The Last Checkout

by Peter Besson

  “—keep of the well-closed doors.” No one had seen Ansel walk in, but there he was, at the bar, smoking, looking into the distance and reciting to the air around him. “Let me glide noiselessly forth; with the key of softness unlock the locks—with a whisper set ope the doors O soul.”

  Henry looked more confused than ever, whether by the (to him) sudden appearance of Ansel or by poetry in general. “Y-yeah, now whaddd… dasthat mean?”

  Nikki ignored him and measured Ansel with new interest. “You know your Whitman.”

  “I’ve had some time to read,” Ansel said.

  “Whidmin? Who’s Whidmin?” But Henry was already forgotten. Unsure what this had been about in the first place, he shuffled off down the bar, mumbling to no one in particular that if he ever caught that Whidmin, he’d have a word with him about writing such gibberish.

  “‘The Last Invocation.’ You know how it ends?” Ansel asked Nikki.

  “I do. But I usually stop short. Don’t think it necessarily helps with checking out. What about you?” She indicated his neck and the angry red welt that had developed, a hickey from death itself. “You decided to postpone?”

  Ansel shrugged. “Didn’t quite turn out the way I imagined.”

  “Oh my god, that was so funny.” She tried to hide her laugh behind her hand, but failed miserably. “How you were—” She imitated Ansel—his flailing, the wild swinging. The sudden drop. The retching. It was disturbing and hilarious. “You were like a string puppet, trying to break free from its master. ‘Gnnnaaa!!! Let me go!’” She laughed, all-out. Belly laughter.

  Ansel couldn’t help but join her. It wasn’t as amusing in his memory, but it must have been a sight, like a weird circus act on meth. “It was even funnier hanging there. Hysterical.”

  Nikki snorted. “I’m sorry, but that—” She laughed again, only louder. “Oh god, I haven’t laughed like that in…” She shook her head. “Can’t even remember.”

  Ansel slid up on the barstool next to Nikki and stuck out his hand. “Ansel Grayson.”

  “Nikki Forlan. But like I said, I won’t be here that long.”

  “What’s the hurry? You just got here. You’re young. You’re…” He waved his hand about to indicate… what, exactly, even he didn’t know. Beautiful? Sure. Unique? Absolutely. She was intriguing. Who came to a Last Resort and dressed like she was on her way to an award show only to read poetry with old drunk guys? She was an odd sort. But he couldn’t say that. That might sound wrong from somebody who’d just tried to kill himself. There was no way to complete the sentence without sounding like an idiot, so Ansel dove in head first. “You’re… you?”

  Nikki laughed again, but this time it didn’t come from deep down. This laughter sparkled and shone with lightness. “That I am. I’m certainly me.” She took a sip from her drink. “And that seems to be the problem. The world and me, we just don’t get along. Never have, never will. So one of us has to go. Realistically, it’s gotta be me. Wouldn’t be fair to the rest of the ten and a half billion otherwise.”

  “Very considerate of you.”

  “I’m a caring soul.”

  “So what brought you here?”

  “Funny question from a guy who was hanging from a chandelier not that long ago.” Ansel made a face. Good point. “Why’s everybody here?” she said. “There’s always a story, it’s never a happy one, and then it all ends up the same way.” She turned around and surveyed the sorry gathering in the bar. A few more despondent souls had shown up, drinking in silence. Henry tested the structural integrity of the bar counter, hanging on to it as the world heaved around him; the man under Leah seemed to wave for help. Maybe Leah was too much for him, or he was having a heart attack. Possibly both. “Goners. All of them… all of us. Only waiting for the right moment.” She turned back to Ansel. “Mine’s now.”

  “You don’t think some might have second thoughts by now? That they might have rushed it a bit, and now find themselves here, scratching their heads?”

  “Their fault. They knew what they were getting into.”

  “You are a caring soul.”

  Nikki shrugged her shoulders. “Doesn’t really matter now, does it? Simply reboot and then you can cry about it all the second time around.”

  “You actually believe that nonsense?”

  “Sure. Government studies—”

  “Useless. They couldn’t prove their own ass if they sat on it. For all we know, this life is it, so you’d better be certain.”

