The Last Checkout

by Peter Besson

  A shadow fell across his face, blocking the warmth of the sun. Romer waited, but the shadow wouldn’t go away. Maybe if he ignored it.

  “How do we get out?”

  Ansel’s voice.

  Romer kept his eyes closed. Maybe Ansel would forget he’d asked the question. If it really was him. Who knew. Romer could wait some more.

  The shadow didn’t budge. It seemed determined to get an answer.

  Romer blinked one eye open.

  Yup. There was Ansel. Hands crammed in his pockets against the morning chill—well, if he’d do some heroin and sit in the sun, he wouldn’t be that cold—staring intently at the one eye Romer had managed to open.

  “How do we get out, Romer?”

  “If you’re asking me what I think you’re asking me, you know what I know,” Romer said. What was unclear about the whole thing? You check in, and you check out when you’re dead. “No exit but one, brother.” There was nothing more to it. Romer should know. He closed the eye again and turned his face a bit to the side to catch the sun struggling through the bare tree branches.

  “Try, Romer.”

  He opened the other eye. Nope, Ansel hadn’t left as Romer had hoped. He sighed. This would be a fruitless conversation, leaving Ansel with no hope and Romer with a bad taste in his mouth, because it would be all for nothing. Romer had to struggle to summon up empathy for Ansel, not because he didn’t care—he did, or he thought he should, at least, and he knew he would, once he came down from his sky-high ride on the China White express—but because they’d had this conversation before, many, many times, when their drug cycles synced up and both found themselves drunk or stoned or shot to oblivion simultaneously, and deep thoughts bubbled up, thoughts both would disown the minute they woke the next day because they were terrified to admit those thoughts to themselves. It seemed a sacrilege, the idea that there might be something on the other side of their decision to end it at the Terminus, the notion that this right here, this wasn’t it, couldn’t be it—but both were too afraid to think past their respective hurts, as if it were a betrayal to do so, a trivialization of everything that defined them, a desecration of the altar of suffering and ultimate meaning. So for years, a friendship had developed between him and Ansel, a deepening of understanding, a drawing near thanks to these glimpses of vulnerability they each reserved for the other. They became brothers in despair, always aware of the grim fate awaiting them both, forever pushing away the existential dread with an artificial swagger, yet fooling neither.

  They knew.

  There was nothing for them beyond Hotel Terminus.

  Nothing.

  Yet, for all the years he’d known him, Romer had never seen Ansel as desperate as he appeared now, standing before him, blocking the sun.

  “You’re a lawyer, Romer. According to you, one of the best. So go. Lawyer away.”

  It was no accident that Romer had ended up at Hotel Terminus. He used to be a high-powered lawyer, on track to become partner in a firm with an office occupying the top floor of a glass tower so tall it scraped the bottom of the clouds. He’d had everything that counts for success in America: money, a job with unlimited potential, a beautiful fiancée. He was a Greek hero balancing on the precipice, the moment before the inevitable fall. And fall he did.

  Heroin.

  His great love.

  She’d entered his life when he was at his highest point, when the world lay at his feet and the future stretched out into a sea of limitless possibilities. All he’d had to do was choose.

  He chose the white lady.

  In retrospect, Romer knew he’d never had a say in the matter. He’d always been drawn to the extremes of life. As a child, his play typically revolved around violence, daring adventures, fringe experiences or, unsurprisingly, death. His toys were never what they appeared to be. His race car drivers were drug dealers on the side. His action figures were explorers who always went too far; flirting with madness, they searched endlessly for their chest of gold, the last sunken city, all to no avail. His play towns were littered with bodies. Rarely was anything used for its intended purpose. His sister’s dolls were victims of serial killers stalking the family home. Stuffed animals were liable to attack anyone at any time with surprising ferocity. A hot stove and plastic figures made for startling creations that seemed to have sprung from feverish nightmares—the distinction between monster and plain melted polyethylene lost on his mother, who would slap the back of his head and order him to scrape the hot plates clean; dinner had to be cooked somewhere. Romer’s world was filled with menace no one but him noticed. There was an undercurrent of wild adventure and mortal danger pulsing beneath the veneer of ordinary experience, and there was where Romer felt most at home.

