Malibu Motel

by Chaunceton Bird

  My “research, action, network” plan of attack was slow to bear fruit, but I don’t give up easily. You don’t get rich by giving up in the face of adversity.

  Usually by around 5:00 p.m. I ordered dinner from somewhere cheap. I stayed at home most nights because I had no choice. I couldn’t go to bars or clubs—to the extent that clubs existed in Missoula. There was also the added complication that I had HIV. It didn’t feel right picking up on people when even if we used protection I could still give them a terminal illness. At this point I was living without sex, cocaine, or alcohol. If it weren’t for cigarettes I’d wither away.

  I spent evenings watching TV and feeling despondent. Cocaine was no longer there to lift me up in times of sorrow. Without liquor to dilute the cares and pains of my middle-class existence, I often slipped off the path of aspiration and slid down the rain-soaked slope of hope. At the bottom, I am forced to confront Hopelessness. Its slimy tentacles snare me into its black lair, its beak whispering words of despair. Its bite reminds me of my plight. I struggle against its crushing grip, but feel my muscles begin to rip. The more I fight against my state, the clearer the picture of my fate. Hopelessness will not relent, it has my scent, there will be no argument. The dread of nonexistence, with all its dogged persistence, saps my final feeble resistance. Darker than black, heavier than lead, there is no returning back, I will soon be dead. This tunnel has no light at the end, just an eternal black descend.

  Then I’d wake up the next morning and do it all over again.

  When I had lived in Missoula for about a year, I received a letter from the bank claiming that I had defaulted on my mortgage loan. I had only missed two or three payments and they were acting like I had robbed them at gunpoint. They cited to an “acceleration clause” claiming that they could demand full payment for the outstanding balance of the loan. Without full payment in thirty days, they would have no choice but to foreclose on the property.

  I was sick of the house anyway. I had been thinking about moving and the bank’s letter simply reminded me of what I already was planning on doing. Most of the boxes from my move to Montana were still packed, so this move would be easier. For the next thirty days, I browsed local listings for something a bit smaller than this house (I just didn’t need all the space). On the thirty-first day, a representative from the bank came to my home and told me that they were beginning foreclosure proceedings. The little man gave me a pile of papers that explained how the foreclosure would work and what my rights were. I could stay in my house during the proceedings, but as soon as it sold I had to be out. The sale was set for one week from now. A judicial foreclosure on the 18th.

  I found a nice modern house on the other side of town that I could afford for a few years. Five if I kept my other expenses down. The bank that was foreclosing on my house refused to lend to me. They were evidently in cahoots with the other banks in town, because they wouldn’t lend to me either. It’s not even like I was asking for that much. They all said that my credit score was too low and that I needed to have a job before they would even consider taking the risk.

  The ace up my sleeve was Mr. Valentini, the biggest banker in Southern California—physically, not figuratively. I gave him a call and explained my situation.

  “Anyway, I only need three hundred and seventy thousand, and I don’t care about the interest rate. Let’s do a thirty year.”

  “Caish. Do you have access to a computer right now?”

  “Yeah, yup, I’m sitting in front of my laptop right this moment.”

  “Great. Log in to your bank account, will you? I just have a couple of questions.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Are you logged in?” Mr. Valentini was always in a hurry.

  “Not yet... one second...” I said, “okay I’m in.”

  “Caish, can you tell me when the last time any of your accounts received a deposit?”

  “Hmm...” I scrolled through the transaction history in my checking account. “Well I don’t—”

  “And we’re talking about all of your account, right? Any deposit at all.”

  “Let me just pull it up...”

  “No need. Caish, you don’t deposit money into your bank account anymore. Only withdrawals, no deposits.”

  “...”

  “You still there, Caish?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you see what I’m getting at?”

  “Yeah, but my deposit history isn’t the only thing that matters, I have enough in the bank for years of payments.”

