I had a jaunty bounce to my step and a song on my tongue as I swaggered into my hotel room. Perhaps I would get some laundry done and then meet friends to eat dinner. Lovely!
“Tra la la!” I sang happily as I picked up my bag of laundry, “Tra la– EEEKK!!!” A giant green monster glared up at me!
“HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE?!” I shrieked. The toad merely stared evilly up, immobile as warty stone.
I sprinted to the reception desk. “Please can you help me?” I beseeched every soul in the lobby, “There is a frog in my room and I didn’t think I would be scared of a frog, but I am!”
I began to hop around on the floor. “A frog! A frog like this! In my room! Help please?”
Finally one Thai man understood and laughed. “Come,” he said, and he picked up a magazine.
“What are you going to do to it?” I panted, trotting along behind him. “Will you kill it? But no! Then there will be frog guts everywhere! Is it poisonous? Will it hurt us?”
We walked into my room, me hanging by the doorway. By this point, froggy boy had slunk a few inches over to skulk antisocially under my backpack. I snapped a photo. The Thai clerk grinned and strode up to the frog.
“What are you going to do??” I wailed.
The man lifted the magazine like a golf club and SWUNG. In a majestic arc, the warty toad was flung into the air, limbs waving. Wheee! At last it landed with a SPLAT on the tiles of my porch. The frog’s arms and legs were splayed diagonally and its flippers slipped like iceskates on the slick porcelain. “How dare you!” the toad must have been sputtering.
“Oh wait! Let me get a picture!” I yelled, but it was too late: the clerk had once again raised the magazine golf club and launched the dazed frog into the air once more until he descended with a triumphant rustle into the leafy bush outside. He disappeared into the foliage.
“You did it!” I hollered with gratitude to my savior. “Thank you!”
“No problem,” said the clerk, beaming and handing me the magazine, which likely was dripping with frog juice.
We will not speak now of the crazy Belgian tourist from the bungalow next to mine who followed me around for the next twenty-four hours making ribbitting noises, nor will we dwell upon the fact that he followed me into an internet cafe and began downloading frog cartoons off Google Images. That strange episode has passed, and the freak is now back in Belgium, praise heaven.
We will, however, mention that the roads here are full of flattened, sun-baked former toads like the one pictured to the right.
So now here’s the real question. The HOTEL RULES signs on my door quixotically declares: “The room are available for resting only. Please do not use for other purposes such as: plays, gambling, confusing meeting, and party act.”
Oh my. I’m a little worried we accidentally committed a “confusing meeting”. Don’t tell the hotel that the frog and I violated the rules! At least we didn’t put on a play.
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