Torquere Press Sips and Shots

by Anthology

  I mused on whether to mention it to Gus, or to let him come shuffling around the desk where he could possibly slip and splat out on the floor, maybe break a hip or something. Old folks have brittle bones and a fall could easily cause a serious injury. I sighed inwardly. Though he was obviously an indiscreet, bawdy peeper who couldn’t take his eyes off my tits, I couldn’t let him get hurt. I wasn’t that petty. I pointed out the puddles. How could I feel bad about contributing to the safety of a senior citizen?

  Without missing a beat in his rambling dialogue, he ambled over to a row of shelves that contained linens, chose a torn bedspread, and arranged it on the floor at our feet. As I watched the material soak up the mess, an ominous shiver passed through me. I had a flicker of an image of blood, brutality, rage, sadness and pain. Emptiness. In the spot where we were standing, a violent act had either happened in the recent past, or it would happen in the near future. A full-body shudder rocked me out of the partial vision. I leaned against Charley for support. As always, her arm immediately closed around me. I was thankful for Charley.

  I had had predictive episodes all during my childhood, often foreseeing gruesome videos of things yet to come. When standing within the perimeter of the scene of an accident or a brutal act, I sometimes recounted it, even though I had not personally witnessed it. Disturbingly, one after another of my dreaded visions became reality. I wanted them to be false, to be mistaken, but every detail of every scene was played out to exactness. If I saw it in that special psychic realm in my consciousness, it happened. It was my gift and my curse.

  My family and the people in our church were not receptive or supportive when I tried to warn them of impending danger, and even when one of my visions could have saved one of them from injury or death, they condemned me for using a wicked tool to obtain information unfairly. I learned young to keep my thoughts to myself. Being an outcast because of my ‘gift’ became such a frightening possibility to me that I tried desperately to quell my own visions for years. They came anyway, unbidden.

  It was only after Charley and I became friends that I was able to make peace with the entity that created those visions. I still couldn’t talk to anybody else about it, but Charley’s acceptance, her love and her quiet, cynical common sense gave me sanctuary from those who had so harshly judged me. But then, of course, she and I became lovers, which, in my family’s opinion, had they known, would have even more adamantly excluded us from their Heavenly circle.

  I no longer cared what others thought about my lifestyle. I loved my girlfriend, and she loved me. In these modern times, they weren’t going to burn us at the stake or anything quite so unpleasant. I hoped.

  As far as the psychic episodes were concerned, though, I was still too terrified to share them with anybody but Charley.

  When Gus had collected his money, he handed me the key and promised to meet us at Room 4 in five minutes (give or take a couple seconds) with fresh towels. Plunging back out into the rain, we moved the car to the parking space directly in front of the door with the upside-down 4.

  While still sitting in the car, I studied our surroundings. It looked desolate, cheerless and abandoned, but I knew there were occupants. I could feel them. Another of my bizarre ‘gifts,’ I could usually sense the presence of other people in my immediate area the way most folks felt it when someone was staring at them – especially if the mental processes of the nearby people were anomalous in any way. And these presences were extremely anomalous. I couldn’t get an exact count, but guessed that there were more than two, less than ten.

  Because of my fear of being scoffed at or stoned, I wasn’t the typical psychic. I’d never found a lost child, saved anyone from death, led the police to a kidnap victim -- never did anything spectacular -- but I was hyperaware of everything around me. I just happened to be occasionally conscious of unsought things to which I shouldn’t have been privy. I was grateful that Charley didn’t try to make me feel destined for hell. She did often chide me for being a ditzy, softhearted pacifist, but she gracefully accepted my other abnormalities, and loved me anyway.

  We were not alone.

  A curtain parted in the window two doors up the walk from us, Room 2, a lone male figure peering out at us. I was comforted that we weren’t completely secluded with the old man. His actions had reminded me of a character named Norman Bates from the movie Psycho. There was something sinister about the scenario, although it was hard to define. I couldn’t actually picture Gus peeping through pre-drilled holes in the bathroom walls to catch a glimpse of his female guests in the act of undressing. He just didn’t seem that depraved.

