Twilight Zone Anthology

by Serling , Carol

  M

  echling rolled his suitcase into the hotel lobby and glanced around for someone he knew. Behind the concierge desk, a young man with carrot-colored hair and a cadaverously pale face dabbed a paper towel over a stain on his white jacket.

  Two young female clerks in gray uniforms stood stiffly behind the wide, mahogany reception desk, staring straight ahead. The only occupants of the lobby were two middle-aged men, huddled together with cell phones pressed to their ears. One of them wore white tennis shorts and a sleeveless, blue T-shirt stretched over a bulging beer belly.

  Mechling caught himself frowning. A few years ago, no one would have been seen wearing shorts in the lobby of the Fraser-Carleton.

  “You’re starting to sound like your father.”

  He heard Joanna’s voice in his mind. “A few years ago, we had real snowfalls, snow up to our waists. . . . A few years ago, we survived without carrying water bottles everywhere we went. . . .”

  Well, it was his tenth convention, his tenth stay at the Fraser-Carleton, so he had a right to feel like an old-timer. And anyway, what was wrong with noting the declining standards? It wasn’t like he was complaining unjustly.

  That was an argument he’d never win with Joanna. She was always so much more accepting than he was. After all, she accepted him and all his faults and quirks. Most of the time.

  Mechling pulled his suitcase to the front desk and set his briefcase down beside it. The young reception clerk watched him approach. She was Asian, pretty, perfect makeup, short, straight bangs over almond eyes that reflected the bright overhead light. He read the brass name tag on her lapel: MIA.

  She blinked at him. Was his smile too broad? He always felt a little giddy checking into hotels. Maybe it was the possibility of something unexpected happening.

  “Welcome to the Fraser-Carleton,” she said. A little-girl’s voice. But she had to be in her thirties. So hard to tell women’s ages these days.

  “I’m checking in,” he said. Obviously. “For the convention.”

  She clicked some keys on the keyboard beneath the desk. How could she type with those long, purple fingernails?

  “Mechling,” he said.

  She nodded and typed some more.

  He raised his eyes to the tall, dark portraits on the wall behind her. Two somber-looking men in dark pinstriped suits, faces slightly to the side to show off their profiles. “Did you change the paintings?”

  She stopped typing. “Excuse me?”

  He pointed. “Those paintings. Are they new?”

  The old ones showed stern-looking Mr. Fraser and bloated Mr. Carleton in Colonial finery—lacy, ruffled shirts under serious waistcoats. Even powdery, white wigs. Insane paintings. Added a little humor to the staid lobby.

  “I don’t know,” Mia replied. “I’m new here, Mr. Mechling.”

  Mechling squinted at the dull portraits. New management, maybe. “Do you need my credit card?” He reached for his wallet.

  She tapped a final key, then raised her eyes to his. “No. It’s all been taken care of.”

  Really? That’s odd.

  Well, don’t argue.

  She slapped the silver bell on the desk. The carrot-haired dude came hurrying over, trying to hide the round, wet stain on his valet coat.

  “Show Mr. Mechling to his room. You’ve been upgraded, sir. Enjoy your stay.”

  The valet took the key-card folder and grabbed the handle of Mechling’s suitcase. His name tag read: ANGEL. “Y’all follow me, sir.” He glanced at the number scribbled on the key folder. “This is a good room.”

  And it was. Twenty-third floor. A junior suite, Mechling figured. Living room with standard but pleasing decor. Flat-screen TV. A full desk. A generous minibar. Ice already loaded in the bucket. No hotel-room smell. The air fresh, almost sweet.

  Angel set the suitcase down. Mechling stepped to the window. He gazed down on downtown Atlanta—office towers, hotels, condos with penthouse terraces.

  “Nice,” he murmured. Great to be up so high. Almost like an aerial view.

  “Glad y’all like it.” Angel set the key card down. “We change the view every day.”

  “Huh?” Mechling wasn’t sure he had heard that right. “What do you mean?”

  The door closed behind the valet.

  Mechling stretched his arms, his back. Long flights tightened him up for days. He filled a glass with ice, then found a Diet Coke in the minibar. He unzipped the suitcase and lifted the lid.

