by John O'Brien
“Who is there?”
“I have your cleaning, Mr. Fathi.”
Gamal Fathi, a single gold chain around his neck, walks to the door of his hotel room clad only in a towel marked Aladdin. To him the hotel is a travesty which he finds repugnant, but it is also in a location that might prove useful should his Mercedes fail to start, something it has been threatening to do.
“Yes,” he says, opening the door and taking the hanger and bundle from the boy. “This is it all?”
“Yes, sir,” says the boy, though he was just asked a moment ago to make the delivery and has no idea whether or not it is complete.
Pushing a five dollar bill into the eager hand, Gamal Fathi shuts the door without a word of thanks. This gratuity, though it represents a substantial percentage of his capital, is woefully inadequate and embarrassing to him. He is accustomed to flashing much larger denominations; indeed, there was a time when he would not even trouble himself to pick up the change from a hundred dollar bill, preferring instead to handle only those decimally rich see-notes, the most visually appealing attempt in the monotone American currency.
Very much alone in the room, he drops his towel in preparation for a shower. In the corner of the room the bolted-down television plays silently, its screen absently graced by an oft rerun episode of Happy Days, but this is not the object of his attention. No, he is inspecting himself, standing naked in front of the mirror; he is inspecting himself and thinking of a woman whose nearness he can sense. Gamal Fathi would like to touch himself, but this is something that he cannot bring himself to do. And he intends to not have to.
“Inshallah,” he says aloud to the mirror.
Klaaaaick……mmmmmMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM, the refrigerator turns itself on. It sounds happy, secure in the knowledge that it is doing its job; even if no one opens it, the food—or just the empty interior—will still be cold; you can be goddamn sure about that.
Sera rolls over on her couch. A sentence, she thinks, it’s like a fucking sentence: mandatory vacation. The whole thing is irrational and new to her. Traditionally ignorant of the comfort of a real schedule, she’s never before had to face the absence of one. For her it is far too restrictive, too involuntary to enjoy, and she feels no longer in synch with her think. Television amounts only to a series of cruel plays about people with purpose; she even envies characters who are killed on screen or doomed to die during a commercial. If faced with her own imminent death, she could at least release the relentless anxiety of futility. A suicide though, even one portrayed ineptly on a daytime drama, fills her with vexation, makes her feel alien to a species that can produce such options. Rejecting the contradiction, afraid of pursuing the logic, she has never pondered the line that runs between death and death at one’s own hands. It is a non-question, irrelevant. It is one of those tricks of reasoning that can only be seen on an abstract level, for brought to terms with bread and water, it comes undone.
Barely a whisper, imperceptible movement of the dark lips: “I must still own her… she knows that I am here… she knows that I still own her and she is afraid to admit this to herself,” but still the street, on this, his seventh pass, contains not the one he seeks. “I must have at least this one thing still in my life”—Gamal Fathi does not realize that he is speaking aloud, for these are not words that he would consciously pronounce—“this one thing, this one key to everything that I am, that she is.”
The yellow Mercedes falls away from the Strip and moves in the direction of what he has learned is Sera’s apartment. The clock in this car runs sporadically, on then off. The time it reflects seems always to have changed whenever he enters the car, though he has never seen the hands move. So it stands disadvantageously to even a stopped clock, which is assured of proudly facing the correct time at least twice a day. Gamal Fathi’s determination unflagging, he has not admitted to himself his doubt, the impossible possibility that she has vanished from this city, and that this is the reason he has not seen her in—could it be two?—days. He must stay outside her apartment for longer this time, he resolves, must take a chance, must wait for some movement or a change of lights. She will emerge, he knows. She must work. Sera must work; this has always been her weakness, even at the start.
He has a plan. There is money left. There will be no mistakes, and Sera, as always, will do as she is told. After all this time she will suddenly see him: a surprise. He still has his eyes, the eyes that she could not share a city with, and they will burn their way back into her soul where they belong, where they have always belonged. One command—best if it is a trick on the street or at a bar—one task, one little fuck on his behalf, and she will be his, and he will be him. As it was.
But there is not all that much money, and the fuel tank is not all that full. Gamal Fathi, in his peripheral vision, thinks he sees the second hand of the dashboard clock move, but a direct look leaves this unconfirmed.
Days—one? two? black plus blue—later, looking in the mirror, she is dismayed at what she expected to be an improvement in the condition of her face. The healing process, in its imperfection, is apparently working on an irregular curve. A new, unnatural spectrum seems to be developing under her skin. Slowly becoming discernible, it looks like it will get worse before it gets better. Her face has become a life-size, organic Polaroid photograph. Exposed then hand manipulated, it is trying out various hues before returning to its original, very perfect flesh tone. A new world of greens, blues and yellows covers the vast, swollen areas of her eye and cheek. She sort of purses her lips, then tries to frown at herself. This is definitely the worst number she’s ever had done to her face.
(“…but please, my friends, call me Al. It is my American name! I picked it myself!” The men at the table joined him in a hearty laugh, but without exception they were eyeing the pretty brunette who stood in the corner.
