by KUBOA
I dropped the underwear, sat down with legs folded, kindergarten, laced my fingers behind my head, bent forward, vomited into my lap. I scooted back from the mess, covered it with the guy’s underwear, got back to my feet, steadied myself to the wall and then vomited, again, most of it a splash to my feet, the rest a meandering trickle over the fronts of my shins.
I crossed the room, used the heavy window curtain to wipe myself clear of the mess as best as it would come away. I stared at the bathroom door, berated myself for behaving like a child, crossed the room and turned open the sink tap without turning on the light. I started soaping my hands, was bending to bring them to my leg, as I didn’t have the strength to elevate it, but instead slowly removed the sullied panties, stood up, began running water on them, soaping them, rinsing them, wringing them out. I used the hair dryer mounted to the wall—reminded of it by the burning orange of it’s power indicator—and did nothing else until the fabric was dry, until I’d set the things on the bed mattress, a spot I verified was clean. Then I wetted and soaked my groin, tended to my leg, roughed water all over me a last time, stood a few minutes until I felt dry, closed the bathroom door behind me and slipped the panties back on.
***
The guy’s name turned out to be Kevin Dricoll—so bland, so much like he was nobody. Kevin. He was younger than me, almost four years younger.
I went through the contents of his wallet, the majority worthless business cards and scraps of receipt—little tears of paper with random names on them, lists of dollar amounts, food orders, some things I didn’t even understand, imagined were passwords for something. He had only one bankcard, had his social security card, had seven dollars in cash. The books he’d had in his bag didn’t interest me, nor did the pieces of trash, food wrappers and an empty water bottle, some pens, some coins, some paper clips, a few plastic bags—empty bags I opened and gave quick sniffs to, vaguely hoping for some marijuana.
I found his cell phone in his coat pocket, immediately sat to the end of the bed, hungrily opened it up, moving right to the text messages. The first few were to Lecia, a little series of three, quick little taps about how he seemed happy she was free to study, how he’d be a little bit later than her, and how he was there, where was she studying?
I checked the incoming message folder, found several messages from Lecia that seemed to correspond; one explaining that her schedule had changed, so if he wanted to study with her it would work out, to just let her know; one saying that she’d be at the library after she got off of work, no later than sevenish; another saying she’d come down and meet him, as where she was sitting was sort of strange to explain.
There were no other messages to Lecia’s number and only one other message from Lecia’s number was saved What was the name of the author you’re presenting on?
I scrolled through the lists of messages over and over, imagining there could be a different name they would text to each other as, though this didn’t really make all that much sense. There were no telephone calls from the one number to the other, either.
I stood and walked in a circle, tossing the phone gently onto the bed, scratching at my head which felt bruised from being so dry, litter of dandruff apparent in the air, stuffed under my fingernails.
It was no use looking through the phones, but I dug through Lecia’s purse until I found hers. The first four text messages didn’t make any sense until I realized the number she was responding to was Bertram’s. No, it’s alright, I’ll be out till late, you said you didn’t feel good and Maybe. I’d like that. Let me know and I really don’t think it’s a good idea tonight and I’m still at the library, don’t worry about tonight. This last one was from just around midnight, from eleven, just about when they were getting the hotel.
I switched to the incoming messages, read the first one, from Bertram, it said Hey, just checking in, feeling a little tired but should be good even if you want to meet late.
I closed the phone, fumbled around with getting one of the last cigarettes out of the pack, getting it lit. Then I snatched Lecia’s phone back up, skimmed through the pictures she’d saved—random things, she and Bertram, someone I didn’t know, she and Bertram—no idea what I’d thought would be there.
Kevin’s phone couldn’t take photos.
I was hyperventilating, sat back down, bent forward, smoking with my head limp between my knees. A little sound came from the front door, so I wheeled around, balance upset, side of my leg thudding against the mattress corner, causing me to fall to one knee, catch myself with a palm slapped down hard, a pinching burn scuttling up over my shoulder.