  “That why you hung yourself this morning, Ansel Grayson? Because you were sure?”

  Ansel’s thoughts stopped. It was startling to hear his own sentiments spoken out loud by another person—in a rose dress, no less: He wasn’t sure about anything.

  “And if you were sure then, why are you sitting next to me now? What changed?” She noticed Ansel’s face fall and put a reassuring hand on his elbow. “No, I didn’t mean ‘go back up and finish the job.’”

  “What else was I gonna do?” He caught himself and lit another cigarette. He hadn’t had any nicotine in his system for almost five minutes now. “Cancer’s taking forever.”

  Nikki stole the cigarette out of Ansel’s mouth and took a drag. “I’ve waited a year after I turned twenty-one. Had to promise my father. Just to be absolutely certain. See if things change. Guess what? It’s still all shit. I’m just as sick of everything as I was before, so here I am.” She raised her glass. “Reboot or not, this one’s got to go.”

  Reluctantly, Ansel clinked his drink against hers. “Well, welcome to the end then.”

  “Cheers.” She took a sip, and as she lowered the glass, a strand of hair fell into her eyes. Unaware of her own movement, Nikki tucked the unruly hair behind her ear.

  Ansel was transfixed. That gesture. One made by billions of women millions of times a day. But there was something distinct about Nikki’s. This exact movement. The speed, the delicacy, how she only used her ring finger, how she put the hair back in place as if it were a disorderly child that needed the most tender of reminders, her obliviousness to her own beauty. He’d seen that manner before. It had been years… many, many years. And gradually, pain blossomed inside of Ansel, a pain too great to bear, yet he had to hold it like a hot iron ball he couldn’t drop.

  “Something the matter?” Nikki asked. Self-conscious, she reached up for her hair, then realized she’d already tucked it behind her ear so her hand, robbed of purpose, hung motionless. To cover, she smoothed out hair that didn’t need smoothing out.

  Ansel gave her a strange look, as if seeing her for the first time. Really seeing her.

  “No. Everything’s… perfect,” he said.

  A smile spread over Nikki’s lips, an honest smile that deepened, pulling the corners of her mouth up and up and up. Recognition passed between the two; they sensed the murmur of possibilities, each flowering into more. Time thickened, turned amber and held them in place. There was nothing but the space between them, lit by the open, unabashed smile that filled her eyes with light and air. An eternity slipped by. Then another. Her eyes were a deep, refreshing pool in the roiling heat of summer, and Ansel felt himself sink into blueness all around him, an azure light that—

  “Ansel.”

  He snapped to. Nikki blinked.

  The spell was broken.

  Leah, no longer straddling anyone, stood next to them, nearly atop Ansel. She leaned in heavily, soused but trying to cover it up by speaking too loudly. “I see you met the new girl.”

  “Met? She saved my life.”

  “You’re welcome,” Nikki said.

  “Oh, we’re all so happy here. Aren’t we?” Leah spun around, sloshing some of her drink on Ansel.

  Everyone in the bar was either blacked-out drunk by now, or possibly dead. Only the man Leah had been riding earlier showed some life. He raised his glass; to toast her or to keep her the hell away was anyone’s guess.

  “See, ecstasy all around.” Le
ah turned her drunken stare back on Nikki. “We just don’t know how to thank you. Ansel’s practically an institution here. I think he came with the furniture.” She laughed shrilly, then, since she was the only one, turned the volume up another notch. “But then, sadly, that whole life-saving business was only good for… what, how long?” She winked at Nikki. “I heard that stunt cost some.”

  “Nothing in life is free,” Ansel said.

  “Death sure as shit ain’t either. So how many days’re you down to now, Ansel? If it’s long enough, maybe we can check out together, you and me, you know? For old times’—”

  “I’m sorry, lady, but did anybody ask you over?” All smile was gone from Nikki’s eyes. Nothing left but glinting anger. “You see, I’m going to check out tonight, so my time’s at a premium. I’d prefer to spend it with people I actually like spending time with, so that I might possibly enjoy my last moments on the planet.”