  The residents of this building weren’t ordinary folks. In fact, I had the oddest feeling that they were a little like me, and as conscious of us as I was of them. The door to our neighboring Room 5 opened a crack, and a woman’s form filled the space. When I stared back, both motel guests regressed back into their rooms. The lighting was so dim that they couldn’t have seen me clearly, couldn’t have known I was staring, but then, as I said, most people sense being watched. And I felt the affinity.

  They were like me, only moreso. Way moreso.

  I wished I could’ve seen their faces, heard their voices. I wanted to feel their many auras, to touch their faces, to share their dreams. I know. I was completely idealistic. I was a hopeless romantic. What can I say?

  But then, I’d always been social like that. I enjoyed the interaction. Even with my bitter background, I loved people, loved getting involved with their problems and trying to find a solution. Charley wasn’t so outgoing. I couldn’t label her a misanthrope, but she wasn’t exactly a people person. She liked my company, but preferred not to socialize with others. I’d always heard that opposites attract. Charley and I -- we were the perfect example.

  I thought it was strange that there was only one other vehicle in the parking lot, a large van with an air conditioner on the roof, which was equipped with a side door for wheelchair access. I counted ten doors down the length of the sidewalk. If the other nine were occupied, where were all the cars? Commune living was a possibility. Prostitution also crossed my mind, but Gus didn’t fit my idea of a pimp.

  I was way too tired to be speculating.

  I could have slept straight through the rest of the week. I was euphoric about the opportunity to rest my weary head, even if only for less than twelve hours. Not that I was in the habit of sleeping that many hours. Since childhood, my schedule had been fairly regular – up at six or seven, off to bed by ten or eleven, but since Charley and I had taken the public relations and booking agent jobs, my sleeping schedule had been seriously upset. As a result, I often found myself wanting to oversleep as a means of compensation. I hated the inconsistent hours, the constant long-distance traveling, and how miserably worn out I felt all the time.

  The available room was furnished with one queen size bed, as well as a substandard structure with one missing and one lopsided drawer that served as a dresser, and a bedside stand that hosted a dusty lamp and a retro-style telephone. On the shelf beneath the lamp was a tattered phone book. I had doubts that it was for the current year. There was no television, no clock, and no offer of coffee or ice. Stark, but for thirty bucks, we couldn’t expect much.

  The closet was merely an indentation in the wall with a broomstick nailed up on both corners, and for our convenience, two hangers had been strategically placed on the stick. The way to the tiny bathroom was a tight little path around the bed, past the rusty window-style air conditioner that roared like a jackhammer, and over a carpet bar that, when one stepped on it with bare feet, the aged host informed us as an afterthought, could deliver a notable electrical shock. I promised to be careful to step wide when going to the bathroom as I crossed my arms over my breasts to shield them from his lewd view.

  Charley’s blank gaze followed Gus as he made his exit after his short guided tour of the ten by ten room. He had brought towels and other supplies wrapped in a trash bag to keep out the rain. Even with the precaution,
the towels were damp, so I hung them over the shower curtain rod, made use of the grimy facilities, took off my clothes and hung them alongside the towels, and then managed to step on that damned electrified carpet bar on my way back to bed. I uttered an obscenity that Charley didn’t acknowledge. When I got to the bed, she was already undressed and beneath the covers. She had hung her soppy clothes on the two hangers. Sleepily, I crawled in beside her, trying to ignore the musty smell of the linens.

  I sighed in exhaustion, snuggled up close against my girlfriend’s naked body and closed my eyes. As usual, her arms automatically went around me. The raucous air conditioner, the foul smells, the mattress lumps beneath my hip and shoulder, the prickles of feathers poking through the pillow, and the overall aura of the room would have kept me awake any other night, but that night, in my sweet Charley’s embrace, I slept like the dead.