“Gamal… I mean Al, who’s your friend? Is this the one you told me about?” Shrimp dip clinging to his moustache, and even to one of his diamond cuff links, this man secretly had his hand on his own erection as he nudged the man next to him, who failed to notice the contact through his own expansive middle. The other four men at the table—excluding Al, who stood—continued to stare at Sera.
“Ah, yes,” said Al, his own eyes constantly darting to the fat buff-colored envelope on the table, “this is Sera. She is my gift to you, my new American friends from New York City. You may do with her as you wish in this beautiful penthouse suite, which is also my gift for the weekend to my new New York City friends. You will find her a very willing girl for all of you…” His skin a taut, healthy leather; his smile well-practiced and full, Gamal Fathi’s eyes flared with meaning, and the natural magnet in him seized the table to a man as he said pointedly, “…just like we arranged.”
Troubled, though too distracted by the coming evening to say why, the man with the misplaced shrimp dip looked up at Gamal. Now he smiled more because he felt he should than because he felt the smile. He said, “Of course, Al. I think you’ll find this just as we discussed.” He handed the envelope to the Arab.
“Where are you from, Al?” this from across the table, a well-built man, foolish and proud of the country he had been born into. “I mean, you sure don’t talk like you’re from this neck of the woods.” A hint of contempt lingered in the comment, and the room tensed.
“No, you are right, my new friend.”—Al was doing remarkable things with his smile—“How very observant you are.” Then to the whole table as if in introduction: “I am from Oman.”
“Tough place,” said the well-built man.
Al smiled, now more broadly than ever, and said, “Yes, I hear this too. But I am not a tough man. I am a simple man who is here to learn from my new American friends.” There was an awkward moment. Gamal Fathi made as if to embrace the entire table with his outstretched arms. “I must leave. The hotel service will bring you whatever you like. Enjoy these gifts.” He turned and headed towards Sera and the door.
“I don’t want th
is. Al, please, I really don’t want this,” whispered Sera, clutching his lapel as he passed.
“I want this, Sera. I need this!”
The voice was not that of a con man; it was real. It was the most real voice that Sera had ever known, and she once again, as with so many times in the past, pushed her needs into a little bubble, into a subset of the greater needs, the needs of Gamal Fathi. He was the man who had won her. He was the man whom she loved.
Al turned and addressed the six men. “Sera has asked me if she might undress at once for you gentlemen. She has a very beautiful undergarment which she would like you all to see.”
The men all clamored as one in enthusiastic approval. Not one of the eight people in the suite doubted that Sera would now remove her clothing.)
Reflected in the corner of the mirror is her bedroom window. The translucent shade reveals that it’s dark outside. Enough is enough, she thinks. She has done all the healing that she is prepared to do; any more time spent stagnant would do more harm than good. Opening her makeup drawer, she arms herself with an assortment of brushes, pencils, tubes, plastic boxes, mysterious disks, minuscule magic wands, wads of cotton, and so on. A skilled craftsman, she works for over an hour on what she knows all along is a futile attempt at making herself presentable. Outside of some brushed on, optically-illusory shadows, there is not much she can do to hide the swelling of her features. Also, since she is reluctant to overdo it to the point of looking ridiculous, the painting over of her discoloration has only a minimal effect. Her injuries are still too profound. She looks like a girl who got hit in the face and is trying to cover it up with makeup. She wraps up the effort as best she can.
But now the ball is rolling and she already feels better, almost elated. A cloud is lifting—visibly—each moment clearer than the last, each decision more perspicuous. Another glance in the mirror reveals that she is smiling, smiling to herself, as though considering herself newly recovered; as these things go, she can’t remember ever before feeling so un-sick, or so anxious to again embrace her hard-won normalcy.
She selects from her closet one of what she likes to call her fuck-me dresses. Light blue, light weight, it is backless and slips easily over her head, calling for no bra. She rolls up her stockings and clips them to her garter belt, thus completing her synopsis of the potential architectonics of female undergarments. Already on, her panties are nothing more than two small triangles, black arrows pointing to each other: you are here.
Once again at the mirror, her eyes look at her eyes. She watches herself. Subtly transformed during the inspection, her face wears the partly impartial expression of assessment that is universally found in the gaze of any woman looking at her own reflection. She sees things here that no one else will ever see. Her scrutiny is infinite. Myriad computations, speculations, and judgments take place in this moment. Ultimately, with great magnanimity the face in the mirror is temporarily exonerated, until the next time it catches itself looking.
She finds her work purse and stocks it with lipstick and condoms, a few twenty dollar bills. With no intention of walking the Strip tonight, she has a cab take her to the Hilton. Set off the Strip and next to the Convention Center, it’s usually pretty easy pickin’s there. She’ll be able to find a trick who’s been in town before, attending conventions and tagging hookers. Some guy who’s done enough to keep him from being too excitable, but not so impressed with his own savvy that he gets cocky. A local boy, but not local here. She needs some straight, simple business. She tries not to worry about her face. These guys aren’t that superficial. More smiles.