  When he was ten, he had experienced his first ardent moment of transcendence. His father, afraid Romer’s unconventional bent would spell doom for his adolescence, tried to channel his fierce interest in the uncommon into a more conventional direction, and bought him a telescope. He understood his son’s desire to see beyond what was apparent and so, one night, surprised him by taking him to the backyard and letting him gaze at the stars. As Romer stared into space and discovered what was there, what had always been there but what he’d never seen, when he witnessed the mundane night sky with its pinpricks of light transform into a black sea of orbital bodies and gaseous clouds, and when he realized there was much, much more, stretching endlessly, Romer had sensed his mind expand until it filled all of the dark above, and he felt himself vanish into the space of the unknown.

  When he got older, he transitioned effortlessly into juvenile delinquency, never believing for one moment common rules should apply to him. It didn’t help that Romer was smarter than anyone in any room. He was let off easy, passed along with a slap on the wrist. Then he coasted through high school, rarely sober, had more interventions than fingers on his hands, stumbled around through colleges, burnt a few scholarships until, that one day, he’d met her. He’d had girls before, but none like her. She wasn’t buying his shit. Nothing of the adolescent carelessness impressed her. His free-spirited disregard for norms and rules bored her. All she saw was a sharp mind dulled by sycophancy and a lack of challenge.

  Romer was hooked. With her, he felt a first sense of responsibility; the world became real and tactile and concrete, not simply an inconsequential dream he could drift through like flotsam in a river. He planted his feet and waded ashore into wakefulness. He shed the debris clinging to him and focused on giving direction to his life. He harnessed all the energy he’d been wasting and concentrated it on building an iron resolve. He enrolled in law school, studied day and night, graduated at the head of his class, and got snatched up by a prestigious law firm with untapped potential. He helped grow that firm until only the highest floor of a glass castle was enough to satisfy his inner fire. All he had to do was walk through the doors into full partnership, and he would have achieved everything anyone could ever want: financial success, high community standing, the adoration of a beautiful girlfriend, and the enthusiastic approval of his parents.

  It was perfect.

  Until it wasn’t.

  The dark desires never went away, only burned, hidden, waiting to flare up with unexpected viciousness because they’ve been ignored for this long. All it took was one slip, one moment. Drunk for the first time in years, celebrating something he couldn’t even remember anymore—a big case they’d won, someone’s promotion, perhaps even Romer’s, who knew—they’d rented out a swish restaurant downtown; simply plonked down a large sum of cash and had the run of the place. After all the years of treading quietly, of nothing but driven focus and denial of urges, Romer had let himself slip into the easy seduction of free-flowing champagne, followed by harder and harder liquor. His ravenous hunger for ecstasy lit, he had finally stumbled into an occupied bathroom stall, just plain tripped over his own feet and kicked the door open, surprising one of his colleagues, setting a needle to his arm. Any sembl
ance of self-control long gone, buried in an ocean of alcohol, Romer’s natural curiosity woke from its slumber.

  In exchange for silence, the colleague had agreed to let Romer have a taste of what he called ‘liquid heaven.’ This colleague had been a functioning junkie for the better part of ten years, and that night, he became Romer’s mentor in the delicate balance of a successful, sober life and the irresistible pull of self-destruction. When that colleague was discovered four years later in a swanky hotel with a needle in the arm, dead from an apparent overdose, it was quietly covered up, and only the faintest of rumors swirled around the firm. But by then, Romer was too deep into his own maelstrom of addiction to pay much attention.

  Romer’s firm had been contacted by the board of Hotel Terminus to review their by-laws and, wherever feasible, rework them to maximize profitability while staying within the tight legal framework the Last Resorts had to maneuver in. The aim had been to forestall any lawsuits brought by distraught relatives and to squeeze as much out of the residents as possible, although Morton, in his crab-like sidling ways, would never admit to such unseemly tactics.