There was slip of paper on the carpet. It just lay there, seemed to have some tuft of air trapped beneath it, the middle of it a little pocket lifted up. Crawling, I got to it, found it was the summary of room charges. I went to the front door, eye to the peephole, ear to the door—couldn’t hear anything—then eye back to the peephole.
Nothing. Nothing.
I waited awhile, then opened the door a crack, put my head out, saw no one in the corridor, but the food trays had all be cleared away at some point.
***
Deciding, finally, that I couldn’t dress in my own clothes, I took Kevin’s back out of the bureau and got them on. My coat, I decided, didn’t have to be abandoned—it had blood on it, but it didn’t show so much, wasn’t anything that some passerby would point me out to a cop over.
It didn’t matter about Lecia’s things—the room was held under her card, they’d know who she was—but I imagined if the guy’s body wasn’t identifiable that would hold things off awhile, in case I couldn’t extend the room, something I’d switched back to thinking was a good idea to try.
I took the phones and address books—anything that would make getting in contact with specific people an easy task—tucked all of the clothing and Kevin’s belongings into one bag, slung it over my shoulder and left the room.
I waited for the elevator, rode down with two women, both dressed in loungewear, probably just heading to take advantage of the complimentary breakfast, and then I waited in line until a second clerk came on, the people in front of me having some difficulty that was taking up a lot of time, required a supervisor’s attention.
-I’d called before about extending for room six eleven.
He tacked something into the keyboard, squinted, looked straight at me saying Room six eleven under Tye?
I blinked. If the clerk hadn’t gotten a slightly confused look, glanced back at the screen, then said Lecia Tye? I would have just stayed there, frozen, completely lost for anything to say.
As casually as I could manage, a shrugging wave of my hand, I said I thought I’d put it under my card. Does Lecia have to come down? We’d called earlier, she’s in bed, they just said they needed the credit card.
The clerk sort of made a squirming motion, an unsure look to the supervisor who was leaned forward, intent on dealing with the other guests. Briefly turning his attention to the screen with Lecia’s information on it, the supervisor—more to the clerk than to me—said Where’ the problem? They haven’t paid? I just about interjected, but the clerk pointed at something, the supervisor, as though now irritated he’d even been brought over, said That’s the credit card there and I—quickly, apologetically—said We’d given the card last night, the supervisor giving me a quick, friendly look.
-Yes, you did. No. Don’t worry about it. You want to extend?
-I want to extend.
The supervisor patted the clerk’s shoulder, returned to the other station, the clerk telling me he was sorry, cleared his throat, asked Through until when?
I considered saying through the week, but decided there was no need to complicate the thing, just asked for through until tomorrow morning. I was printed a receipt, nodded, returned to the elevator, hit the button for the top floor—all a pantomime, just to seem more normal about it, even though I did already have my backpa
ck.
On the ride up, I became uncertain as to whether or not I’d set the Do Not Disturb sign to the doorknob. It was there when I checked, but I still wondered if I should, from the room, phone the clerk, ask it to be noted that the room should be left alone.
Another shiver, I started sniffing, my nose congested, tried to pick up any hint of rancid to the air, any waft of decomposition.
Going through my pockets, I couldn’t find a room key—probably had left them both in there, someplace—so just turned down the corridor, descended the stairwell, had a cigarette lighting as I twisted, letting the weight of the bag over my shoulder lurch me into the exit door, through it.
***
From the scent and the tint of orange to the overcast, I got the feeling it would snow, later on. There even seemed to be that crinkling to the air as a slight breeze moved around my face, got into my ears, my breath seemed to issue out against something, like into my cupped hands, though my hands were stuffed in my coat pockets.
It was disorienting, being out in the expanses of the city, even the congestion of people up and down the sidewalk—all of us bunching, globbing at the crosswalks, milling and avoiding each other’s eyes—didn’t make me feel pressed in, closed off, didn’t make me uncomfortable as it sometimes would.