The main bar at the Hilton has a fair crowd. She can do this by rote. Seating herself in view of the room, making sure that there are empty chairs on both sides of her, she orders a margarita. This she drinks down halfway in short order, the balance to be slowly and conspicuously nursed. From the stage a cover of a Tony Orlando song blares out and fills the corner. She likes these gutsy, hard-working lounge singers and thinks that they take too much abuse. Of course she has to admit that anyone genuinely enjoying this music comes off looking foolish. At times it can sound good to her. She always wonders what the acts think of themselves; she can never tell. Across the bar is a young girl about to turn a trick. She avoids looking at Sera, though she is clearly aware of her presence. Talking to the girl is a lupine man with too much facial hair. He’s very proud of it, wears it like jewelry. The men at the bar have scented Sera. The young girl resents the uninvited competition and shoots an icy glance at Sera, who smiles back at her compatriot. Sera has never understood why so many people choose contempt as the first option. She can’t remember ever feeling that way.
“About ready for another drink?” asks an even looking conventioneer, materializing on her left.
“Yes, that would be great. Thank you,” says Sera, still wearing a smile. “Are you here for the convention?” She has no idea what conventions are in town.
“Do I look that obvious?” he says. “My name’s Paul.” Extending his hand he shows exactly the same enthusiasm that he has offered to hundreds of business associates during the last few days. Sera guesses this and wonders if he would like to sleep with them, as well.
“No, of course not. Just a wild guess. I’m Sera, and that’s a margarita.” She takes his hand and nods at her glass.
The bartender is an older man who has spent most of his life at his profession. He has the drink ready almost before it is ordered. Likewise, Paul pays for it almost before it is served. A five dollar bill folded lengthwise and held between his two middle fingers has been moving metronomically, pointing alternately to Sera and the bartender. Paul is unaware that he habitually does this. It annoys his wife, who is at this moment giving herself a pedicure back in Pennsylvania, to no end.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” he starts, “that you have a few bruises on your face. What happened?”
“Car crash,” she says. “Nothing serious.”
“Oh.… Good.” He seems to believe her. He’s seen car crashes in Pennsylvania.
The girl across the bar gets up and, pausing to give Sera a nasty little smile, follows the wolfman out of view. That guy looks wrong. Sera hopes that she’s careful.
“So,” she tries, “are you alone, or are you just using me to make somebody jealous?”
“Alone. Alone. I’m here alone,” he says quickly. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“You just did. Where are you staying?” she asks.
“Right here in the hotel. Why?”
Why. He said why. This catches her off guard. “Well, I thought that you might be looking for a date,” she says, testing the water.
“A date! What, are you a hooker? What do you mean, a date? I just came over here to talk for a few minutes. A date? Have you seen your face lately? I’ve got a wife back home. And I’ll tell you something else: The hookers in Pennsylvania don’t run around trying to do—what do you girls call it? tricks?—tricks right after being in an accident!”
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I guess I misunderstood. Please don’t raise your voice. I won’t bother you about it again.”
“Sorry,” he says, modulating. “Look, you seem like a nice girl and I was curious about your face. I’m just sick to death of everyone in this city trying to get my money. Have another drink. I gotta go.” He leaves his change on the bar and walks away.
That, she thinks, is not exactly what I needed to happen here. She has a nasty feeling, an old feeling. It has been quite awhile since she’s felt such a lack of control. Something is out of synch, and it is disrupting the ease with which she handily guides her nights.
(Safely on the bus to Las Vegas and thinking back for the first time, Sera was amazed at the timeliness of the elevator’s arrival. Ten, five more seconds might have changed everything. She could still be there, maybe giving another sponge bath to that smelly accountant whom Al had sent her to the night before.
But it went her way. Things took over, or maybe things let go and she took over
. Either way, when Al kicked her in the stomach, shouting Leave!, and turned back to his newest girl, Sera did just that. For the first time she really did leave, not just the room, but the apartment, and ultimately the city.
And he knew. He knew he had gone too far. He sensed a flaw in the glass. Waiting by the elevator, she heard him scream her name—a new and odd fright in the command. There was time to go back, and there was the distant whir of the elevator’s ascent. There were these two intangible things with her in the hall, both playing out their purposes. Joining them, she held her ground; indoor-outdoor carpeting, and hard won, it was to be.
Waiting was something she was doing. Just like taking a shower or giving head, this was an executed action. Her part. She might have peed her pants—later they were damp—but she felt wonderful to have done this one thing.
Unraveling then, she saw the spool of her design, freely giving her slack as the elevator door opened and she stepped in, still not having heard Al’s approach. The steel doors pressed themselves together to the faint sound of glass breaking. All the way down a voice in her head, or what she took to be the meaning of that expression, told her to continue doing things…
…and it will be okay, she told herself on the bus, now well past Barstow.)
“No deal?” says a hefty man who has rapidly moved into position beside her. He looks to be in his mid forties, excessively Caucasian. His shirt collar is open and worn out over the lapel of his suit jacket, revealing an abundance of chest hair which continues up to his shoulders. Large and hard, his features are unified in a happy, arrogant smirk which smacks of malice.