The Wrong Side of Twenty-Five

by Dionne Abouelela

  Chris and Tess let out a soft chuckle in unison. “Don’t worry, Blossom. We’ll get you back.”

  Chris and Tess left me with their phone numbers and a strict promise to call once I settled down, or if I needed help, and $300 as a thank you for returning the ring. Chris laughed, saying he would have only given me $100 but my dedication deserved a bonus. I tried my best to decline the money, even though I really wanted to keep those crisp dollar bills, but they insisted. I couldn’t help but breath a sigh of relief when I climbed in to Merle.

  “We’re going to be okay, Buddy,” I told him, patting the dashboard and feeling a renewed sense of energy sweep over me. “Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to Vegas we go! Only seven hours until we create opportunity. I’ll never wait for opportunity to find me again,” I said, energy coursing through my veins, well aware this wasn’t the first time I’ve said this exact same sentiment recently.

  I rolled the window down, letting the cool night air of the South West seep into my car. The air was crisp, dry, and mysterious, much different than the heavy pine-scented warmth of Colorado, and much, much different than the dirt and grass scented breezes I grew up with.

  I drove with laser focus, passing miles and markers, exits and opportunities to turn around. I sang along with my tape, I let the wind kiss my cheeks and whip my hair in to my face. I felt so alive and every breath renewed every cell in my body. I even stopped once to top off my tank and the station attendant told me I was ‘awfully chipper’ for someone traveling these hours of the night. I simply smiled and thanked her, hopping back in to Merle, and continuing towards the neon lights of the infamous Vegas strip.

  I watched the signs and sang aloud to every city or attraction shining in reflective tape off the green highway signs. Fishlake National Forest. Beaver. Parowan. Dixie National Forest. Grand Staircase. Escalante. Enoch. Cedar City. Hurricane. St. George. Arizona. Grand Canyon. Mesquite. Moapa. Twelve miles to Vegas.

  “Did you see that, Merle? Twelve miles,” I yawned. “Twelve miles and we’ll find somewhere to rest and wash the dirties.” I chuckled, remembering the unfortunate spill responsible for dirtying one of the few shirts I had, leading me back in to dirty clothes once again. I hoped with every inch of my soul I would be able to wash the soda mud out, but if I couldn’t, I’d at least have new pajamas. And with Vegas looming on the horizon, I knew my luck was bound to change.

  The flat road began to widen and lights twinkled on the edge of my vision. The gentle throbbing in my head, fueled by pure exhaustion, bad diet, and pushing my limits far beyond my boundaries, began to turn into intense banging. The road answered my prayers and a small strip motel popped up on the right side flanked by a chipped paint sign and half burnt out light bulbs. I wasn’t entirely sure if the sign read ‘No Vacancy’ or if the sign was just broken and shining through from the inside.

  The pavement popped under my tires, pulling Merle precariously forward, closer to the dingy windows of the front office. A pit formed heavily in my stomach, my eyes furiously surveying the scene, my mind racing to decide if I had the energy to continue down the road, while also reminding me this was Vegas and I needed to be smart with the financial blessings bestowed upon me…and the ones I bestowed upon myself.

  The office door squealed in pain when I forced the brittle glass to swing open, my fingers willingly pressed against the glass incapable of showing the signs of yet another pair of less than sanitary fingertips. There was no ding to indicate my arrival, just the slurping of my feet over the sticky aged carpet. A shiver ran down my spine, my head working over time to talk my body out of convulsing from the sudden flash back to the slushpot carpet. Yellowed wallpaper with opalescent lines of flowers and lacey patterns hung precariously from the walls; years and years of cigarette smoke dried out the glue, the once beautiful paper’s only hope for a semi-dignified life stuck to the wall.