It was when I noticed on a digital display in some shop window that it was getting up past ten thirty the fact that I wasn’t going any place in particular got on me. I’d just set off in the first direction I’d turned—I wasn’t even smoking, just trodding, getting a little bit further with each step like it was a simple as that to walk away from it.
Maybe when the police caught me, I’d actually be surprised, I considered, looking at myself in the window of a coffee shop, no desire to drink, no sense there would even be room in me if I tried to swallow. I did wait in line, did order a double espresso, just thinking and thinking that maybe it would be a surprise. But this meant nothing. I didn’t even know what I was talking about.
A surprise, how? What could I be driving at?
I started walking again, not sure if it was the same direction or not, kept vaguely thinking I recognized some building from ten minutes earlier, some advertisement on a bus stop, some homeless person, mid-morning cheerful hitting up workers on their early breaks, their runs to the printer or whatever.
My head wasn’t working right.
I went into a convenience store, bought three packs of cigarettes, looking at the backpack I’d moved from my shoulder to the ground, the weight of it like some discard there, animal waste. I wanted to get rid of it and couldn’t think why I hadn’t. So I walked around, looking for some dumpster to toss it into, every dumpster seeming garish, suspect—if I put it in X dumpster, someone would dig through inside of the hour, their attention drawn to it, of course; if I put it in dumpster Y, the same difference. Dumpsters seemed alive, crawling with wretched little insect people, mongrels waiting to sniff around, lick their tongues to any new refuse.
I went into an alley between two apartment buildings, a cluster of dumpsters halfway through, unzipped the pack, littered some of the contents into one, some into another, some of the clothing I roughed down into a gutter drain, no idea where that wound up, who might come across anything down there. I peered over the dumpster tops, what I’d just gotten rid of invisible to me.
The bag seemed so immaterial, all of a sudden, even with some few items left inside. I kept it with me, would just throw it in the trash while waiting for a train, I’d decided. I’d go wait for a train.
***
Nothing more than a stumble, I was a motion through the winter on weakling little legs, stopped at a row of newspaper vending machines, sat on one, new cigarette going at a drip.
-You need to decide what’s going to happen, I said behind my mouth, behind the dwindling tobacco I couldn’t even smell, couldn’t taste, my tongue a dead bulb stuck to the side of my mouth. You need to decide what you want to do, how this is going to work.
But there weren’t options to decide from. Just because I could walk around, see a film, buy a new suit, go to sleep, get drunk, look at other people doing the same, didn’t mean it wasn’t all done, already.
Bertram.
It finally shunted itself, square and final—I wanted to see Bertram, look at him before I was arrested. I wanted to confess to him. I wanted to tell him what I’d done, maybe let him somehow have a hand in deciding how it would conclude.
I tried to picture his face, patting around for my cell phone—his eyes, the way his mouth would set, how long it would take for his features to walk the length from confusion through disbelief through blank empty to the realization that Lecia was dead.
The line rang and rang, rang and rang, rang and rang, I started to think I’d dialed wrong when his voicemail came on. I shut my phone.
He was still passed out, I supposed, though right away this seemed incorrect. He hadn’t even passed out when I’d left, he’d been texting Lecia until all hours, checking in on her, suggesting they still get together. Though he probably got drunk after the final refusal, had probably been sinking into worry, loathing, self-effacing remorse while she’d been taking Kevin in her, while he’d been roughing her to the bed, pinning her shoulders, her feet in his face, her panties just tugged to the side.
I winced down, tight, bit down hard enough that my cigarette tapped up against my nose, dropped, and I slapped idiot at myself to be sure it was not burning a hole through me.
I called Bertram, again, already walking, hung up at the voicemail.
The shrill thought that he’d been rousted by the police already got all over me—they’d knocked on his door, told him Lecia was dead while he stood groggy in his underwear in the kitchen, asked him where he’d been, their eyes so obviously shards of accusation.