  At some point, Romer had made the perplexing decision to quit the firm and check into the hotel, while continuing to work full-time for Hotel Terminus under contract. Romer, guaranteed a supply of heroin as long as he managed to remain productive, had jumped at the opportunity to leave behind everything he’d worked so hard for and dedicate himself to the discovery of the upper limit of heroin consumption, the needle-thin line between complete bliss and oblivion.

  “Did you know I drew up all the contracts for this place?” Romer asked. He saw the quizzical look on Ansel’s face and continued, “Oh yes, I did. And then Morton sank his teeth into me. Knew just how to play me. And now he’s got me by the H-balls.” He wished Ansel would step aside so the sun had a chance to warm his sluggish junkie blood, but Romer knew he wouldn’t move until he had some sort of answer. “I rewrote the entire friggin’ charter for him. Top to bottom. Turned the sucker inside out. And now—now it’s tight. Sorry brother, but you don’t have the money or the clout—all you got is running. And after eight hours, it all clicks over, and the whole system comes after you. It’s a done deed. Save yourself the trouble.”

  “Masterson did it.”

  Of course, he had to bring up Masterson. Every check-in who had second thoughts, who wanted to get out, they always brought up Masterson, the masterful stage magician who, apparently to prove it could be done, had checked into a Last Resort for one day only to stage the ultimate escape act. He’d spent his—by all accounts last—twenty-four hours completely at ease, talking to reporters, meandering through the hotel, irritatingly unruffled by the air of death and necessity that clung to this whole exercise. The next day, refusing to extend his stay, he watched, with mild bemusement, his counter start to run down and, at one minute before his forced check-out time, he had excused himself and gone into his room at the top floor, claiming he’d forgot something. When they’d opened the door moments later, Masterson was gone, vanished into thin air.

  Its reputation on the line, the government threw everything into finding Masterson. Local, city, state, and eventually federal police all banded together, sniffing, probing, questioning, threatening, but they were unable to locate the magician. He had disappeared from one moment to the next. There was gleeful smirking, the feeling of one-upping ‘the man,’ and everyone waited for Masterson to appear again, if only briefly, to claim the adulation and fame he so richly deserved for pulling off what had been thought impossible. But Masterson stayed disappeared. Days, weeks, months, and finally years later, there was still no sign of him. It was as if he’d never existed. Nagging rumors surfaced of Masterson having no choice but to disappear, that he was a criminal—a murderer, even—and had used the ballyhoo surrounding his feat to cover his tracks. Others said Masterson had checked out like everyone else, that his body had been spotted on a meat train headed for the crematoriums, and it was all a big joke, something to keep the masses mesmerized; a bit of dazzle, a pinch of mystery, just another way for us to be lulled to sleep. And then there were those who thought Masterson himself was nothing but a fabrication dreamed up by desperate people.

  “Masterson’s nonsense,” Romer said. “The stuff people tell themselves to make them feel better. You really think they’d let a third-rate magician embarrass them? I think they made him up just so they have some people trying to get out. Keep everybody on their toes.”

  Ansel shook his head slowly. He didn’t want to hear what he knew. He wanted to hear about the clever getaway plan, the one-in-a-million shot, the escape route his friend had built for himself. A harsh dose of reality was not on his wish list at the moment.

  “How many days you got left?” Romer asked.

  “Can’t be more than two.”

  “My advice? Make them meaningful. Best I can tell you.” Romer saw the impact those words had on Ansel: He visibly deflated. “Sorry, brother.”

  Ansel nodded grimly and lit another cigarette. He hadn’t expected anything else, but at least now he knew his options. Which boiled down to a big fat zero.

  “When I get lost in my own little misery, I look up there.” Romer pointed past Ansel, into the morning sky.

  Ansel turned. The sun had cleared the leafless trees and burned with as much strength as it had left after punching through a thick layer of pollution.