  Leah’s mouth still hung open from having been interrupted.

  “That means without you,” Nikki said.

  Leah’s mouth closed and opened like a fish on dry land, but nothing came out. This didn’t compute with Leah’s worldview. She had been talking; everybody always listened when she was talking. Especially men. So why wasn’t this—

  “Maybe I wasn’t clear enough. For you not to be here, you’d have to leave.” Nikki’s smile came back, but not all the way. Her eyes just glared.

  Leah closed her mouth. Eyes blazing with fury, she turned on her heel and stormed off, hips swinging, dress rustling.

  Ansel shot Nikki an amused look. Sent the mighty Leah packing on her first night here. Not bad for a suicidal twenty-one-year-old, he thought.

  “Where were we?” Nikki said, and clinked glasses with Ansel.

  ***

  Not much later—at least not in the way time works, with hours and minutes and seconds, each following the next in an orderly fashion, but a lot later in drinks and laughs—Nikki keeled down the hallway to her room. She rounded the corner, but the change in direction seemed too much for her sense of balance. She teetered on one leg like a Keystone Cop in hot pursuit, tried to grab something for support, found only air, and crashed into the opposite wall.

  “Ouch.” She held on tight to the wall—she must have frightened the poor thing, she thought, because it careened so wildly. “Easy now,” she said, stroking the wall like a spooked horse. When it had settled down sufficiently, Nikki pushed herself to standing and reached for Ansel. “Come on, boy.”

  Ansel, a bit unsteady himself, tilted toward her.

  “Come on.”

  He took her hand. Nikki, grateful for the assistance, leaned in hard, forcing him to keep the world upright for her.

  “Maybe we should talk firs—”

  “Talk’s no fun.” She yanked Ansel down the hallway. “Fun’s fun.”

  They reached her door. She fumbled in her purse for her keycard. Dropped it, picked it up, dropped it again, picked it up again, crammed it sideways into the lock, which didn’t work, so she dropped it again—

  “May I?” Ansel took the keycard and opened the door for her.

  “You sure fucking may, mister.” She shouldered the door open and pulled Ansel inside.

  Nikki crossed her room, shrugging out of her dress with applaudable ease. She kicked off her shoes, snatched a vodka bottle off a shelf and took a huge swig as she flicked on the radio. Loud music screamed. Half dancing, half stumbling, she opened a drawer. All sorts of drugs were neatly lined up inside, something for every preference and enough of each to overdose twice over. Bowls with pills of all colors, baggies with cocaine, heroin, razor blades, syringes, tourniquets—if it could be smoked, snorted, sniffed, shot up, vaporized, or just plain eaten, it was here.

  “Look at that,” Nikki said. “The grand exit.” She took a couple of random pills and popped them in her mouth, followed by another gulp of vodka. She grabbed a joint. “Got a light?”

  “That I do.” Ansel flicked open his Zippo and lit her reefer. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  “I have a dad. He’s at home.” She threw her head back, puffing out a vast cloud of smoke. “Come on, live it up with me.”

  “That your plan for your last night on earth?”

  “Yessssss. Yes it is. Get fucked up, and then get fucked. That’s where you come in, cowboy.” She slinked toward Ansel in what she probably thought was a seductive manner. Young, beautiful, wearing only underwear, it was working, regardless of her bumbling tussle with gravity. She stuck the joint in Ansel’s mouth and slid her arms around his neck, and they swayed to the music, sharing vodka and weed.

  “Don’t worry, Ansel Grayson. I’ve been with men. Plenty of ’em. And the good thing…” She put her fingers on his lips to shush him. “The good thing with me is: no commitment. Because tomorrow, tomorrow it’ll all be just a bad dream.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Nothing but a bad dream.”

  Outside the rain-streaked window, brief lightning flickered across the skyline, as if a large photo shoot at the edge of the world were underway. Nikki glanced over Ansel’s shoulder at the sheets of rain, which shimmered like countless iridescent fish flitting through the air on a never-ending journey.

  “And I’ll wake up and won’t be here.”

  She closed her eyes.