I knew it wasn’t yet check-out time at the hotel and I’d extended the room, but all manner of What-Ifs needled me. That supervisor had been so cursory, maybe in reflection he noticed that, in fact, Lecia did need to come down or a new card did need to be produced. It wasn’t like decency would keep him from phoning the room, sending someone up to knock. It wasn’t as though blood hadn’t started dribbling from a faucet below, caused a spider web of sick brown through some crack in the plaster, some pinhole in a drainpipe.
Everything was just left disheveled behind me—I’d abandoned it to the pokes and sniffs of anyone, to the coils of their own whims and quirks. Anybody could do anything with what I’d done.
***
I stood on the Green Line until the transfer, a ten minute ride at most, the car empty, a moaning cavity, crumbles of newspaper, empty cups turned over, rotating around the oars of straws still crammed through lid openings.
The platform where I waited for the Yellow Line was vacant enough that I decided to rid myself of the backpack, used one of the large trash bins set around back of the escalator on the far side of the platform, shoved it down, under the rubbish—smeared plastic containers of food, tied shut bags, newspapers—even thought about taking off my jacket and shoving this down on top, but knew this would draw more attention than it would help conceal the thing.
Once the train was moving, I was gripped with anxiety, padded my hands all over myself, went through my pockets to verify certain necessaries were still on me—my wallet, my apartment key, Bertram’s apartment key, my own telephone.
I still had Kevin’s phone, so I fiddled with it to keep myself occupied, hoped it would make time clatter past more swiftly, dash up to the point I’d suddenly be where I wanted to be, but if it had any effect on time—on anything—I didn’t notice. Time was just a crust now, something done and set aside, pointless to consider.
I was opening messages in his incoming folder, not looking for anything, the screen showing a message that read Then tug my hair while my mouth is around your cock.
I froze. Blood stalled in my ears and I read and read the message. It wasn
’t from Lecia’s number. It was more than two months old.
I flipped through the rest of the messages, found one or two other, equally suggestive, messages from this number, one in reference to a particular pair of panties she’d like torn off, one saying she hadn’t even showered, could still feel her camisole sticking to her back. And there were several messages from the number that seemed to concern casual, everyday goings on—movie times, what to get from the store, in-referenced comments I didn’t understand.
There were no reciprocal responses from Kevin saved, only her end of the conversations. I put the phone back in my pocket, tensed my hands overtop of my knees. It didn’t matter. He had a girlfriend. He was in a relationship. It didn’t change anything at all.
-What does that even matter? I asked, sniffled in hard. My ears started to ring, a sweet hum. This drained away, things sounded unobstructed again.
-It means I’m glad I killed him, I said, testing it. But this didn’t mean anything.
-It doesn’t mean anything, I said, dubious.
But this didn’t mean anything, either.
***
Entering Bertram’s building, I hoped to just bump into him—find him ready to step off the elevator when I stepped on, find him just locking his door behind him as I approached from the center of the corridor—but I didn’t see anyone. The building was always quiet, seemed empty until you stepped into a corridor, the sounds from inside of the apartments easy to hear—vacuums, televisions, conversations, ovens opening and closing—Bertram and I sometimes joked that it was like a set-piece, little spooling tape recorders playing out background noises all day long.
He didn’t answer when I knocked, so I milled, knocked again, thinking he may not have been sure the first knock was at his door, still splayed out under his bed sheets. I knocked a last time, getting his key out of my pocket.
I said his name as I opened the door, knocked on the wall, flicked up the light switch, closed the door behind me, calling out to him, again. The place was silent, smelled of the dishwasher having been run, smelled of coffee in the pot, of the air settling after steam from a shower—scented something pink or soft yellow, too, sweet, a perfume probably wafting in from someplace or just the peculiar mixes of dirty piled clothes, deodorant and perspiration, mildew, a not altogether unpleasant funk.