The bedside telephone jangled, startling me out of my slumber.  At first, I thought I was at home, feeling the warmth and weight of my wife's body pressed next to me.  The second ring made me roll over, and the coolness of the sheets next to me unlocked the memory.  Business trip.  Hotel rooms until Thursday.  I reached out from under the warm blankets, grasped the receiver in my left hand, and pulled it to my ear, if only to stop its incessant ringing.
            "Huh-lo,"  I breathed, my voice thick with drowsiness.
            "Tag,"  a hushed voice replied.  "You're it."
            Confusion piled on top of my fatigue.  "Wha?"
            The voice did not answer the question.  Instead, there was a click, then a dial tone.  I rubbed my eyes and squinted at the bright red numerals on my digital travel clock.  Four-forty in the morning, and someone decides to pull that nonsense.  Then my eyelids grew weighty again, and I decided not to concern myself about something that was, in all likelihood, an ill-timed practical joke.  .

            I was awake at seven on the button.  I promptly rose from the almost-too-firm mattress that seemed to follow me to every motel, and undressed while I made my way to the bathroom.  
            As the water from the shower head poured over me, the phone call began to replay in my mind. 
            Tag.  You're it. 
            What did that mean, anyway?  Probably nothing, just some kids with nothing better to do than calling rooms in the hotel, screwing around and disturbing my sleep.  I shook my head, and placed my face directly into the warm stream.  "Asshole,"  I muttered, grabbing for a washcloth to scrub my face.

            A half-hour later I was in the lobby, briefcase in hand, clad in my best suit.  Presentation is everything in the business world;  a great pitch starts with a great appearance.  I remembered that from the Future Business Leaders of America seminars I had attended in high school, burned it into my brain through college, followed through with it during my first internship, parlayed it into a career, all of it to achieve the ultimate goal:  the Next Great American CEO.   And here I was, ten years into my professional life, having moved up the ladder through wits, determination, and a fair bit of luck, walking through a hotel lobby, and half-wishing that the meeting would be cancelled so I could go home to my wife and daughter, CEO dreams be damned. 
            Of course, that wasn't going to happen.  I couldn't go home now; today was the BIG ONE.  This was the meeting that was going to make me the Next Great Etcetera.  
            As I passed the front desk, I noticed the manager hunched over the counter, reading the morning paper.  I stopped myself at the door and thought for a moment, then decided that perhaps it would be best to say something about that odd call.  
            "Excuse me,"  I politely interjected as I approached the desk.
            "Uh-huh,"  the manager said, not raising his head.
            "I received a call early this morning, around four-forty, and I - "
            "And it was supposed to be at four-thirty?"  the manager asked, his bald pate reflecting the gleam of the early morning sun that was coming through plate glass windows of the lobby.    
            "Well, no - "
            "Five?"
            "No, you see, I was sleeping and - "
            The manager nodded, but still didn't look at me. "New desk clerk on the overnight shift.  Kinda slow.  I'll talk to her."
            "I think it was a prank."
            At that, the manager looked up.  "What makes you say that?"
            "Well, the voice on the other end said,  'Tag.  You're it.'  And considering that kids like to pull that kind of thing from time to time - "
            "Lousy kids.  I hate 'em,"  the manager said, his jaw beginning to tighten.  "Speeding through my parking lot, throwing their empty beer cans out on the grass as they go by.  One Halloween a few years back, some of  'em threw eggs all over the front windows.  Had to buy two new ones.  Cost me three thousand bucks."
            I shuffled my feet a bit.  "Really."
            The manager nodded.  "Yeah.  Lousy - and you know what, it's because their daddies didn't discipline 'em enough.  Didn't learn any respect for other people, so they go around, pulling that sort of nonsense.  I'll check into it for you."  The man's hands had balled into fists.
            "It's not a problem," I said.  "I'm checking out later.  I just wanted to tell you what happened."
            "My boys, they behaved," he said, a hard frown on his face.  "If they acted up, they knew they'd feel my belt on their backs."
            I felt my glance slide down to the worn leather strap around the manager's waist.  I couldn't help but also notice the large buckle that seemed to gird against the older man’s protruding belly.  World's Greatest Dad.
            "What time is check-out?"  I asked, pretending to look at my watch.
            "Eleven,"  the manager replied.
            "Thanks,"  I said, turning away from the counter and heading for the door at a rather brisk pace.  I checked my watch for real this time.  I still had forty-five minutes.  Plenty of time for a quick breakfast meeting, I decided.  
            I could see out of the corner of my eye that the manager was watching me leave the building, letting his gaze hold on the back of my suit jacket.  He didn't look at his paper again until I was finally out in the parking lot.