  “Not thirty years’ worth of payments. Seventy—”

  “But enough to—”

  “Seventy grand in the bank is not enough to prop up a nearly four hundred thousand-dollar loan. And, Caish. We haven’t even talked about your credit score.”

  “I was hoping that with our long history of good loans you’d be able to see past some of the numbers and know that I would be good for the loan.”

  “Sorry, Caish. Not the case. Give me a call when you’ve got some money coming in and we’ll see what we can do for you.” Mr. Valentini hung up. I was stunned. He refused to lend to me. After years of loyal patronage, he turned me down merely because I didn’t have a traditional nine-to-five job.

  Whatever, I could always rent. In fact, it would be better that way. Renting would give me the freedom to get back to California the instant I won the lottery again. Plus, I wouldn’t have to deal with the expenses of homeownership. I found a new chic apartment complex that had just been built downtown. The Crown Lofts. The rent was more that I was planning to spend on a mortgage, but it included utilities, so overall I was probably saving money.

  The landlord of the Crown Lofts was a woman that hadn’t realized the 1990s ended. Her name was Candice Tolman. She had a blondish tomboy pixie cut (think Princess Diana, as Candice surely did) and painted her eyebrows with excessive attention to detail. She had a long face but a short nose. She wore a dark-blue and green plaid shirt that was tucked into light-blue high-waist jeans that buttoned a few inches above her belly button. She rounded off her look with a pair of leather loafers. No socks.

  “Hiiiiiii! You must be Cesh!” she said when I walked into the Crown Lofts management office. She stood up from behind her desk and extended her hand with a smile that showed off her blindingly white, noticeably large teeth. This woman radiated enthusiasm. Her office was decorated with framed certificates that probably made her feel important. “Triple-A Rated Landlord 2002,” “Missoula’s Best in Property Management 1996,” “Landlord Association Standard of Excellence Award 2016.”

  “Am I saying that right? Cesh?” she asked.

  “Yeah, close enough,” I said, shaking her hand.

  “Very good, very good. We are so happy you are interested in our newest apartments.” She motioned for me to sit in one of the chairs in front of her desk. “The Crown Lofts are the biggest thing to happen to Missoula in a very long time.” She could smile and talk at the same time. Just like Mia...

  “Yeah, they look great. I’m excited to move in.”

  “They are great! And we’re excited to have you move in. Did you want to walk through one of the units?”

  “Nah, I think I’m ready to sign on the dotted line.”

  “Oh! Very nice! You know what you want, I like that. Let’s have a look at floor plans and see which one you like.”

  “I looked through them online, I think I’ll just go with one of the two-bedroom plans. I don’t care what floor I’m on. And I need a parking place in the garage.”

  “Okay, great. That’s great. We can definitely do that. Let’s get you started by filling out some paperwork.” Candice pulled a stack of paper out of one of her desk drawers, set a Bic pen on top of the stack and slid the stack across her desk. “Let’s have you fill out that top form, it’s just basic contact information and background stuff, and then I’ll talk you through the rest. Do you want any water or anything?”

  “Nope, I’m doing fine, thanks.”

/>   Candice clattered away at the keys on her computer while I filled out the form she had given me. With that form done, she walked me through the other forms. This one said I agreed to pay rent by the fifth of every month, this one said I agreed to pay my last month’s rent up front (along with a $1200 deposit), this one said I agreed not to sublet the apartment, this one said I agreed not to sue them if I fell down the stairs, and on and on. I signed and initialed, signed and initialed, signed and initialed. Date date date. With the pile of papers signed, Candice said, “Great! You’re all set! Just swing by at the beginning of next month and we’ll get you all set up with your key and parking pass and you will be good to move in.”

  “Beginning of next month?”

  “Yup! On the third we’ll have your unit ready for you.”

  “Oh, I need to move in right now.”