  * * *

  “Morning, sugar,” Charley murmured in my ear. She nuzzled my neck and placed a kiss on my jugular vein. It tickled pleasantly. “It’s daylight outside, and it stopped raining. Can’t listen to the weather report because there’s no TV or radio in here, but my spider sense tells me it’s going to be a beautiful day.”

  “Your spider sense,” I echoed dully. I wasn’t ready to be awake. I was willing to blatantly ignore her if necessary. “How long ‘til checkout time? Can we sleep another hour?”

  She reached for her cell phone, squinting at the screen. “It’s a couple minutes to eight,” she answered, smothering a yawn. “Checkout time is noon.” Rolling away from me, she got up and followed the narrow path around the bed to the toilet.

  I stretched, inhaled a long pull of stale, moldy air. Wincing, I coughed. It sounded like a smoker’s cough. I wasn’t a smoker. Well, to be perfectly honest -- I’ll put it this way -- I never smoked tobacco.

  I drifted, still loathe to submit to total alertness, but the thought process, as usual, ran rampant in my psychic brain. I couldn’t turn it off, that annoying clarity that invaded my every waking moment, and sometimes even permeated my dreams. Some people took medication for such conditions, but I considered my myriad morning ponderings entertaining. I embraced my muses, or demons, or whatever name the little imps that squirmed around in my subconscious realm preferred to be called. Who could ever get bored when endless supplies of thoughts, dreams, and fantasies were easily obtained and completely free of charge?

  My fantasies usually involved Charley, especially the sexy ones. Even my dreams of winning the lottery included her. I couldn’t even think about the future without making plans for the two of us together forever. I was obsessed with her, and I was convinced that she was just as obsessed with me.

  Charlene and I had met and became friends in high school, but it wasn’t until our college years that we got together as lovers. We had been living as a couple for nearly eight years, and we were comfortable. Our life together wasn’t spectacular, and we weren’t really ‘out’ to the world, not even to our families. Especially not to our families. My older brothers were still actively trying to hook me up with every available stud they knew. Charley’s mom didn’t seem to care one way or the other. She was too busy making money, and too preoccupied with her campaign to become the next governor of Alabama, to notice that her only child was a lesbian. We chose discretion, both for our sakes and theirs. But we weren’t ashamed. Neither of us would ever deny our relationship.

  Not telling the truth was quite a different matter than telling an untruth. We didn’t have a rainbow painted on the side of our car, but if the question of my status was ever directly posed, I would have declared my undying love for Charley.

  After Charley and I graduated from college, we breezed through a number of shit-jobs, finally lucking into the higher-paying positions of being road agents for the Southern Cross Wrestling Federation. The only drawback to an otherwise lovely opportunity was the travel: booking shows in multiple far-away cities so the business could expand and make the illustrious Cross family and their brood more widely recognized. I couldn’t complain about the money. All the bills were paid, our wardrobes were improving, and we were even considering a move to a better neighborhood. We might even get a dog.

  My only real problem was the crazy hours we had to keep. This trip had been to Detroit, which was the farthest point we had driven from our home in Mobile. And when we did get home, we would only have a couple of days to rest before we’d be back on the road again, off to some other far-away arena. The endlessness of it all gave me spiritual fatigue.

  Sometimes, I thought, I would rather live in the ghetto, work in a factory that made water-guns, calendars, wooden spoons, or some other product either trivial or significant, and have my schedule back the way it was before I’d hired on for the sleep-depriving agent job. I wasn’t materialistic. Femme, yes, but I wasn’t the high-maintenance lipstick type. I could live in a lot worse conditions and remain content. I just needed my girlfriend, enough money to keep the lights on, and to get my proper amount of sleep during the proper hours. Was that too much to ask?

  Blearily, I watched as Charley returned from the bathroom. Unlike me, she stepped wide over the metal bar. Instead of walking all the way around the bed, she climbed over me, pulled the covers over herself and settled in comfortably.

