Bill and I have worked closely together for ten years and we are to the point where we know the punchlines of each other’s jokes and can finish each other’s sentences. We have also gotten to the point where with one glance we know what the other is thinking.
That’s why when we walked into our hotel in Chicago we both stopped short to see that the lobby was filled with huge, deeply tanned men wearing bikinis and flexing their biceps. Other men were checking in, sporting tank tops and short shorts that a matador would consider inappropriately tight. A banner overhead proclaimed that it was the annual Midwest Bodybuilding Competition. Bill looked at me and opened his mouth to speak.
I cut him right off. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t,” I said, walking rapidly towards the front desk to get in the check-in line. He kept right up with me.
“I was just going to complement them on their physiques, is all,” said Bill innocently. “They almost look human. And so lifelike!” The bodybuilder standing in front of us did not turn but I saw him stiffen; he was a short, hunky dude with huge shoulders and enormous biceps. He was wearing a tiny tank top kept up with little spaghetti straps and his neck and back were completely covered with acne.
Bill looked at the guy’s oozing back, then back at me. “Tell me something?” he whispered softly. “If your back looked like that would you wear a tank top in public?” Before I could answer, the bodybuilder turned around to glare at us and in an instant we both perceived that the hunky little dude in front of us was a woman.
“That’s quite a tan you have,” said Bill, thinking quickly. “Are you from Florida?”
The bodybuilder gave us a quick, appraising glance and clearly found us wanting. “No,” she said in a voice like James Earl Jones, “Seattle.”; She turned around again. Bill looked at me and mouthed, “Yowza!”
It was finally our turn to check in. The desk clerk looked at us and said, “I guess you guys are not part of the competition?” Bill and I looked at each other. “We’re not?” he asked me.
“I guess I brought my Speedo for nothing,” I answered.
I leaned on the counter while I waited for my key and as I pulled back Bill said, “What the fuck?” I was wearing a long sleeved white shirt and my arms, where they contacted the counter, were orange. Swearing softly I tried to rub the orange off but couldn’t.
The desk clerk sighed. “It’s spray tan,” she said. “They spray it on when they compete, and it’s on every surface of the hotel. The housekeeping manager says the maids can’t get it off the mirrors or walls or linen.”
“What about my shirt?” I asked.
“Roll up your sleeves,” she recommended, “don’t lean against anything.”
As we headed to the elevators Bill looked around at the crowded lobby; everyone was the exact same shade of orange. “They look like Oompa Loompas,” he said, and I laughed.
“It looks so natural,” I said. “Doesn’t everyone tan their nostrils and eyelids?”
“And inner ears?” Bill added.
When Bill and I met in the lobby for dinner the competition was in high gear and huge orange men and women were everywhere. The lobby smelled heavily of spray tan and testosterone, a stinky-sweet smell.
“We missed our chance,” said Bill, looking around. “We could have made a fortune this weekend.”
“Selling spray tan?” I asked.
“No,” said Bill. “Clearasil.”