  “Hello?” I called, peering behind the formica countertop housing a boxed television with a rotator dial, a cracked Plexiglas container of tourism brochures from 2005, and the broken chain where a pen once clung to life. “Is anyone here? I’d like to book a room…I think…”

  A soft mumble traipsed out from a saloon style shutter door leading into a dark back room. The hinges snapped, pulling from the wall and threatening to give up themselves when a bony body pushed through. “You want a room? Here?” she asked. Her face was gaunt, tightly tied over her skeleton. Patches of hair were missing, and those hairs not missing were teased and hair sprayed until they were cemented in place. I was afraid to breath too hard in case the slightest disturbance might cause her hair to break and crumble.

  “Ye…yes…” I stuttered in reply. “I would like to book a room. I think. What are your rates?”

  “Well, isn’t that special. What time is it? 7 a.m. It’s 7 a.m. in the morning and you creep through these doors to book a room. No reservation?”

  “No.”

  “Hourly or nightly?” she sighed.

  “Excuse me?” I gasped. “Nightly. Oh, God, nightly.”

  “One night, weekly, or monthly?”

  “One night? Maybe two? I don’t know. I just pulled in and I’m hoping to find a job, or something. I’m just really tired, on a budget, and I just need a place to give me a chance to sleep that’s not my car in a dodgy parking lot.”

  She raked her eyes over me, studying the parts of my body she could see from where she stood. For once, I hoped I had traces of dirt on my face, or maybe some mud on my neck. If the universe was really in my favor, my hair would be super greasy and on the verge of attracting vermin. When she leaned around me to look out the window, focusing on Merle, I knew I was in good shape.

  “$19.99 if you book three nights, or $75 for one.”

  “Seventy-five? For one night?” I gasped.

  “So you’ll take three?” she fired off quickly.

  My poor exhausted brain was trying to convince me to run but my knees were simply trying to not buckle while I stood there, the closest I had been to an actual bed in quite some time. I couldn’t even mutter one solitary word in reply. I pulled a crisp $100 bill from my pocket, sliding it over the rough counter top.

  A toxic looking plastic key, $30, a brochure, and a newspaper slid back to me silently. I started to stammer a response about the change being incorrect, only to be met with a curt reply of, “Tax.” I didn’t move Merle; I left him by the front door in case I needed a quick escape, and partly in hopes any seedy characters passing through here would leave the rust bucket alone if he was in site of the front office.

  I breathed a deep sigh of relief when my key slid into the lock on room eleven and actually worked. I threw my purse on the wooden side table and fell face first on the bed, my eyes closed before my head made contact with the pillow.

  I came to in pitch black. The only reason I even stirred was the overwhelming heat settling over the room, moving in and making itself right at home in the stale air. Sweat soaked my hair and ran in steady streams down my back, pooling on the shiny polyester bedspread. The overwhelming sensation of sucking on dental cotton filled my mouth, my tongue swollen and desperate for liquid relief.

  The heat intensified the smell typically accompanying an abandoned house. My nose crinkled in protest, sending a river of sweat over the slopes of my cheekbones and down my chest. “Gross,” I whimpered, turning the knobs of the rusted air conditioning unit until one finally clicked and shot forth a cloud of dust. “Gross,” I groaned again.

  I noticed the inevitable stench of body odor, stale cigarettes, and cheap cleaning products on the short shuffle to the bathroom. The pillowcases were, like everything else, yellowed. I was thankful to have sweated so intensely, hoping the lubrication acted like a natural defense system. And, I was thankful to have fallen asleep on the surface of the comforter, not underneath. I promised myself to never even breach the i
nvisible shield the comforter provided between whatever depths of hell lie underneath.

  I attempted to lift the toilet seat but the cracked plastic fought back, staying firmly in place. A harder tug gave no leeway, and got me no closer to relief. The tiny white hexagonal tiles were questionably clean, leading me to squat and contort my body in a desperate attempt to nervously peek around the edges. The toilet seat was firmly caulked shut and my bladder was extremely upset.

  I cursed during my potty dance back towards the phone, rapidly grabbing the turquoise handset with only a mild cringe at the bright red lipstick smudged over the faceplate. The phone rang six times before automatically disconnecting. A string of curse words trailed out in perfect repetition with the fierce banging and cries to various deities on the other side of the apparently paper-thin walls. The clock beamed a red 1:43, which I assumed meant a.m. based on the lack of sunlight.

