanket he's holding up. I ignore them completely for her sake and scan the room. I've never seen anything quite like this before; there are three bunks, but they're huge. Queen-sized, in fact. The three bottom queen-sized beds all appear to be taken while two of the upper three are free. Dan and I toss our bags onto a bed when someone shakes me awake and back into the present.
"Steve? Is that you, Steve?"
"What...?"
"Are you Steve?" she asks me again. I can smell the stench of beer on her breath. I lean forward on my elbows to give her my full attention and ask her again what she wants.
"Are you Steve?" I'm getting a better look at her now. She's bikini-clad, blonde, definitely American, gorgeous, still drenched from the hot tub, and very drunk. I consider telling her that I am indeed Steve, but the rational part of my mind encourages me to tell the truth. "No, I'm not Steve."
"What? You're Steve..?" she asks again while giggling like a grade schooler.
I'm tempted again, but the thought of getting out of bed at this hour causes me to firmly state a second time that I am certainly not Steve.
I watch her as she skips out the door. I pull the flashlight out from under my pillow and tuck it into my backpack. The guy in the bottom bunk is snoring again.