No Fire Escape in Hell

by Kim Cayer

She frowned. “I’m sorry, it doesn’t.” She didn’t even bother to check.

  Since it seemed shopping was only rubbing salt in my wounds, I allowed myself to buy a pair of knee-high pantyhose for the shows the next day. I wanted something on me to smell clean and fresh.

  I left the mall and returned to the hotel parking lot, which also served the casino. Still too early to check in, I sat in my car for awhile and played Brickbreaker. Prayed it would not incur roaming charges on my phone. After an hour, I left the car and went into the hotel.

  “Is it possible to get an early check-in?” I asked. I gave her my name and she ran me through the computer.

  “I’m sorry, that room is still not ready,” she said. “Perhaps you’d like to try again in an hour or so? In the meantime, why don’t you try your luck at the casino?”

  “Hhmm, maybe,” I said. Instead, I tried the handicapped stall in the ladies’ washroom.

  Going back to my car, I stewed for awhile. It was tormenting me, being this close to a real bed! An actual bath! I decided to make use of my time and write the songs for the following day. Same song over and over, just had to change the name of the country. “Hello People from America! (And Nigeria, China, Albania, Venezuela, Czechoslovakia and Japan. Japan had to ruin the run, but it became ‘Japan-ah’!) Welcome to our country Canada! Greetings from President Keith Maha! He’ll be meeting with every one of ya!” And so on. Didn’t need to even leave a copy with anybody, so I just chicken-scratched it on the back of an old Beaver Gas receipt.

  Exactly one hour later, I reappeared at the hotel lobby desk, this time with a little luggage bag. “Is my room ready yet?” I asked.

  She retook my information and then gave me a smile. “I’m sorry, it’s still not ready. Perhaps you’d like to wait in the casino?”

  “Perhaps not,” I said a touch loudly, then had to justify my rude behaviour. “It’s been a long drive. I’d like to clean up first before I…uh, hit the slots.” I took my little bag and sauntered my way over to a group of chairs. I had just chosen my seat when I heard my name called out.

  It was the hotel clerk. Had I left something at the counter? We made eye contact and she said, “Your room is ready!”

  Well, that was quick. I guess they wanted me to hit the slots sooner than later. I went back up to the counter. “Great!” I smiled. I couldn’t wait; I hoped this fancy place supplied bubble bath.

  “Just need a bit of info,” she said. “I see the charges are all being looked after by Maha Industries, so that’s good.” I nodded. It was very good. “So I’ll just need your address and your car’s plate number and you’re on your way.”

  I could see her holding a room key in her hand. I was like Pavlov’s dog. Give the information, earn the reward. “2004 Suzuki Swift, 854 RKW,” I droned.

  Suddenly something struck me as wrong. Did she ask for my address, or the make and model of my car? The more I thought about it, I’m sure I didn’t hear the phrase ‘make and model’ come out of her mouth. However, she typed away. “What city is that?” she asked.

  “Mississauga, Ontario,” I continued, adding the postal code.

  “And what did you say your license plate was again?” she asked. I repeated it and waited for her to ask more questions, but then I saw her hit the ‘enter’ key. “Here’s your room key,” she said. “Enjoy your stay in Windsor!”

  The room was pretty decent but the main thing was – it had a BED and a BATH. Before the door had even closed behind me, I had the tub running. I took a two-hour bath and used up all the allotted soap and shampoo. Afterwards, I debated on where I wanted to charge my per-diem food money. I’d seen a couple restaurants attached to the casino, but none held the same attraction for me as the bed I was sitting on. I ordered room service instead.

  There was no way I was going to blow this gig. Already I was including Maha Industries in my thank-you speech, if I was ever given an award for anything. I set my Blackberry phone alarm, as well as the hotel room’s alarm clock, and then called the front desk to ask for a wake-up call. All three alarms sounded at the same time the next morning.

  That bed was so wonderful, my sleep so exquisite, I just didn’t want to move. Reluctantly, I’d hit snooze on my cellphone, hit it every five minutes until I remembered the bed and I would be reunited again later. I jumped off of cloud nine, got into my top-hat-and-tails get-up and boogied over to the airport.