  The envelope on top made him smile. A note from Joanna. She always slipped a note in after he’d packed. He set it aside to read later.

  He found the remote next to the TV and clicked the power on. Then he clicked from channel to channel until he found a sports channel. “The Vengers have tied it up!” an excited announcer screamed. “The Vengers have come from behind to tie the Red-Marvins!”

  Who?

  What sport were they playing? Mechling squinted at the screen. Tall, skinny men in loose-fitting yellow and white uniforms were running back and forth on an indoor court. Were those hurdles on the court? Why were they ducking under them?

  Must be a foreign channel, Mechling thought. He clicked off the TV. Finished unpacking. Checked his black suit for the banquet. Had it survived the plane ride, or should he have it pressed? Seemed okay.

  He pulled out his BlackBerry and punched Joanna’s office number. He always called to tell her he’d arrived safely. The call didn’t go through. He tried it again. No. He checked the phone. It said: NO SERVICE.

  Weird. He’d never had reception trouble at the Fraser-Carleton.

  He tried to send her a text message. No service. Okay. He picked up the room phone. Punched 9, then Joanna’s office number. Busy signal.

  He felt his back muscles tighten. A wave of heartburn rose in his chest. Mechling didn’t like frustration. He was a salesman. He had to be in touch. In touch. In touch all the time.

  He gripped the receiver tightly. Punched in Joanna’s cell phone number. Busy signal. How can that be?

  One more try. Busy signal.

  Mechling downed the Diet Coke. Then he punched 0 on the room phone.

  Four rings . . . five rings . . . six . . . seven. And then finally, a soft, man’s voice: “Operator. This is Barry. Can I help you, Mr. Mechling?”

  “Yes. I can’t seem to get my call through.”

  “That’s no problem, sir.”

  “Well, yes it is.” Mechling couldn’t hide his impatience. “My BlackBerry doesn’t have service. And the hotel phone keeps giving me a busy signal.”

  “That’s no problem,” Barry insisted.

  “Well, can you dial the call for me?”

  “That’s no problem, sir.”

  Mechling heard a definitive click, and the line went silent.

  He uttered a groan and pressed 0 again. This time, a busy signal. He slammed down the receiver. Picked it up. Listened for a dial tone. Pressed 0. Busy signal.

  Slammed it down again and heard a knock on the door. Someone to help him? That was fast.

  He pulled open the door and almost gasped at the shock of the beautiful woman. White-blond hair falling over her shoulders, red midriff top that revealed a lot of creamy skin. Tight, red miniskirt. Green eyes. Red lips in a generous and, yes, sexy smile. A red cloth bag over her shoulder.

  Wait. Not as young as Mechling had first imagined. Crow’s-feet. Some lines under her green eyes. Makeup covering some skin flaws. She smelled of oranges and cigarette smoke. Stiletto heels about a foot high.

  “I’m here,” she said, breathing the words. “I’m Mindy. Aren’t you going to let me in?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She raised a finger and slowly ran it down Mechling’s cheek. “You sent for me, honey. I’m going to make you happy.” She edged past him into the room, tilting a little on the high, pointy heels.

  “No, wait—”

  She started to pull up the midriff top. He caught a glimpse of her breasts, very round and full. Not
real, he thought.

  “I . . . didn’t call for you.” He was forty-five years old. Why was he stammering?

  She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, a very soft, wet, lipsticky kiss. “Your office called my service, hon.”

  “My office?” He stepped back. Sorenson called an escort service? Not very likely. He inhaled the tangy orange perfume of her. Yes, he could feel himself aroused. “No, I don’t think so—”

  Joanna’s face popped in front of him. Married fifteen years, he’d been tempted, of course, but had never strayed.

  Mindy put her hands on his shoulders and brought her face close. She brushed her lips over his ear. She breathed softly. The tingle started at the back of his neck and trickled down his back.

  “They said they wanted to give you a good send-off,” she whispered.

  “Send-off?” He pulled away from her with such force, he stumbled into the wall. “I’m up for a promotion. Are you telling me I’m being laid off?”

