Superdave? No, Stupiddave!

Some people are just plain stupid. Others, only part of the time. I like to think that I fall into the latter category, although I've certainly committed my fair share of tactical and academic blunders. How does one account for this occasional display of ineptitude, this infrequent but nevertheless inevitable tendency to abandon one's better judgment? Is it possible that our brains simply emit a huge sigh of neural relief, jettisoning all good reason and allowing recklessness and feeblemindedness a spot in the limelight? Or do we all simply just have a stupid gene that flexes its muscles every now and then? Whatever the explanation, those of us who only act the fool on occasion should be thankful. Thankful because we're not predisposed to being stupid for every waking moment of our lives.

Like Dave, for example. Dave is an American from Seattle, traveling on his own in India, whom Dom and I met on the bus to McLeod Ganj. Upon arrival we were solicited for a hotel room, and Dave elected to check it out with us. We looked at the facilities and Dom and I selected a double, but Dave found the price of his single room too high and decided to look elsewhere. Later, he said, because he wanted to come for dinner with us, so he asked to keep his things in our room for a while such that he could retrieve them later and continue his search. We obliged.

At the restaurant we ran into a pair of Canadian girls we'd met in Udaipur, and the four of us decided we'd head to the girls' place for a while to hang out. It was 9PM, so I told Dave I'd walk back to our hotel with him so that he could collect his gear. Dave replied that he'd rather join the party and get the beg later; I winced at this because, by this point, I'd already pegged Dave as a complete and utter dork. But he insisted, so off we went to visit the girls.

1AM. Dom and I are walking home, and Dave, completely drunk, tags along. At the hotel we gave him his bag and said goodnight to him, and I let out a massive "Ahhhhhhh!" for finally having rid myself of the bugger.

8AM. I awake to a commotion in the hallway. I press my ear to the bedroom door and instantly realize that I'm listening to an argument between Dave and the hotel owner. It seems that Dave, looking to set the dumbass bar to a new height, had decided to sleep in the empty room that he'd refused to occupy the night before, and was now trying to sneak out without paying. The owner quizzed Dave on where he'd slept, and Dave told him that Dominic and I had given him refuge in our room for the night.

Jackass! A capillary blew in my brain and I opened the door in a flash, denying this allegation to the owner before he even had a chance to ask if Dave's story was true. The owner whirls back to Dave, calls him a liar and demands payment. Dave says no, that the price of the room was too expensive and that he won't pay. The owner, not a small man, steps towards Dave and fixes him with a steely glare and Dave, his head pointed up to meet the owner's eyes, returns the look as best he can.

Then - SMACK!!!! - the hotel owner's right hand meets Dave's cheek like a whip cracking. A clap of thunder echoes down the corridor. Dave's face goes whiter than snow, save for the freshly-slapped side, where the outline of a hand was now developing like a red photograph on flesh. Dave is in shock, and the owner takes advantage by shoving Dave back into the contraband bedroom and locking the door from the outside. He then goes to call the police.

Now Dave, with the instincts of a trapped animal, decides to turn himself into a fugitive by jumping out the window. Good move, except that the silly boy forgot that you can only leave the hotel complex via a set of stairs that begin adjacent to the owner's office. Dave crept around the building, but the owner had detected his plan to flee and was waiting for Dave at the steps.

A second confrontation takes place. The owner, who'd calmed down a bit, explained to Dave that he'd trespassed and should be arrested, but that the whole debacle could be forgotten if Dave would just pay the room fees. Dave, embarrassed by being bitch-slapped and intent on not giving up a cent (sorry, rupee), refused and made to leave. The owner stepped aside, and for a moment I thought Dave might emancipate himself without further incident. But that was not to be.

WHUMP! The owner kicks Dave square in the ass, black shoe meeting blue jean in a combination of colours that would soon surface as an enormous bruise on Dave's buttock. Dave let out a howl, but instead of turning to face his foe, he made perhaps one of his rare smart decisions and ran: up the stairs, out of the hotel, out of sight.

Maybe you think I should be sorry for Dave, and that I should refrain from badmouthing somebody in this forum? I don't feel bad one bit. Dave had every opportunity to find a room earlier in the evening, and in the morning he tried to run. He also attempted to bring me into the lie by telling the owner I'd let him stay (illegal in India). Nuts to you Dave. Twit. Bozo. Nincompoop. I hope you can't sit down for a week.

Oh, and don't ever mess with Indian hotel proprietors. Doing so would be just plain stupid.