The Last Checkout

by Peter Besson

  “What’s the point?” Ansel had been asking himself the same thing for over a decade, and he still hadn’t come up with an answer. He’d only realized that each day, up until now, hadn’t been the day to pack it in. “You think I’d be here if I knew?”

  That might not have helped: she tightened her grip on the gun.

  “All I know is…” His honesty was a rusty old machine that hadn’t been fired up in a long time. He knew it would hurt; he knew his scabbed heart would sting, so he drew a sharp breath in anticipation. “…I’m glad you’re here. Now.” The crack widened, and pain seared his chest. But deep under the stinging hurt, there was a different sensation, the soothing ease of letting go, of flowing back into his own skin. “With me.”

  “Where were you all my life? When I needed you?” Her eyes a desperate plea.

  “I was right here—”

  “I didn’t mean literally, you idiot.”

  “Do you think I like this? That this was my grand plan all along? That I’d check in, think about killing myself every day for twelve years, one simple step away from ending it all, but never going through with it so that every goddamn day I had to live through the same hell, only to wake up the next day and put it on repeat? And all this only so one day you would walk in and I’d fall for—”

  “Don’t.”

  She lowered her eyes and shook her head at him. She didn’t want to hear it. None of it. She didn’t want to hear how he might be starting to feel the same way she did. This, whatever it was, this couldn’t be. They’d made sure of that. She’d come here to simplify, to take away her choices. All except one. So why was she standing here, debating in her head what to do?

  “This is too much. Just too much.” As tightly as she squeezed her eyes closed, she couldn’t hold her tears back. They dripped on the carpet, soaking into the fabric. She wondered how many more tears—how much sweat, blood, piss, cum—how much of life had dripped into the carpets here at Hotel Terminus. “Too much.” She couldn’t rein in her mind; it galloped in circles, racing back and forth between hope and despair, brightness and terror, but always coming back to what needed to happen.

  Had to happen.

  “Okay,” she said. “Okay.”

  “Nikki.”

  She took a deep breath. Another one. Faster. Psyching herself up for—

  “What are you doing?”

  Nikki ripped her eyes open and set the gun to her temple. This was it. She was ready.

  “Nikki!”

  “This is the only way. I need this to stop.” The circles in her mind drew tighter, faster. Light. Dark. Pleasure. Pain. Hope. Despair.

  All she wanted was rest.

  “What? Why?”

  “What choice do we have?” She knew there was none. They were doomed. They were walking and talking and pretending to live but in the end, they were already dead. The few hours left couldn’t possibly matter. “Tell me!”

  “There’s always a choice.”

  The hand pressing the gun to her temple trembled. “No.”

  “Yes, there is. And some choices are better than others.”

  As hard as she tried to suppress it, the hand holding the gun wobbled, as if somebody was shaking it for her. She had to make a decision before she lost complete control over it. “Goodbye, Ansel Grayson.”

  She was actually going to do it. Some part of Ansel envied her courage, but only for the briefest of moments. The rest of him was terrified he might lose her right before his eyes. He didn’t know what would happen, he had no idea how anything would work out, and it probably wouldn’t anyway, but he did know he couldn’t stand to watch her put a bullet in her brain. Not now. And if he was honest with himself… not ever. He also knew he couldn’t tell her that, for fear he might spook her. Push her into pulling the trigger.

  Before he knew what he was doing, words bubbled up inside him. “Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh—”

  “Don’t.” She didn’t want to hear it. Not anything. And especially not that. But her grip on the gun loosened. She re-gripped it, trembling with effort.

  “Strong is your hold…”

  It was so simple. Pull the trigger, send the hammer against the firing pin, wait for the primer to ignite the black powder and blast the 9mm lead-tipped bullet at twelve hundred feet per second through the side of her skull into the frontal lobe, tunneling through enough bone and blood and brain to hopefully shut everything down at once. Forever. All she had to do was squeeze her finger, and everything else would take care of itself. So why was she unable to do it?