  ***

  Every night, the city lit up with a million lights, stretching to the horizon like the shimmering scales of a mystical beast, belching toxic fumes, reaching farther and farther across the land—a monstrous cancer multiplying relentlessly. Tonight the large, towering rain clouds that had built up for days during a sweltering heatwave released their burden all at once, attempting to drown out every light, every life, every last bit of that accursed concrete wasteland. Rain fell as a solid sheet of water, pouring down walls, swirling down gutters, never able to wash the city clean but only managing to make it more dreary and miserable.

  Somewhere in that sprawl of city blocks, tumbled together as if hurled there by a monster child playing with defective toys, an apartment building rose—square, solid, right-angled. By all appearances, it had been thrown up hastily, working off blueprints drawn by a previous-century communist architect who’d lost his sense of flair.

  Inside, sensible bare hallways led to sensible doors leading into sensible apartments. All of them were pre-configured, the same floor plan repeated on every level, a drab beehive of sameness. Only one thing was different tonight. Down one of these sensible hallways, one of the sensible doors was wide open, the lock broken. Kicked in. Splintered wood all around it.

  Very insensible indeed.

  The apartment was empty. The walls and floors and ceilings held nothing. Wet footsteps drew a sloppy line on concrete that ended at a hunched figure, sitting on the bare floor, his back against the wall. He stared out the naked windows, a bottle of whiskey right next to him. He reached for it, and as his jacket sleeve slipped up, it revealed a metal wristband. Numbers flashed in red: 00:00.

  The man lifted the bottle and took a deep gulp. As he wiped his mouth, he became aware of someone standing in the open door. A familiar shape: erect spine, chin up, chest out. The posture of a royal guard at Buckingham Palace.

  “What are you, a vampire? Come on in, Huntley.”

  Huntley slipped into the room, moving silently. The man held out the bottle, but Huntley only shook his head.

  “Didn’t think so,” said the man, and took another swig. “So, how are we going to do this?”

  “Any way you’d like, sir,” Huntley said, not unkindly.

  “Any recommendations?”

  Huntley reached into his jacket and pulled out a straight razor. In the low light, it glinted with cold menace. The man swallowed dryly.

  “You’ll slip away in about thirty seconds, depending on your blood volume,” Huntley said. The man didn’t look too convinced. “Poisons can be unreliable. Guns are loud and destructive. This is quick. Effective. An
d if done right—which, I might add, I’m perfectly capable of doing—entirely painless.”

  “Pain doesn’t matter, Huntley.” The man drank again. “I’ve had my share. Don’t give a shit about a little cut.” He drained the bottle angrily, then threw it at the window, which shattered in a shower of glass. The rain, grateful to have found more to soak, splattered into the empty apartment. “Raped and killed. Right here. Right there…” He pointed vaguely at the floor. “They fried the fucker, but so what? So what, Huntley?” The man searched Huntley’s eyes, desperate for that answer, but the eyes were as polite and diplomatic as the man himself.

  “I understand, sir.”

  “No. No, you don’t. You don’t understand a thing.” The pleading was gone. “She’s dead. And that’s the end of it.” The man glared at Huntley with open hostility, but Huntley held his gaze steadily, unblinking, for a long time.

  Oh, Huntley understood. He understood all too well. Huntley wasn’t bothered by death—that would be like being bothered by gravity. Death wasn’t optional. It hadn’t been in Huntley’s Army days, where it had lingered in the blowing sands of the Middle East or crouched in the doorways of bombed-out houses in the Balkans. Nor had death been a rare visitor in the long, dark, criminal days that had followed Huntley’s leaving the Army. Since then, death had accompanied Huntley and settled comfortably next to him at the concierge desk of the Hotel Terminus, like a long-lost friend.

  Death was generous, and death was above all democratic: Everyone got a visit when their time wound down. But death never played fair. It was in death’s single purpose to be unfair, to offer meaning and steal it right back by turning life to ash. In the end, it all worked out the way it had to—not for the better, but the same for all. There was no answers to be had, there was only life, and then the end of life. Huntley had learned this lesson, and still learned it, every day anew. When Huntley finally spoke again, it almost startled the man.