  “Mmm. Sorry Cesh, your unit won’t be finished for another couple of weeks. The third is when you can move in. We are still installing smoke alarms and carpets in all of the units.” Candice looked at me like you look at a three-year-old when you break the news that Heffalumps don’t actually exist.

  “Can I move into a different unit?”

  “‘Fraid not, the third is our move-in day. We’re going to have free hotdogs and live music for all our new tenants. We’re almost at full capacity already, so it’s going to be quite the party.”

  “But I have to be out of my place on the 18th. I have to move in before that.”

  “Cesh, I’m very sorry to hear that, but these units just aren’t done. It would be against the law for us to allow you to move in before the final inspection. Plus, you don’t want to move in without carpet and smoke alarms.”

  “What am I supposed to do between the eighteenth and the third?” I asked.

  “Hmm. Well. You could stay with family.”

  “Not an option.”

  “Friends?”

  “Nope. Not an option.”

  “Well, I guess you could stay in a hotel then.”

  Oh. Yeah. Hotels. I had forgotten about hotels. I certainly could stay in a hotel. I could just move my stuff into a storage unit and have a two-week vacation right here in Missoula. Good thinking Candice.

  “Ah, good thinking Candice. Okay, see you on the third. And do I come here or go somewhere else to pick up my key?”

  “Yup, come right back here and we’ll get you all set up.”

  “Great, thanks, see you then.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Cesh! See you next month! And tell your friends about us!”

  I hired a moving company to move my stuff into a storage unit and booked a room at the Hilton. It was called the DoubleTree, but it was “by Hilton,” so it was essentially a Hilton without the pompous price tag. I splurged because it had been so long since I’d had a vacation. Having room service and a fridge full of alcohol took me back to the days of my wealth. Not that I could drink the little bottles of alcohol, but I could look at them. The little liquors and beers. Types you only think about when you see the inside of a hotel room mini fridge. Like Bombay Sapphire, Stella Artois Beer, and canned bloody marys. I’d inventory the pint-size contents of the fridge, just for the hell of it. I had plenty of time. Two Fireballs, two Skyy Vodkas, two Jack Daniels, two Grey Goose, two Absolut Vodkas, two Bombay Sapphires, one bottle of Stella Artois, one bottle of Corona, one can of Heineken, two cans of Amstel Light, and one can of Miller Lite. And then there were also the sodas and waters to serve as chasers, and Snickers, peanut m&ms, and other overpriced snacks.

  The pool was as cold as any other hotel pool, and the hot tub was at a low simmer. I relaxed as much as possible despite the ever-present screams of children and their pitter patter as they chased each other around the pool. In the hot tub I thought about where things went wrong with me and Mia. When we were relaxing in the hot tub at the Ritz Carlton she had lost it. That’s just how people are. But she was one of my closest friends, and it would be nice to have somebody to talk to about the shitshow my life has become.

  An overweight family joined me in the hot tub, all grins and “how ya doin’?”s. They’d been living the American life too wholeheartedly. The water level lapped up over the edge as they sank in.

  I could have killed for a drink right then. But I didn’t have to kill. I just had to walk up to my hotel room and have a sip. One sip wouldn’t show up if I had to pee into a cup. Plus, I peed into a cup that morning. The chances of getting called in two days in a row weren’t that great. Sure, it happened every now and then, but not often.

  Back in my hotel room I showered for half an hour in the hottest water I could stand, then turned on the TV and sat in front of the mini fridge. Such a wide selection. I had to choose wisely though. This would be my first drink in over a year, and I could only have a sip, so it was more about the taste than anything else. Jack Daniels has always had a special place in my heart, and Fireball reminded me of my high school days. Then again, the vodkas were calling my name. Maybe they’d have an effect on me even though I could only take a sip. The beers were out of the question. If I am going to have a sip of anything, it is going to be liquor. To help make my decision, I pulled out each little bottle of liquor and lined them up on the counter above the fridge. Twelve bottles, six options.

