The bed was centered and elevated, a luxurious joke on the places she had been sleeping the past year. It was the largest bed she had ever seen, even in the fru-fru fancy-living magazines.
Her thoughts and impressions were an airy mix of confusion and delight. The lightly scented air coming down from the ceiling vents and dusting outward from a slow circling fan was like that in the diner minus the flavor of cooking meats.
Padding on her bare feet, she re-entered the closet long enough to choose clothing from both sides, pulling on freshly laundered and ironed black shorts and a long-sleeve black t-shirt, opting to forego a bra and panties, but sliding into a fine pair of comfortable white socks. She saw her one-wheel carryall stashed in the shadows beside the right-side shelving.
The double doors at the opposite end of the bedroom opened to a modern living room. There was a bouquet of white roses and a card which she opened:
We hope you’re satisfied with your accommodations. Please relax and call for room service or for anything you would like or need. You have the entire day to settle in before work tonight at 9:00 p.m.
Lendall,
Concierge–the Hotel Or.
“Satisfied? Your screw’s loose. I’ve lived in single-wides and worse.” Ed grinned, looking at the hazy-styled paintings on the walls, the nice and expensive couches and tables and stocked bookshelves, noting the absence of a television.
Before she left her apartment, she felt the AC come on, brushing her fine-skinned arm and face. She noticed that the fragrance had changed.
“Got me a fancy, I’m-a-princess nest.”
On the glass table beside the black leather couch, the message light was blinking on the base of a rotary phone. She saw her purse beside it. Ignoring the phone, she picked up her little purse and opened the apartment door.
Outside her apartment, there was a long, polished rail fifteen strides away. Pressing her belly against it, she looked down into the rectangular atrium. A three-story tree that appeared perfect for Christmas blocked most of her downward view. Across the empty warm air, the other doors on her level each had a front yard and strange motifs complete with mailboxes, floor mats, and décor. Each resembled a real home from varying decades and themes. Nothing she could see said ‘hotel.’ She was standing on a freshly mowed lawn instead of carpeting.
The massive Christmas tree was alive with birds and black squirrels and black monkeys with white chests. She looked to her left and her right, saying, “Crapshoot.”
Walking to the left and stepping around the bird and critter droppings on the lawn, she went in search of an elevator alcove. Passing the suite next door, it said to her, Deep South Trailer Trash complete with a screen door minus screen, scattered beer bottles, an abandoned washing machine, and aluminum patio chairs with missing sweeps of crisscross matting. The porch was lit by a moth-gathering bulb and country music warbled from the broken and taped window. A flickering candle lit the window from inside.
“Lawst maw dawg… shit,” she improvised lyrics with a drawl to the mournful song, smirking, grinning at her own wit and turn of phrase.
An unfinished and rough hardwood floor greeted her socks when she turned into the alcove of stairs instead of an elevator door. Ed descended slowly, watching her feet on the boards which were free of animal and fowl droppings, studying the random scars and deep gouges in the plank steps. The turn from her floor to the second was a lazy curve, and at its apex her feet were chilled by the start of crow-black tiles that ran off into the unlit, black-walled second landing.
“Ew, creepy,” she mocked from the corner of her thin lips before turning the corner. The final descent to the ground floor was on badly worn, industrial linoleum with walls of tattered and stained wallpaper of weak gray and sickly urine-yellow flowers.
“Charmed.” She frowned, lifting her hands from the rail and wiping them on her shorts before sliding them into the pockets.
Beyond the base of the wide ‘Christmas’ tree, she saw the edge of an empty swimming pool with saw horses and tools before a rising skeletal crack in the tiled deep end. Thudding, dull grunge music was throbbing the air. She spotted the reception counter and turned from it, crossing to the edge of the dirt around the impressively wide and old tree. She admired the deeply grooved bark of chocolate brown and the ravines of copper tree meat. She reached and touched the harsh bark before taking five steps back, far enough for a clear view to the ceiling of the atrium. A white cotton-ball cloud was sliding across the vibrant blue sky, showing through the crisscross of the moss-tarnished thin beams and panes of glass, one missing. Carrion flittered in and out with practiced ease.