  Rush hour was heavier than I’d thought you would find in Windsor. I’d anticipated some morning congestion but this was similar to Toronto! The cleansing bath from the night before was going to waste as I knew I’d be late for the first planeload of people, the good folk of Albania. I parked the car in the airport lot and ran, in my black high-heeled pumps, to the arrival section.

  Hordes of people were streaming by. Many stopped to look at the woman wearing a tuxedo and top hat, but didn’t linger; my anxious vibe was palpable. I heard a whoop and saw a group of men wave at a lone man in a limousine driver’s costume. He held a sign that read MAHA. I ran to him and got there just before the surge of Albanians reached him.

  “Is this the group for the Maha conference?” I asked the guy. He nodded so I stood right beside him as I went into my song. It lasted only about three minutes and I know they asked for short, but it felt too short. I was glad when each man took my hand and shook it, thanking me for the song. That added another minute or so to my act.

  The guy with the sign herded the six men. “Come with me,” he ordered them. “We have a limo waiting outside.”

  I ran into that guy six more times that day. It was a repeat of the first show. I didn’t even bother talking to him; just hovered around until his sign-wielding ways got the attention it cried out for. As soon as Japan or the Chinese guys saw the MAHA cardboard sign and headed over to the guy holding it, I was on them like white on rice.

  After my last song, to the Nigerians, I bowed low. Ooops, wrong crowd, as I sensed nobody bowing in return. As I stood up, I saw a man as black as my tuxedo jacket, holding up an open palm. I did likewise, assuming that was the Nigerian custom. He reached forward, slapped my palm and said, “High five!”

  I nodded farewell to the Maha employee and made my way to my car. My plans for the evening could be the name of a store – Bed, Bath and Beyond. As I passed the attendant at the hotel lobby desk, I decided to push my luck with this job.

  “Do you think I could arrange for a late check-out?” I asked

  She checked her computer. “Check-out is at 11, but we can move it to 12. Is that okay?” The look on my face caused her to add, “I can make it one p.m., but that’s the latest.” I couldn’t ask for more. My heels ached as I made my way to the elevators. Two young boys, likely brothers (since the younger one was howling he’d tell Mom), almost bowled me over as they ran out of an elevator just opening. As I whirled to miss them, I saw they wore nothing but sopping-wet swim trunks. I stepped into the waiting elevator car, hit the button for the fifth floor, then backed up a pace. A second later I was on my ass, having slipped on the puddles of water left by the boys.

  Up in my room, I discarded the wet top-hat-and-tails costume and got naked. I ran my bath and lay down in its warmth. I couldn’t stretch out completely but it was still more comfortable than my car. Two hours later I woke up in freezing-cold bath water.

  Pulling the plug, I rushed out of the bathroom, as dripping wet as those two young boys. I jumped into my crisply made bed and huddled under the covers for warmth. As soon as I felt better, I remembered – I could watch T.V.! Oh, how I flipped those channels! I never realized how much I’d taken my T.V. at home for granted. A rush of homesickness for my 40-inch plasma television surged through me.

  I spent a pile of Maha cash on my dinner, making sure I knew when the kitchen closed, as I planned on ordering dessert later. As I ate my coconut shrimp with wild rice and a side of poutine with a Greek salad, I thought, This is the life! I wished the mysterious Mr. Maha could use me on a daily basis.

  After I
was more than pleasantly sated, I ran another bath. This time I only soaked for an hour, as I wanted to catch the dessert menu. I also wanted to get some alone time with the bed. It was going to be the last night we spent together and I wanted it to be special. Ordering enough for three people, I wrapped two of them up. The brownie cake and the assorted cookie selection would go into my luggage, good for a snack on the ride home. I ate the ice-cream sundae.

  I watched a little more T.V. after that, maybe half an hour, but it was just foreplay for the coming event. Around midnight, I shut the curtains as tight as possible. I made sure the room’s alarm clock was OFF and that my Blackberry alarm was set for noon. I put a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. I got under the covers and hit the power button on the T.V. remote. The room went pitch black.