  “Come on, asshole. Answer your phone,” I gasped, the pain in my stomach becoming unbearable.

  “Front desk,” the raspy voice slurred.

  “My toilet is caulked shut,” I exasperated.

  “What?”

  I had zero patience left. “My fucking toilet is caulked shut and won’t open. I really need to go,” I screamed, laughter erupting from the other side of the wall but the steady knocking of the headboard against our shared wall remained on pace.

  “One or two?” the voice said.

  “What?”

  “One or two? You’ve gotta make it rain or drop some kids at the pool?” the voice said, impatience ringing through the phone, biting the core of my sanity.

  “One, but what does that matter?” I asked, seething and not hiding my anger.

  “We can’t get anyone now. Pee in the sink, deuces at the BurgerBarn or Shellco across the street. We’ll try to get someone out tomorrow.”

  The phone line went dead.

  “You have got to be shitting me,” I screamed.

  “Across the street,” the voice called through the wall, followed by more laughter and quicker thumping. Apparently, this was not a rare issue.

  I stepped back towards the bathroom, defeat scribbled over my face, frustration pounding from inside of my bladder, and eyed the sink. “You can’t be serious,” I whispered. I had no choice, and this definitely wouldn’t be the first time this summer my dignity was defeated. “A girl must do what a girl must do,” I called out proudly.

  “Damn right, girlfriend,” the voice echoed through the wall, accompanied by the roll and click of a lighter.

  The smell of cheap cigarettes filtered through the wall, mixing into the already stifling concoction of the one place on earth capable of making the slush pot look like the Ritz Carlton. I turned the water on, hoping a stream of water for my pee to mix with would keep it from splashing back. With a deep sigh, I dropped my leggings and hoisted myself onto the counter.

  “Vegas: 1. Blossom: 0.”

  I spent the rest of the night afraid to turn the lights back off after I surveyed my current living condition. I took a lukewarm shower in cloudy water, taking extreme caution to keep my eyes and mouth shut, and with my shoes on. I didn’t dare try the coffee pot. For one, I wouldn’t want to take chances with this water, and for another, I didn’t want to know what was growing in the tubing.

  The sun finally came up when I was thumbing through the newspaper, pinching small tears next to job listings with even the slightest possibility. An oblong blue brochure tumbled out from the folds and into my lap. I immediately recognized it from the night before at check in. In bright pink bold letters, the thick, glossy, new(ish) card read: servers needed. Opportunities for advancement. Apply in person at Paulie’s.

  There was no choice. I needed to face the music. Spending this much time alone with myself made me realize I was creeping closer to thirty with every day turned to night and I had no actual resumé quality skills. My wide-eyed dreams of a new life were slowly been replaced with the reality making a life wouldn’t be as easy as leaving home. I couldn’t apply for most of the jobs, let alone have a snowball’s chance in hell of scoring one. I couldn’t even pull myself together enough to be a snowball. Waiting tables, however, I could do. If the tips were good enough, I could put myself through school and actually become qualified to apply for many of the jobs the paper claimed businesses needed to fill. This was Vegas, after all. I was willing to hedge my bets people tipped generously here, especially once the booze flowed or the slot machines paid off.

  “Paulie’s. Hmm,” I muttered. “Sounds like Italian food. Maybe I’ll get a discount on pasta.”

  Digging through my WorldMart bag, I found a clean pair of loose fitting leggings and simple black top, hoping I could pass this off as mildly interview appropriate. Even though I was applying to sling drinks and shove food down peoples’ throats, the opportunity to have incoming money meant I needed to take every second of today seriously. If I played my cards right, I could be working with major celebrities, or maybe, one day, be on stage myself.

  I started my personal pep talk and headed out the door.

  Paulie’s was located on the second floor of a non-descript office building. I found this slightly odd for a restaurant, but since I wasn’t familiar with the way Vegas worked, I tried to not stop myself from moving forward. The parking lot was void of cars but littered with empty cans, bottles, and other pieces of stray litter I used to convince myself this was indeed a restaurant parking lot, likely just in the prep stages of their day.