  I groaned. I didn’t want to move a muscle, but I had to go pee, damn it. Clumsily, I got out of bed, remembered to step over the inch-high bar as I stumbled into the bathroom, and plopped down on the toilet. I leaned over on the greasy basin as I emptied my bladder, wondering what sort of gunk I was getting all over my forearm and cheek. I could take a shower later, but would probably need some strong grease-cutting formula to make me feel clean again.

  On my way back to bed, I switched off the ridiculously noisy air conditioner. I cuddled up in Charley’s welcoming arms and sighed, ready to return to dreamland.

  “You do realize that it’s hotter than hell outside,” she said, grudgingly getting up to round the bed again. I sat up on my elbows, prepared to be repentant. Through a haze of weariness, I watched her stand and stare at the sagging window unit. When she turned it back on, the tremendous noise was revisited tenfold. It vibrated the entire wall, drummed like bass in very large speakers with the volume blaring. I felt slightly ill from the effect. It almost drowned out her voice as she added, “It is August, you know.”

  There was a pool of water on the rotted windowsill that ran down the wall and streamed off to the left and right, lining both sides of the electrical outlet where the unit was plugged in. Charley and I assessed the dangerous fire hazard for a quiet minute before she gave me an offhand shrug and plodded back around to her side of the bed. When she cuddled me up again, I hugged and kissed her, and closed my eyes.

  I was perfectly content to lie there, safe in her arms, forever. I just needed some earplugs.

  * * *

  It seemed like only five minutes had passed when Charley announced that it was eleven o’clock. We had one hour to vacate. Grumbling, joints creaking, I got up and headed for the shower. A minute into the soothing warm spray, Charley joined me. She scrubbed my back with a soapy washcloth, gently washed the globes of my ass, slid her hands beneath my ample breasts to wash beneath them, then danced me beneath the dwindling spray to rinse away the soap. I returned the favor, washing her body, but instead of using the rag, I tossed it aside and began to lather her up with my bare hands.

  “I never get tired of your touch,” she breathed huskily. “I love you, Eve.”

  “Love you, too,” I said, meeting her kiss. “When we get home, I’ll give you some special good loving.”

  “That sounds good to me, baby,” she said, running her fingers gently through my long, wet hair.

  “God, you’re beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful,” I countered teasingly, and kissed her again.

  When we ran out of hot water, we dried off and got dressed, gathered up our belongings and stepped outside to greet a bright new day. The sun was high in the sky, the tem
perature was somewhere in the nineties, and the humidity was sweltering. Immediately, sweat began to pop out all over my freshly-showered body.

  I carried the room key to the lobby, hoping the front desk would be unattended so I could drop the key into the mail slot without the inconvenience of getting ogled by the old man again, but when I opened the door, he was lying on the floor in a crumpled heap. My heart hammered at the sight. His head and upper body were drenched with blood, as was the floor beneath him, but I couldn’t see his injury. I didn’t spend much time searching.

  Breathing erratically, I bent to lift his wrist, checking his pulse. He was alive, but didn’t respond to my touch or to my voice. In my mind, I saw a flash of the demented face of an angry man staring down at him. I would never forget that face -- the face of the old man’s attacker. He was a stranger to me, but I would recognize him in an instant. Dark, unkempt hair, twisted mouth, narrow hazel eyes, slender body, he would be easy to pick out in a line-up.

  The only problem was that I hadn’t seen the actual attack, and if I told the cops that I was psychic, they would think I was a crackpot. The terror of exclusion and scorn returned. There was no way I could divulge what I had seen.

  Opening the door, I shouted for Charley. She came at a run. “What the hell happened to him?” she asked, staring at the unconscious man.

  “Somebody hit him.” The bedspread he had put down to soak up the rain was gone. “We should probably call an ambulance or something.”

  She looked surprised. “He’s breathing?”

  “Yeah, he’s not dead,” I answered. “At least, not yet.”

  “Then, yeah, we should call an ambulance!” She rushed to the desk and reached for the phone, but drew her hand back without touching it. “Oh, shit,” she muttered. “Shit, shit, shit.”