“Okay, it's daytime. Same day?” she asked the air.
“Think I’ll go with the Dixie-chicken voice,” she glanced at the reception desk.
She opened her cocktail purse. Among her few cosmetics and wallet were two pairs of prescription-free eyeglasses. She selected the narrow, black framed, ‘Naughty hick librarian’ pair in favor of the haughty, mirrored-lensed aviator specks. The aviators were best for ‘distant, spoiled, pouty attitude deserving a second and third looking over.’
She strolled to the reception counter sniffing the air, which was different from her apartment and offering the flavor of over-ripe bananas.
A doughy, white young man was behind the reception counter. He had oily hair, finely combed, exactingly parted on the side. His gold name tag identified him as ‘Lendall.’
Raccoon, she thought, forming a dingy sideways smile.
“Howdy, my name is Ed ‘Never Ever Eddie,’” she said to the raccoon. “I’d like a few more of those little bottles of shampoo, fresh towels, and… an explanation of how in the hell I got here.”
His dark-circled, black marble eyes opened as wide as possible which wasn’t very much as his squeaky voice came out through red painted lips, “Never Ever Eddie?”
She watched him take up a crumpled paper bag, breathe deeply from it, and crumble from view.
“Good luck with that, honey,” she advised, turning away, looking left and right, wondering where the hotel entrance was. Not seeing any doors, she said over her shoulder, “Sweetie? No gift shop? Salon?”
Circling behind the long reception counter, she stepped over the desk clerk, found the stereo controls and twisted the volume dial, quieting the senseless, industrial stomping music.
“Music? Not even almost,” she drawled to the pile of Lendall on the floor in his black shirt and stained gold vest.
She was tempted to lighten his wallet. His pants hung on a hook. Lendall the raccoon was naked below his shirt hem except for shiny black shoes and black socks. She passed on the wallet, suspecting it was likely thin, probably empty. She took a sniff from Lendall’s paper bag, her head arching back instinctively from the strong solvent-like smell.
“Lemme guess, darlin’, you got yourself a model airplane addiction?”
She turned to the lobby, to a humming and a tinkle of tiny Christmas bells preceding the appearance of a three-wheeled motorized chair. It was being operated by a colorfully dressed bear of a woman.
“You’re the new prostitute,” the woman greeted her in a pleasant voice that had a twinge of the accent of the women who had moved the surfers’ car into the garage.
“No, ma’am, I was offered a hosting job,” Ed replied in a syrupy southern accent.
“Here at the Or, we serve the main meal of the day at 2:00 p.m. Attendance is required. You will call me Marlaina. It means ‘the Magnificent.’”
A guest walked by from the hall behind the front desk. She was spitting anger and in conversation with herself. Her once blue serge pants and shirt were paint splattered.
“Someone’s havin’ an off day.” Ed watched the painter go by.
“She has miles of off days,” Marlaina the Magnificent observed.
“By the way, Marlaina the Magnificent, how’d I get here from the gas station?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not too much.”
Another resident passed by talking to herself or someone Ed couldn’t see.
“Wow. Gosh. You know, um. Uh. You know, I don’t know, I believe…”
“That’s Patricia. She’s a bit indecisive.”
“Must be the air. Speaking of that…”
“Another time. Let’s dine.”
A man in black pants and shirt and gold vest slid open the tall, dark wood doors at the back of the lobby. Ed was drawn forward by the scent of sautés and cooking meats and quieted her list of questions. Marlaina stood from her three-wheeler with ease and graciously waved Ed to enter the dining room first.
3
The dining room had polished dark wood walls and burgundy carpeting. The center table had seating for twelve and was candlelit and set with elegant, ornate silverware on the white silk tablecloth. A large painting was on each of the four walls—images of coastal beauty, a wheat field before the blue sea, an open boat resting alongside a worn dock, a second view of the dock from the water, an endless stretch of warm sand with the corner of a building on posts above the waves. Each was painted in a hazy, impressionistic style. All four canvases were damaged by fire and discolored by smoke that darkened the images.