  She giggled. “No, honey. You’re being laid.”

  She reached for his hands and started to pull him into the bedroom.

  The green eyes must be contacts, he thought. What did she mean by send-off?

  “Oh, wait.” Mindy let go of his hands and rummaged in the red bag. She pulled out a yellow paper. “You have to sign this first, Mr. Romero.”

  “Romero?” He blinked. “My name isn’t Romero.”

  Her expression went flat. She aged about twenty years. “You’re joking.”

  “No. I’m not Romero. Really.”

  She tapped one foot. Made an unattractive face. “What’s your name?”

  “Mechling.”

  Her eyes ran down the piece of paper. “Sorry, babe. I have the wrong room.”

  She pulled the top back down over her breasts. “Just when I start to think I’m a pro . . .” she muttered, shaking her peroxided hair.

  Mechler felt confused and a little dizzy. Now he really wanted her.

  “Wait. Maybe you could stay and—”

  “Sorry, honey. Really sorry.” She waved the paper at him. “I’ve got my orders. See?”

  “But you could—”

  She ran her finger again down his sweating face. He winced as the fingernail scratched his cheek. She swung the bag over her shoulder and swept out the door. Mechling took a deep breath of oranges and cigarette smoke—and held it.

  What did she mean by send-off?

  She was talking about Romero—not Mechling—right?

  No Internet service in his room. When he tried to call the front desk, no one picked up. Joanna must wonder where the hell I am. I’m cut off. Totally cut off.

  What time was it, anyway? His BlackBerry said seven o’clock. Impossible. He’d arrived at the hotel at seven. The clock radio on the bed table was dark. Unplugged, he quickly discovered.

  This used to be a four-star hotel.

  The next morning, he pulled the stack of sales brochures from his briefcase. They looked good, he decided. Clean and easy to read. With the new prices, competitive to anyone.

  Mechling hoped for a good convention. After the cutbacks, there were only three salespeople left in his division. Beller, Leeman, and he. He was a survivor—but for how long? Yes, there was talk of a promotion. But he had never been Sorenson’s favorite.

  Schwartzman popped into his mind. Again. The look of pain on Schwartzman’s face when he got the goodbye notice and realized he’d wasted nineteen years of his life.

  Mechling shook his head hard, trying to shake that picture away.

  He stopped at the front desk to complain about the phone and the Internet. But there was no one there. No one at the concierge desk, either. He pounded the bell two or three times before he saw the little sign: WILL RETURN SOON.

  He realized his jaw was clenched, neck muscles straining. No way to start a convention. He needed to be relaxed, amiable, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Who always used that awful phrase? Schwartzman?

  The convention was always held in the ballroom of the hotel. As he made his way down the long, carpeted hall, in and out of the chandelier brightness, he heard a clamor of voices. It cheered him up. He neared the long line at the registration table. Lucky he’d gotten his badge at the office. He pulled it from his inside jacket pocket and, tucking the brochures under an arm, pinned the badge to his lapel.

  His eyes moved from face to face. He didn’t recognize anybody. Did they seem younger than usual? Or was he just getting older?

  Loud, barking laughter from inside the ballroom. Voices shouting over the blare of music. Mechling stepped inside, into the labyrinth of tables and booths, posters and video screens, stacks of brochures and giveaways, samples and demonstrations, firm handshakes and arm-tugging pitches.

  He had that giddy feeling again, hands suddenly moist, a little fluttering in his chest. He was the one who enjoyed these conventions. Beller and Leeman barely tolerated them: “Too crowded, too noisy, no way to conduct real business.” Blah blah. Excuses, Mechling thought. Beller and Leeman hadn’t been around long enough to be so skeptical and down.

  Where were they, anyway?

  His eyes slowly surveyed the faces, all pale under the unforgiving chandelier light. None looked familiar. Someone in an enormous brown-bear costume was handing out DVDs. An embarrassed-looking young blond woman in a skimpy majorette’s uniform was having baton trouble—one rubber bulb had come off the end.