  I stretched my body out completely and still had room to spare. I spread my arms and legs to either side of me and nothing hung off the edge of the bed. The pillows were soft and plump, unlike my flat pillow that smelled of dirty hair and bad breath. The sleep I had that night was beyond spectacular. I was so grateful for a rest where I wasn’t still half-alert, listening for trouble. Or where my arm would get pins and needles because I had nowhere to put it but under my head. One night that the seatbelt connector couldn’t anguish me. That sleep goes down in history as one of the highlights of my life.

  My trusty loud Blackberry alarm woke me up at noon the next day. I didn’t actually think I’d sleep that long and even then, I hit the snooze button six times. I finally dismissed it when there was a knock at the door. “Housekeeping,” I heard a voice call out.

  “I have this room ‘til one p.m.,” I called back. “I’ll be gone at one!”

  I could hear the cart move away. Now I was up, but a little dismayed that I’d stayed in bed this long. I had wanted one more bath before I had to leave. Now there would be no time. I felt really bummed by this as I gathered my clothes and toiletries together. Picking up my still-damp pants from the elevator slip, I recalled the boys…and their swim trunks…and the image of a swimming pool came into my mind.

  Forming some kind of vague plan, I grabbed my stuff. I had to act fast, before one p.m. rolled around. Opening my door quietly, I checked the hallway for the cleaning staff. I could see the cart, but no cleaner. Shutting the door quietly behind me, leaving the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the knob, I quietly took big tip-toe steps to the elevator. In the parking lot, I threw my stuff onto the front seat. No time to dally, pack it better later!

  Opening up the hatchback, I threw a few bags onto the ground. I needed to get to a suitcase I rarely used. It had clothes in it that I just hadn’t gotten around to wearing, like my long denim skirt (too uncomfortable to sleep in), my shoes with the double buckles (I now preferred ones easy to kick off or slip on), my pyjamas. I found a bathing suit.

  I didn’t see any need to talk to the hotel lobby clerk. There were signs everywhere telling me I could Express Check Out. I didn’t incur any more charges than I was allowed and I imagined they’d figure out I’d left when they saw my room. With seconds to spare, I used my plastic key card to enter the swimming area.

  For the next four hours, I bathed…I mean swam in the pool of the Windsor Hotel. The water was a bit cool, and maybe too much chlorine was in it, but that only helped to make me feel cleaner. Every now and then I’d get out, lay on a lounge chair, and cover myself up with towels. Hardly anybody was in the pool all afternoon; I felt like I owned the place.

  Around five p.m., I saw a new pool attendant come in and take the PH levels of the pool. I swam over. “You probably know there’s too much chlorine in here,” I mentioned. He looked at me like I was some kind of nosy know-it-all, packed up his kit and walked out.

  A couple minutes later, I was feeling chilly enough to come out but I could see the towel rack was empty. The pool attendant came back and sat at a desk, doing his best not to stare at the bevy of beauties who had just dropped their LuLu Lemons to reveal skimpy bikinis. “Excuse me!” I called to him, then again when it appeared lust had impaired his hearing. “Excuse me! You’re out of towels. Can you get some?”

  He stood up but instead of going to the spare towel room, he walked over to me. “You staying at this hotel?” he asked. I nodded. “What’s your room number?”

  I don’t know why he asked – maybe he had to record it? But the earlier pool guy didn’t even look at me, never mind ask that question. “Room 516,” I replied. He left and I did a few laps until I saw him return. Sans towels.

  “Hey, I just called to verify your room,” he said seriously. “There’s nobody registered in Room 516.”

  BUSTED! Even though the attendant was nothing more than 20 years old, with a pathetic attempt at a moustache and an already-receding hairline, I felt he could make trouble. I just wanted to get out of there without making a scene. I scrambled out of the pool and ran to the lounger where my clothes were resting.

  “I didn’t say 516,” I brazenly lied. “I said 416!” I hoped this would require another trip to check out this room number. In his absence, I’d be long gone. “Oh my God! Is it really 5:30?” I shrilled, looking at the clock. “I should have been gone by now!” I cried as I threw my shirt on over my wet bathing suit. “This pool was just so relaxing. I don’t know where the time went!” I didn’t allow him a word in edgewise as I struggled with my pants over my wet legs. “I’ve got to get ready for dinner!” I spouted as I squeezed my shoes onto my dripping feet. “It was nice to meet you,” I told the slack-jawed pool attendant. Thank goodness one of the bikini babes had a wardrobe malfunction. The guy, enjoying this job perk, didn’t speak to me again.