  No, never mind. I can’t. I put all the bottles back in the fridge and climbed on the bed. I’d just watch a pay-per-view movie or some porn or something. No need to drink. Even though I wouldn’t really be drinking, just tasting. And if I did drink, it would be out of my bloodstream by tomorrow morning. It was only 7:45 p.m., which meant that even in the off chance that my color was called two days in a row, I could still pee clean because it would be eight hours from now. I could also follow the alcohol with a gallon of water to flush it out.

  I settled on Dateline NBC. A true crime murder mystery about a son who killed his parents for insurance money. I tried to focus on the show, but my mind kept returning to the mini fridge. I’m not an alcoholic. I can control myself. It’s just that it has been so long, and they are right there in my fridge. There is nobody else in this hotel room, I don’t have anywhere to go for a couple weeks, and I probably won’t be called in to pee tomorrow morning.

  Okay, just one sip. I lined up the bottles on the counter again. Jack Daniels. Just a sip though. I cracked the seal. There was no turning back now, I had bought the bottle. Since the whiskey was kept in the fridge, it didn’t smell as strong as it should. I poured a neat dash into a glass and examined the dark golden-caramel liquid. After it had a chance to warm up, the smooth aroma of oak barrels stung my nostrils. Its sweet undertones inviting me to partake. I savored the first sip. The taste of charcoal blended with its earthy spice. I poured another dash. Hints of vanilla and burnt toffee rolled around on my tongue. I swished the splash of whiskey around in my mouth and concentrated on the aftertaste. Sweet corn and oily wood. I relished in the warmth that just two tastes could bring to my throat and stomach.

  I had my sip, so it was time to put the bottles away. I took them off the counter and placed them into the fridge. But I left out the opened bottle of Jack Daniels. Just to let it warm up. On second thought, I should pull out the other whiskeys and let them warm up. Not for me, but because that’s just how whiskeys are supposed to be stored. The gins and vodkas would be fine in the fridge, but not the Fireballs or the Jack Daniels.

  Back to Dateline. Jesus, this kid really did a number on his parents. Killed them with chloroform then carried their bodies back into the woods behind the house and strung them up in trees hoping that birds would destroy the evidence. Some people.

  The Jack Daniels was probably warm by now.

  I clicked through the other channels to see if anything else good was playing before I committed to buying a movie.

  The Jack Daniels hadn’t moved. I could still taste its sweet sting. The glass was still in my hand. The smell was still there. So was a drop at the bottom of the glass. I tipped it back and watched the drop slide onto my tongue. The flavo
r was almost proof that a God existed somewhere.

  One shot doesn’t even show up on a breathalyzer test. I think. So surely it wouldn’t show up in a pee test twelve hours later. That’s what I needed to quench my craving, just one honest to God shot of Jack Daniels. I went back to the counter, picked up the bottle, and brought it back to the bed with my glass. The liquid gold rolled out of the bottle and into my glass like it would in a commercial. It was perfect. I poured a finger and inhaled its sweetness. Having teased myself enough, I swigged the Tennessee sour mash and poured another couple of fingers. Maybe I’d just drink this one bottle. Just this one, tiny bottle.

  There was no way I was getting called in to pee the next day. I had peed that very morning. Tonight I would enjoy myself like I deserved. Nobody has been through what I have been through. Certainly nobody has been through it sober. Even if I did have to pee, I would explain my situation to Jenny Trunchbull and she would understand. Even that cold-hearted bitch had to understand. She was probably drinking right now too. Who was she to tell me not to drink?

  All too soon, the bottle of Jack Daniels had run dry. Maybe I’d polish off the other one too. Then the Fireball. Just the whiskey. Whiskey wasn’t as bad as vodka. I was drinking fire. My throat begged for a chaser, so I cracked open one of the $6 orange juices and soothed my revirginized throat. When the whiskey ran out, I felt like a starving person that had been given a single slice of carrot cake. I needed more.