Nine of the twelve chairs were occupied. Ed spotted a second table off to the side where ‘You know, I don’t know’ Patricia and the surly painter sat, being watched over by a beefy and strong elderly man keeping his eyes on their every move.
Guard dog, she decided. The pit bull of a man wore the black clothing and gold vest of the other hotel employees. Marlaina nudged Ed’s hip to a vacant spot, and she sat while one of the gypsy-looking women pulled the chair back beside hers for Marlaina.
The other guests were dressed up in varying success of formal attire. Mostly mismatched and wrinkled, tired dresses, shirts, and ties. The man seated to Ed’s right spoke in a buttery British accent. “Hello there, I’m Gordon, Gordy if you would.”
Ed smiled, studying the man’s face and his complexion. Badger, she chose.
“Hello, Gordy. I’m Ed ‘Never Ever Eddie’ Rang.”
“You’ve done a good deal choosing the Hotel Or to hide out.” His smile revealed perfect white false teeth.
Gordy appeared to be in his mid-seventies. He wore a mustard tie in uneasy contrast to his avocado green broadcloth shirt.
“I’m not hiding,” Ed replied, using a bit of the Dixie accent. “Work here.”
“We’re all hiding from something, little biscuit. Me? I was a postal thief. My final job settled me up straight. Raided a mail van of Her Majesty’s Postal Service at the airport. Sure, I took the piss for that robbery. My partners got fifteen. I got a thirty, but had the cash.”
“So you went to jail, but kept the money?”
Looking secretive and flattered, Gordy explained, “I got nicked with the bloody bludgeon. Gave the guard a clump. Sure, he was a fine mate, but, well. Before I was jailed, I was a fine gent. Front seats at The Palladium. Spotless Jag. Like I always said, be the best or one of the best criminals you can.”
Ed nodded her agreement while absorbing the long-winded talk, decoding the British slang as he continued.
“My gents and I had a good racket. A bit rough with the drivers, but that’s business.”
“So here you are,” she offered in sugary admiration, “Lots of money. And retired?”
“Yes. I truly am that.”
Two plates were placed before Ed by one of the gypsies—a full serving of a variety of meats and sausages on white bone china along with a side plate holding a buttered artichoke heart.
A piano began to play. She followed the music to a black upright where a woman in an evening gown graced the keys very nicely, considering she only had one hand. The music had a slight swaying, Latin American feel.
Taking a deep breath and selecting a fork, Ed felt a wave of drowsiness and eyed the A/C vents in the ceiling. The air had the faint scent of colorful sweet spices.
The gypsies served the other guests, chatting among themselves in their odd accent. For the most part, they ignored the other diners even when queried. Their voices were also affected by the white nurse masks they wore over their mouths and noses like the one she watched Marlaina pull on.
Gordy had begun a tale of unfortunate intrigue among himself and his gents. Ed listened, nodding along, looking at Marlaina.
“Excuse Gordon,” Marlaina’s voice was soft and muffled, “We’ll buy you a new ear if you like.”
“Can I have one of those masks, please?” Ed asked.
“Unfortunately for you, no. Eat up, please. It’s best to hurry before the others heads fall and ruin their meals.”
Ed leaned and eyed the others around the table—some young, most elderly—each wearing a pleasant, vacant smile while they dined.
An angry one-sided argument broke out from the painter at the side table. She was up out of her chair, shaking her head as though to clear it, and weaving her way to the painting on the far-left wall. The guard dog was on her quick, trying to gently restrain the paint-splattered artist when Marlaina called to him, “Let her.”
The man’s strong hands released the painter’s shoulders and the painting came off the wall. She charged back to her table with it and tipped its corner in candle flame. When the canvas was flaming well, she dropped it to the carpet.
“Her name is Surendar, Surendar S. Psaleda. Once well renown. She still paints daily but is compelled to burn each completed work in her apartment fireplace. They would sell for a fortune. Not the best of career moves.”