  Perhaps it was because of what Ansel had been about to say. She did and she didn’t want to hear.

  Her finger wouldn’t move.

  “O love,” Ansel said.

  With ferocious anger, she threw the gun to the ground, where it clattered away harmlessly. She couldn’t help it. She couldn’t help the tears flooding from her eyes. She buried her face in her hands, incapable of stopping the sobs.

  His words had been nothing more than a whisper, but they ignited a storm inside of Ansel. He knew it. He knew his heart would break open, and he would drown in pain, once again, but that was in the future. It was a price he was willing to pay, a thousand times over.

  “What are we doing?” Nikki said, blinking through tears and snot.

  Ansel sensed the dead stirring under their sheets in their cold resting place. He felt the breath of eternity. “We’re trying to find that ‘yes.’ That’s all anybody ever does.”

  Nikki slid her arms around his neck and held on. She held on as if Ansel were the only real thing of substance, as if he were the world itself, and with that embrace, everything else vanished—all that mattered, all that was and all that would ever be, was between them and nowhere else.

  Ansel and Nikki.

  ***

  This time, their lovemaking didn’t have that passionate urge, the burning desire for release. This time, every movement, every touch, every kiss was infused with a newfound tenderness, a delicacy neither had known before. It was as if they’d each been given access to a sacred space, a hallowed ground of being that required complete reverence.

  Somewhere deep inside Ansel, the pain coiled into itself, knowing its time would come again. This was only an interlude. A gasp of air from a drowning man who struggled one last time to the surface but who knew, regardless of how much he fought, that he’d sink down again into the dark embrace of the deep.

  The pain rolled tight and waited.

  ***

  At last, Henry felt his consciousness begin to blink out, his vision liquefying, blurring. He was grateful. His body was a wreck, hurting all over as if he’d taken a long pain shower this morning. At least the jackhammer that usually tried to split his brain open seemed to be taking a break for once.

  When he’d woken up, every cell in his body had been screaming for water, and since there was water in beer, he’d popped his first without even getting out of bed. Then he’d thrown on some clothes, chased the beer with a quick shot of whiskey, and checked his reflection in the mirror on the way out. He’d found the usual bleary-eyed stranger with the yellowish complexion staring back at him, and he’d stumbled half-blind down to the dining room to give his stomach something to do other than constantly rumble.

  Now he’d finished the eggs and toast halfway, the half-fifth of whiskey most of the way, and the rest of it was swirling in the glass in his hand. So much of his life had been lost to the amber liquid, but he didn’t feel any regret. Regret was for being sober and responsible, and he’d stopped being those things years ago. It was so much easier to swim along in the warm current of intoxication, to be buoyed across life’s sharp reefs by boozy detachment. He had no idea how anyone ever managed to live without the fog of drunkenness.

  Henry let his eyes wander.

  Olga sat at the table by the window, a fresh bandage on her left ear. The right was already gone, one of the first pieces she’d shed. Henry had neve
r understood how Olga could be capable of cutting chunks off of herself and discarding them as if they were parts she could do equally well without, especially since she seemed remarkably calculated about it, and, as far as Henry was able to tell, she was always sober.

  She’d come to the hotel one dark morning, a beautiful robust woman, strong of flesh and manner, hair in a severe peroxide-blond bob. She’d stumped into the entry hall, still intact, with only the slightest scarring on her skin from where she’d experimented with cutting. Then, at one point in the following weeks, she’d made the decision to follow the path that seemed to have been charted for her: a life of reduction, of the extreme denial of the body. No one knew why this heiress of an indescribable fortune had decided to start cutting herself out of existence in this city, in this Last Resort, on the day she did. There were rumors of a family vacation to witness the depravity of the American way of life up close, and Olga taking the chance to stroll into Hotel Terminus and sign on the dotted line. How much of this was true, and how much people simply made up since there was no information forthcoming from Olga herself, Henry didn’t know. He simply saw her every morning at breakfast, missing another small piece of flesh. He could only imagine what her body looked like under her clothing, but really, he didn’t have the stomach for it.