  I climbed the stairs, moving upward through a darkly painted stairwell, absent of any decoration to entice visitors, and approached a black door ominously guarding the top of the stairs. Above the doors in blue neon script was the marker I needed. ‘Paulie’s’. Next to the door, I found a small brass button and I gave the spongy black center a press.

  Through the dark blockage, I could hear heavy feet casually moving towards my call for attention, followed by the sounds of multiple scuffling chains scraping out of their homes. The door swung open, leaving me face to chest with a man almost as dark and expansive as the original door.

  “What do you want,” he boomed.

  I stammered, my eyes as wide as a Vegas buffet dinner plate. “I’m here for a job,” I finally squeaked. “I was given a big card saying you were hiring for servers.” I didn’t smell any food, I didn’t hear any of the tell-tale signs of chefs getting ready for masses of hungry people, and I didn’t see any hostess stand or menu holders. “This…this is a restaurant?”

  “Why else would we need servers? You coming in or not?” he said, his voice severe and thick with dominance.

  I meagerly crossed the threshold, looking around, continuing my observations. The tables were small, bistro style, barely enough room for food. There was a bar precariously and dominantly placed in the middle of the room with a large black curtain dividing the open space.

  “What’s behind the curtain?” I asked.

  “The restaurant. This is the waiting room,” he replied, walking away and disappearing behind the heavy velvet dividing me from the unknown.

  I nervously teetered on my feet, looking around for any sign of reassurance when a short and rotund man with a u-shaped bald spot on top of his head and an unfortunate patch of hair on his chin I’m assuming was meant to be a goatee stepped out.

  “You want a job?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m here for the serving position,” I replied.

  He looked me up and down, cocked his head to the side with furrowed brow and intently studied my mid-section. “Turn around,” he coughed.

  “Excuse me? I’m just here to be a server. Is this necessary?”

  “It’s Vegas, baby. Everything is necessary.”

  I complied, and he let out a quiet chuckle. The sound of his voice sent shivers down my s
pine; every hair on my arms raised to attention. “Where is the restaurant?” I asked, trying to not let my voice shake or show fear.

  “Right here. You are here for a serving job, correct?” he barked as if I had just asked a ridiculously stupid question.

  I started to reply the previous man had told me the restaurant was in the back, but my mind wouldn’t allow my lips to move. My brain sensed danger and had one goal: to get out. I noticed the door was chained, three times to be exact, with four locked deadbolts. Even if I ran, I couldn’t get out. I hadn’t heard anyone chain the door, or flick the bolts, and this terrified me. I didn’t see anyone in the shadows, or another body lurking near us. I hadn’t heard footsteps, or whispering, or any signs that I hadn’t been alone.

  “You’ll do. You’ll start tonight,” he said with a nod of his head. “Where do you stay?”

  “The Blue Phoenix. I have a room for two more nights,” I replied.

  “We have a dorm here. I’ll refund your two nights at the end of your shift. You’ll have a spot in our bunks and a locker for your belongings. You get free food here and we’ll deduct rent from your check,” he barked.

  “Okay,” I replied. I wanted to ask him what would happen if I didn’t want to stay here, or if I didn’t want to eat here, or if I could see the rooms, but I knew better. I knew to just agree, to try and appear thankful, and maintain my vigilance.

  “Let me get you a drink,” he said, moving towards the bar. “We’ll start your paperwork. I need your ID.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t expect to get hired on the spot…being new to Vegas and all. Everything is back at the hotel. Would you mind if I ran back and picked everything up? I’ll grab my things, too, if you don’t mind.” I cocked a smile and tried to give him my best innocent, naïve, Midwestern shoulder shrug. “Please. I really need this job. I don’t have any other options,” I continued, laying the bullshit on heavily. I watched his eyes deepen, a coldness sliding over his face that chilled me to my very core. “Please,” I repeated one more time. “I need this.”