  Balling up my socks, bra and panties, grabbing my jacket, I made a hasty retreat to my car. I didn’t know where I was going next; I only knew I wanted to get away from the Windsor Hotel.

  I hoped the magnificent Mr. Maha wouldn’t catch wind of this.

  That night, I found myself in Mississauga. I’d made the drive from Windsor, smelling nothing but the odour of chlorine that stuck to my skin. It didn’t bother me; that aroma brought back fond memories of my stay at hotel. The cookie assortment that I pulled out of my overnight bag staved off my intense hunger.

  I didn’t see any point in driving further. My gas gauge read empty and I also needed fuel for the belly. The first exit off the highway and into the city presented everything I needed. Gas station. Restaurants. A health-food store, though I had no intention of going there.

  After gassing up, I drove throughout a giant plaza. One side had about fifteen rather high-end restaurants where you had to sit down to eat. I drove to the opposite end of the mall and found twice as many fast-food restaurants. Though the variety was large, nothing seemed to appeal to me. Any future meals would pale in comparison to my coconut shrimp and poutine combo from the Windsor Hotel room service.

  With a resigned sigh, I pulled out my coupon holder. It held no 50-cents off a tub of yogurt type of coupons. Rather, they were deals for fast-food restaurants. I checked to see if I had one for any of the joints in this plaza. Sure enough, I had a ‘buy one burrito, get one free’ offer from Taco del Mar. I wasn’t a big fan of Mexican food and had never tried this particular restaurant, but I was getting value for my money, so that would be my supper.

  A busy restaurant is a good sign, and Taco del Mar was half-full, with pleasant and efficient staff. Back in my car, I unwrapped my first burrito and too big a bite. The smell of it was deliciously fragrant; the taste of it made me want to gag. I suspected it held refried beans, a childhood food I’d despised. Put it this way – I will never try a burrito again.

  As cheap as I’d become, I could not force myself to eat that meal. Pulling out the coupons again, I found a Champs Chicken deal. I drove to that corner of the mall and bought a three-pack piece of chicken and fries at a discounted price. I left with a bit of a spring in my step. Champs Chicken would be ordered monthly when I lived at home. It was a special treat; week-old chicken still tasted great.

  Tonight, somethin
g was wrong in a big way. I don’t know if it was time for Champs to change their fryer oil or if somebody was trying to poison me. The fries were cold and bland, but that wasn’t my complaint. It was the chicken. I took a bite out of each; one tasted like fries, the other tasted like it was cooked twice and the third was weird, almost tasted like fish.

  I shoved it all back into the takeout box and threw it onto the dashboard next to the two uneaten burritos. The few fries I’d choked down weren’t enough and now I wasn’t going to bother being picky. I looked a couple doors down from the chicken shop and saw a Subway Sandwiches. I ordered a single sandwich, nothing but vegetables, and lots of them. I carefully watched her prepare my heaping meal, making sure I got my money’s worth.

  Unwrapping the sub, it was all I could do to hold it together. I took a big bite, barely able to get my mouth around all the cucumbers, lettuce, onions, etc. By the time I’d finished, and even though half the sandwich’s contents lay on my lap, I was quite stuffed. “Good choice of restaurant,” I congratulated myself.

  A walk would be in order about now, I thought. Still got to keep in shape. A fleeting thought of my workout buddies at Lady Fitness crossed my mind; they must have been wondering where I was…or how fat I was getting without their support. As we tread-milled, we’d talk about inner-thigh fat. As we rode stationary bikes, we spoke of upper-arm flab. I had no desire to go back and let them know I had more concerning me than my thickening waistline.

  The need for sleep was stronger than the need for exercise. It had been a long drive, it was a filling meal, and I was worn out. Besides that, my heels still ached from the shoes I’d worn all day yesterday. Decision made, I crimped up the Subway wrapper and threw that onto the dash as well.

  The urge to drive, to find a spot for the night, just wasn’t in me. I usually didn’t spend the night in an open mall; I didn’t like being the conspicuous only car in the lot. And if there happened to be a pedestrian taking a shortcut through the mall lot, they always had to walk right by my car.