  He’d sure like to see what Leah looked like under all her clothing, though. If he could still get an erection, that is, and he wasn’t so sure about that. Leah was at a table in the center of the room somewhere, in the cloudy regions of his vision. He seemed to recall a night years ago, dark and blurry—not that different from any other night, but that night, he’d slurred his words a little bit less, enough to be understood if one spoke drunken-ese, and Leah spoke that language fluently. That particular night, Henry had managed to call up his last reserves of intelligence and wit, qualities he used to have in abundance but which had been dulled by the unrelenting assault of hard liquor. He remembered bright flashes of luminous flesh, a wide open soft mouth, Leah’s eyes swimming with booze and lust, and some inept fumbling and heavy breathing on his part. The rest was a dark abyss, and he cursed himself for not getting a better handle on his mistress, alcohol, that night so he could have enjoyed the ride with Leah more properly. Most other men in the hotel had, and from the whisperings, it appeared to be the ride of a lifetime. Word had it that she’d eased the departure of quite a few reluctants, and in Henry’s eyes, that made her a saint. Sure, she might have her own selfish reasons for fucking everything in sight—the only way to get revenge on her husband was to betray him anew every night until her last—but Henry wasn’t certain the rumor of him dropping Leah off was true. It seemed far-fetched that anyone, even Morton with his slippery back-door dealings, would be able to subvert the system to such a degree. Regardless, compared to everyone else in the Hotel, Leah was having the most fun committing suicide.

  Henry chuckled to himself. Alcohol had done its duty and removed any sort of propriety or caring on his part. He grinned. This was all a shit show, always had been, and he was glad to black out again. One more sip, and he’d slip off into the liquid gold of oblivion.

  He set the glass to his lips, but before he took his last mouthful of the morning, he happened to glance over at the table of Chet Romer, who looked back at him. Romer’s eyes were two hazy globes, unfocused on this world, but he did notice Henry raise his glass at him. Romer nodded, one substance abuse warrior greeting another, their goals almost identical, their weapons of choice only a matter of preference. Romer seemed to like the quick pain of the needle followed by the massive onrush of ecstasy, whereas Henry liked to be gradually flooded away, washed over by ever-increasing waves of intoxication until he drowned in a dark stupor. Still, the two addicts recognized their self-destructive ambition in one another with the proper respect befitting any dedicated professional. The only difference was that Henry didn’t give two shits about anything anymore, and Romer, at least on occasion, was apparently still functional enough to work.

  Every once in a while, Henry would catch sight of Morton slinking over to Romer’s table. Henry’s eyes would be slits by then, but he still observed them hush-hushing and rustling papers. He’d even seen Romer enter Morton’s office a few times; the first time, Henry had been so blind drunk he couldn’t find the bathroom anymore and had surprised himself by stumbling down hallways he’d never seen before, one of which led to Morton’s inner sanctum. He’d caught a glimpse of Romer, a stack of papers under his arm, closing the door hastily behind him, as if afraid Henry would spot him—or worse, ask him what he was doing there. Henry hadn’t cared. He needed to piss and all his thoughts had been focused on relieving that monstrous pressure. Eventually, a large potted plant had to do—it had died shortly thereafter, but wasn’t that to be expected in a house of death?—and soon, he’d forgotten all about it, like he had about most everything.

  His universe circled around drink, and if not drink, then a way to find drink. Simple as that. And what Romer was or was not doing wasn’t any of his business.

  They were a sad lot. So much sadder for their inability to pull the trigger. It seemed that despite everything else, there was something inside each of them that refused to let them step off the cliff. Henry couldn’t possibly fathom what that might be for himself. There was not a single thing that could serve as his excuse to carry on existing. Every day was the same foggy blur without direction or goal, a stretch of out-of-focus living interrupted by black sleep. Why he didn’t just extend that darkness indefinitely, Henry was unable to say. The day he’d checked in, he thought he had nothing left. Selma had run out on him months ago, taking their two kids with her. By then, his job had been a faint memory. He couldn’t even remember his friends’ faces anymore, or if he’d ever had any. And since his check-in, he’d given himself over entirely to his love, his obsession, his true desire: booze.

