Page 5 of Delta

I order a Moscow Mule from the dour old woman behind the bar and sip it, idly scrolling TikTok while surreptitiously watching the bar, looking for ways to create a distraction so I can get the fuck out of here and away from my babysitters.

My deliverance comes in the form of two groups of skiers—all bros who are all already drunk and are eyeing each other in a way that speaks of some kind of in-built cultural enmity I’m too American and too sheltered to know anything about.

Time to set things off. I let a guy from group A catch my eye and none-too-subtly eye-fuck him.

Let him buy me a drink.

Chat him up, flirty-flirty, don't you wish you could see what I'm wearing under this baggy gray sweatsuit.

I finish my drink and excuse myself to the little girls’ room—a very real necessity since I'm on my third Moscow Mule and second glass of ice water.

When I head back, I act more tipsy than I am, and "mistakenly" join group B as if confused about who I was talking to.

More flirty-flirty.

Boy-toy from Group A is jealous and pissed off, and getting more so as I let the mark from group B get handsy.

Oh, yep, here he comes.

Words are exchanged.

Shoves are traded.

A punch is thrown.

Chaos ensues.

Here come Gleason and Zidane, on cue, ready to rescue li'l ol' Brynnie-Winnie from the big bad angry boys.

As if I needed rescuing from soft putz-fuckers like these tools.

But I digress.

In the chaos, I slip behind the bar, steal the bartender's security card from off of the register—she's hiding on the floor in a huddle, hands over her head. Which is, honestly, smart, because glassware has been thrown.

I toss a pint glass toward Zidane—it smashes behind him, and he and Gleason whirl to assess the threat. I bolt through the scrum to the employees-only door, which is where the keycard comes into play.

Boom.

Almost free.

The hallway here is narrow and stacked with boxes of booze, plastic racks full of clean pint glasses, rocks glasses, and high balls.

Now I just have to find my way out of this maze of back hallways and outside.

It takes almost twenty minutes and a lot of wrong turns, but I eventually emerge into the cold night air, and hustle, shivering, away from the hotel to the nearest road. I use my phone to summon a car—thankfully, there's one around the corner and it arrives within a couple minutes.

I slide into the back seat, grateful for the piping hot interior.

"Wohin?" The driver is a middle-aged man of Middle Eastern heritage, speaking Arabic-accented German.

I name a nearby club, and he nods.

"Sprichts du English?" I ask.

He rolls one shoulder. "Little."

"If I pay you, will you stay near the club and wait for me for a couple of hours?" I ask.