The acrid smell of burning oil paints and canvas rose with the smoke as the painter sat back down at her meal, eyeing her other work on the opposite wall.
Breathing as shallow as possible, Ed ate.
The man seated across from Ed was in his mid-thirties. She suspected he occupied the trailer-trash suite next to her own as he wore a tattered orange and gray Pendleton buttoned to the chin. He was unshaven with wind-tossed short hair. She watched him spit a black gob of tar or tobacco into his empty stemware glass and continue talking to no one at all about investments and soy futures. His good-looking blue eyes were alive as his mind calculated and his unwashed hand operated his fork.
“Jimmy,” he introduced himself simply when he saw Ed watching him.
“We’re neighbors,” he added with a drawl, turning his attention back to a hand calculator beside his plate.
Ed was about to introduce herself. She was forming her first words when her head jerked up from a sudden grogginess. She set her knife down slowly, carefully, and stared far beyond Jimmy. Gordy’s colorful voice and new tale sounded a lot like the lyrics accompanying the Latin piano.
She heard the sound of what had to be a face splatting into a plate of food and didn’t look. Blinking, she slid her chair back, and with Marlaina’s caring hand on her arm offering balance, she got to her feet.
“You’ll adapt,” she heard distantly, perhaps Marlaina’s voice.
“Takes some time,” the cloudy voice assured.
With the singular view of the couch in her apartment drawing her, Ed mumbled, “Excuse me…” and left the midday meal.
4
Ed woke slowly, laying on the couch, not knowing or caring how long she had slept. She sat up, rubbing her eyes. Looking at the sky above the balcony, she saw a flying object skirt away.
She crossed the front room giddy from her nap which wasn’t her norm. Sitting at the telephone table, she took out a pen and paper and made a list before dialing for room service.
“Yes, what?” the accented voice of one of the gypsies greeted her curtly.
Ed read from her list.
“Can you please send up a few sheets of plastic? I also need a slingshot, scissors, hammer, and chisel. Some duct tape and a bowl of marbles. And a banana milkshake.”
“Twenty to thirty minutes.” The woman rang off.
When her order arrived, one of the women in multiple strong colors of gold, purple, and green rolled it in on a cart tab
le with a white linen tablecloth.
“Tip,” the woman said.
“I’m sorry. I’m short of money, as in none.”
“I’ll start a tab.”
“For tips?”
The woman’s irritated, impatient glare answered that.
The woman let herself out and Ed went to work with the plastic sheets, scissors, and duct tape. She worked from the front room back through her bedroom to her closet and bathroom, sealing off one air vent after another. After a second tour to ensure she hadn’t missed any, she took a break on her couch sipping the creamy banana milkshake from its carnival glass.
A dusting of wood chips and little metal bits littered the carpet by the time she had manhandled the chisel and hammer on the balcony door. It was cleverly thrice locked—at the handle, at the base, and at the top. The door scraped and stopped on the course balcony paving. With five hefty shoves, it scratched open, letting fresh air into her apartment.
Ed returned to the front room and sucked off the last of the milkshake with its straw.
The air entering was humid and rich with the flavors of heat, dank soil, and jungle vegetation.
Taking a cushion off the couch, she sat in the shadowed corner of the balcony and waited.
Being three stories up, she heard more birds than critters. The trees across the way were alive with their calls and replies. Occasionally, they alighted and swept across the hot blue sky.
She liked the non-effect of the air, not minding the familiar high heat and her own rising perspiration. With her mind clearing, she started to mentally puzzle together the many odd, strange things she had seen and heard in the past twenty-four hours.
“Need to be patient,” she whispered. “Hate that, but I need more of the pieces first.”
She had been out on the balcony for more than an hour before she heard the first sound not made by a bird. A thin, fast humming was riding up along the stone wall of the hotel.
Slowly, her left hand felt around in the bowl at her side. At the same time, she took up the slingshot.
The Girl in the Hotel Page 2