  If Henry wasn’t careful, he would drop the glass in his hand before Ansel had a chance to catch it. Where was he? This was the second time he hadn’t shown up for breakfast in the sad circle of dead losses. Ansel Grayson. The longest perm in the whole hotel. Henry had always wondered what in the world that guy was doing here. Ansel had everything going for him: he was young, good-looking, bright—or he seemed bright, as far as Henry could determine through the stupor of hard drink—but there was this dark cloud hanging over him, a shadow that seemed to cross over his face and darken his life. Not much of an observation, Henry had to admit to himself. Ansel probably hadn’t checked in because he woke up one day and figured that the one thing he was lacking in his life was some self-annihilation, but he never showed any of the more blatant signs of unhappiness that the others—or Henry himself—did. There was none of the wailing, the cursing of gods, the rending of clothes or waterfalls of tears. He’d been nothing but cordial, warm even, pensively walking the halls of the hotel, trailing cigarette smoke. No one knew why he was here. They’d talked about him, the other perms, when Ansel wasn’t listening. Leah thought it had to be a woman—only love could doom someone to such melancholy—but Henry always believed there had to be more. A woman alone could never unmoor a heart that much.

  If Ansel didn’t hurry up, the glass might hit the ground. Henry felt it slip in his hand, just as his consciousness slid past him. There was no holding either.

  He was out before the glass touched the floor.

  ***

  Ansel wasn’t sure if there was a more beautiful sight than a naked woman asleep in bed. He felt a bit like a voyeur, drinking in her body, the delicate interplay between exposed flesh and the cover of white linen sheets, an eternal artwork of allure and desire, of form’s ability to tempt and the never-ending promise of lust.

  He forced himself to surface from the surge of yearning. He didn’t have the time to stand and ogle. Something had to be done. He lit a cigarette and paced the room, blowing smoke as if it were a race. His mind’s gears clicked and whirred, but nothing caught. No matter how he turned it over in his head, he alway
s ended up at the same dead end: They were doomed. That wasn’t news. It was only that something had happened that changed the equation and made the conclusion unbearable: He’d fallen in love.

  Dammit.

  He stubbed the cigarette against the wall in a hot burst of sparks.

  Double dammit.

  How could he—

  He lit another cigarette. Belched fumes. Took up pacing again.

  He should have never let this happen. He should have just carried on swinging from the chandelier, the rope biting deeper and deeper into his neck, and let her face blur into complete darkness. He didn’t need to know. There was nothing more for him to know.

  Or was there?

  Dammit dammit dammit.

  He charged out of the room.

  ***

  If there was a color that signified life for Chet Romer, it was the translucent amber inside his eyelids when he closed them against the morning sun. That pulsing latticework of luminous blood vessels branching across his vision, that orange-honey warmth was as close as he could get to the bliss of heroin. Of course, it helped that he’d shot up no more than twenty minutes ago, before leaving Terminus to sit on this bench in this miserable park at the end of the block, quite possibly one of the last pieces of greenery in the city. The few straggly trees, that bit of grass, and a dried-out fountain must not have been worth the effort for the demolition crew to flatten it, but for Romer it had always been a sort of metaphor for his own life: given up on, forgotten, but somehow, teetering on collapse, it kept on being.

  Romer was reclining on his customary morning bench, the one he’d claimed years ago from the handful of homeless people who still frequented the park. There was a steady group of disheveled existences gathered on the grounds—Romer wasn’t sure whether some of them were still alive since they hadn’t moved in months—and he felt unexpectedly at home with them. There was a kinship between their broken lives. Like them, he had nothing left in this world, the only difference being he went to sleep in a bed every night. And—oh, yes—he’d have to kill himself eventually. But there was time for that. Plenty of time, as he saw it. Too much liquid goodness coursing through his bloodstream at the moment, too much of the soft warm glow of the sun.