  “Look. How beautiful,” Romer said, without a hint of sarcasm. His eyes shone with genuine delight. “That great ball of fire up there. Billions of years, yet it still burns. Stars are born and die, in spans of time we can’t even begin to imagine. And all that, that cosmic rigmarole, only so we can run around on this blue marble and eat and drink and shit and fuck and love and die and, maybe, like now, get a bit of warmth in the process.” He couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face, threatening to split his head in two. “It’s a glorious thing, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Ansel spun back around. “It is, Romes.” A billion years of sun and stars and the cosmos didn’t quite make up for him falling in love two days before he would have to end his part in all of this gloriousness. “Catch you later.” He turned to leave.

  “Is it the girl?”

  Ansel stopped.

  “It’s always about the girl.” Romer smiled dreamily. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along.” He laced his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, fully enjoying the blast of sunshine that snuck by Ansel. “Love is all there is.”

  Ansel waited for more, but there was none coming. Romer dove back into the warm amber glow, his blood singing with drugs.

  ***

  He would have given twice as much. He knew it, and Morton knew it. But for civility’s sake, Morton agreed to fleece him only next-to-completely. Douglas didn’t know what he would have done if that side-stepping prick had kept the negotiations going. Of course he’d have conceded to pay, no matter the sum, but something would have snapped. A line would have been crossed, and Douglas Forlan III might have reverted to some earlier version of himself, to a time when he didn’t have everything yet, when he wasn’t the country’s largest contractor of government-sponsored crematoriums. There was more than one literal skeleton in his closet, and Douglas had no intention of adding one more to arrive at a solution. In a bizarre way, he was grateful to Morton for being such a skilled dirtbag. As it was, Douglas was fuming but not murderously enraged. No one would die. Especially not his daughter. As Morton had explained it, once someone checked into a Last Resort, it was impossible for that person to leave again, except as a corpse. There were strict controls in place that could not be tampered with. Body in, body out. And short of finding a young woman who resembled Nikki and convincing that person to die, either voluntarily or through more forceful persuasion, it was hopeless. But, Morton added, this could all be resolved if his daughter had never checked in in the first place. A simple clerical error. With the appropriate amount of money judiciously applie
d in strategic places, some files could be altered in the central registry without anyone noticing, and it just so happened Morton knew where those places were. For a fee, understandably.

  All in all, it was costing Douglas a bloody fortune.

  As he regarded his daughter next to him, his anger faded a bit. Not enough to slow his pace, or loosen his grip on her arm, but enough to not want to spank her until her butt was raw, twenty-one or not.

  They hurried through the entry hall on their way out of this hellhole, Tom trailing them. A lot of good he had done last time, but at least they didn’t expect any opposition this time. On the contrary. Morton was leading the way, unable to hide his satisfied smirk. And smirk you should, Douglas thought. If you weren’t rich before, you are now.

  “What’s going on?”

  Of all the people. That guy. What was his name?

  Ansel.

  He stood in the entryway, blinking in incomprehension. Where was Nikki going? Morton smiled an overly sincere smile at him, which meant he’d finagled something benefiting mostly himself.

  “It appears Ms. Forlan is not a resident at Hotel Terminus after all.” Morton spread his hands as if that would explain everything. “A simple clerical error while checking in.” He turned to Nikki, beaming that false smile of his at her. “As it is, she’s free to go.”

  “They’re taking me,” Nikki said.

  Morton quickly interjected. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it, Mr. Grayson?”

  Ansel was shocked at his own emotions. He should have been overjoyed. She would live, and that was all that should matter. Whatever came after, she’d been handed back her free will. No contract, no government regulation required her to take the last step. She still could if she wanted to, of course, but if the previous three days were any indication, there might be enough doubt in her heart to make her hesitate. She could think back on her time with Ansel and realize that no matter the depths of darkness, still, in the inky black of despair, she might find she’s not alone. Yet, knowing all this, and being glad she would live at least another day, Ansel couldn’t escape the sting of sadness. She was leaving, and there was nothing left for him to do but check out.