  Mechling straightened the brochures under his arm. Where was his booth? Beller and Leeman were probably waiting for him. He started down one aisle, dodging a large woman pulling a wheeled backpack. And found himself in front of a table and a sign: WEDG-STREAM.

  A balding man with a brown, push-broom goatee, in a shiny gray suit with shoulders way too loose, grinned at Mechling like an old friend. “Good morning, partner.” Yes, a Texas accent.

  “I . . . I’m looking for my booth,” Mechling said, eyes down the aisle.

  The man nodded, his grin frozen. “What forums do you use? It’s organized by forums this year. Someone had a crazy idea.”

  Mechling squinted at him. “Forums?”

  “Mort Boyer.” The man was suddenly pumping Mechling’s hand. “You’re not with MarketStretch, are you?”

  “No,” Mechling said, trying to free his hand. “My name’s Mechling. I—”

  “You seen our product?” Boyer asked, not letting go. “I don’t care what forum you use. We’re the compatibility kings. No joke, son. We’re compatible with all forums. Even the new SG-2s.”

  He pulled Mechling into the booth. He was surprisingly strong. He slapped his hand against a poster on the booth wall. “See? All forums. We can integrate it with a flash drive if you want. Faster that way. Or, of course, you can keep it in the clouds. Nice and simple. What’s your forum?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Well, what’s your company, Mechling?” He grasped Mechling’s badge in two fingers and lifted it toward his face. Mechling got a strong whiff of Old Spice. Coming from the man’s beard?

  “Flash-Freez?”

  Boyer let go of the badge. His eyes traveled up and down Mechling as if memorizing his suit. “That’s like something to do with flash drives? Is it for servers? Servers are in the other hall. Upstairs, I think.”

  Mechling shook his head. “No. It’s not a computer thing. You know. Flash-Freez. Frozen food delivered to your door every morning. It’s ready to eat by dinnertime. You know the commercials, right? It Freez-up Your Life and it Freez-up Your Time.”

  Boyer tossed back his head and gave a hearty laugh. Mechling glimpsed several gold teeth. “Don’t mean to laugh, partner. Aren’t you in the wrong convention?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “This is Streaming and Storage,” Boyer said, slapping the poster again, so hard that the flimsy wall shook. “No food companies here, that’s for sure.”

  “But, I know—”

  “Look at your badge, dude.” Boyer fingered it again. “It’s gree
n. Look around. All the badges are red.”

  Mechling felt his face grow hot. He knew he must be blushing. “Weird,” he muttered. He still wasn’t convinced. He gave Boyer a wave and began walking the aisle, taking long strides. Up and down the rows of booths . . .

  CLOUDCOVER.ORG. . . . MAXIM-EYES LTD. . . . FLASHFORWARD . . .

  I don’t know any of these companies. I’m in the wrong room.

  He shifted the stack of brochures to his other arm. He saw that his sweat had soaked through the ones on top. The flutter had left his chest, replaced by a heavy feeling on top of his stomach.

  He trotted down the long hall to the front desk. Someone behind it now. The young woman who had checked him in. Mia. She fiddled with the collar of her white blouse.

  “Good morning, Mr. Mechling. How are you enjoying your stay?”

  He didn’t answer her question. “I went to the wrong ballroom,” he said, tugging at the green badge. “Which ballroom is this convention in?”

  She studied the badge. “There’s only one group meeting at the hotel this weekend,” she said.

  “But it’s the wrong one!” Mechling realized that he sounded overwrought, maybe even a little crazy. But how much frustration could one man take?

  “You can check the listing board, Mr. Mechling.” Her tone grew colder. “That’s the only meeting scheduled.”

  “Am I in the wrong hotel?” He hadn’t meant to ask it out loud.

  She tapped a few keys and studied the screen. “We have your reservation right here.”

  Mechling chewed his bottom lip. “How many nights am I here?”

  She lowered her gaze back to the screen. He glimpsed two yellow enamel butterflies clipped to her hair. “It says indefinitely, Mr. Mechling. You’re staying here indefinitely.”

  “That’s IMPOSSIBLE!”

  “Please don’t raise your voice, sir. I’m just reading what we have here.”

  “No! No way!”