Based Upon Availability

by Alix Strauss

With two of the four appendages free, I move to her foot again. Paulina enters with a cloth and hands it to Linda, who sighs loudly, mutters “fuck” under her breath. I cut through the material. Her ankle in my hand is as cold as the silver knife, as pale as our robes and towels.

  Now only her right hand is cuffed to the bed. Able to move, she clutches her robe closed, contorts her body, sits forward, her feet balanced on the floor. She takes the familiar position of The Thinker, her free elbow on one knee, a hand on her head.

  “Are you going to be sick?” I ask, then mouth to Paulina to bring over the trash can. She shakes her head no as more memories of Dale flood my mind: Dale convulsing in her bed; Dale vomiting on the floor, crying hysterically as my mother held her and screamed for me to get the garbage can; Dale gulping for air, the oxygen tank too far away for her to grasp on her own.

  “I just need a moment,” Linda is saying.

  “How about some water? Paulina, would you mind?” I’m shaking now, sweating too, and I think I’m going to black out.

  Paulina vanishes again and returns with a glass of water, which Linda drinks, and I almost reach for it myself but remain focused.

  “Is there a key somewhere?” I ask. “So we can unlock the handcuffs.”

  “I don’t know,” she says, lifting her head up. Her face, now clean from the towel, reveals a nasty black-and-blue around her nose and under her eyes, not to mention a red square on her forehead from the removed patch. Her hair is chopped in short chunks and some pieces are sticking up while others are matted down. “Try the bar, or the table in the other room.”

  We move into the living room, I to the bar, Paulina to the bags. The refrigerator is almost empty except for a bottle of cranberry juice and two Evian waters. The basket that usually holds batteries, sunblock, chips, cookies, and a camera has been raided as well. I turn to the trash can and after spreading several sections of the Times out, dump the insides onto the paper. Crumpled-up tissues, empty bags of chips, candy, and the disposable camera tumble out. I reach for it. Seventeen photos have been taken. I catch Paulina looking at me, her head shaking, her hands empty.

  “I find nothing.”

  “Me too.” But as I hand her the camera and ask her to put it in her apron, something shiny catches my eye by the iPod. It’s so small, yet so powerful. Only an inch, it saves me from calling maintenance, from this woman having to be seen by a man, from wasting time for all this to happen. I give the key to Linda, whose hand shakes so badly I need to do it for her.

  “Can I help you stand?” I ask, my hand already on the robe.

  “Look, you’ve been great, but I’m fine. You can go now. My boyfriend just went too far with the joke.”

  “Is there someone we can call?” I’m not supposed to ask this. I’m supposed to have her sign a statement releasing the hotel of responsibility, and I should let her clean herself up and shower, but something has happened that feels wrong. “We can put you in another room right now, if you’d like. We’ll have your belongings brought to you, you can shower…”

  “No, I just want to be left alone.”

  “Really, it’s no trouble…”

  “Jesus Christ. I said leave me alone.”

  Paulina and I exchange looks.

  “If I could just ask you to sign this, we’ll be out of your way.” I pull out the document, hand her a pen, both of which she grabs from me. She can barely grasp the pen and her body shakes as she leans over the nightstand and signs her name. She shoves it back at me.

  “Are we done?”

  “Of course,” I say, ushering us out. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  The door slams loudly behind us, reverberating in my ears, making the hallway feel as though it’s trembling.

  “You did everything correctly,” I tell Paulina. “I don’t want housekeeping to bother her and if she’s ordering room service, I want one of the security guards to accompany them. We’ll clean her room after she leaves.”

  Paulina hands me the camera as we wait for the elevator. Once it arrives, we ride to the lobby in silence, leaving Paulina to travel by herself for two more floors. At the front desk I find room 1512 belongs to Vicki Seidelman, AKA Linda, who, according to our guest profile, stays here three or four times a year, and frequents our property in DC often.

  Several hours later, I tell all this to my boss, Larry.

  “I don’t understand, how long was this woman tied up for?” he says, his hair slicked back, his large silver watch clanking on the table every time he hits it with his fist.

  “We’re not sure. Hours. Maybe overnight?” My arms are folded over my body. I’m cold and feel fluish. I want to go home. I want my mother to bring me hot soup with noodles and chicken. And coloring books and crayons. And red licorice and butterscotch sucking candy.

  “Christ.” He runs his hands over his hair, then rubs at his jaw. The room feels small and Larry seems to loom at his desk. I need a vacation. Someplace warm.

  I walk over to the window. The desire to let in fresh air seems overwhelming.

  “The only reason they found her is because they went to change over the room. She was supposed to have checked out.”

  “Did you have her sign anything before she left?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “What’s the damage?”

  “Nothing.” I turn back to face him.

  “You seem shaken,” he says.

  “I’m not. I just didn’t expect—I don’t know.”

  He eyes me suspiciously.

  “She paid for the robe, the minibar items, even offered to pay for the sheets. I know she left a big tip for housekeeping as well.”

  “We got off lucky, then.”

  “I guess.”

  I stare out the window, jealousy filling me for those who are roaming freely.

  Wes is waiting for me at the hotel’s bar, a welcoming sight. He’s all man in his work suit and tie. Masculine and concrete. Tall and rugged. I wonder if I want to see his room. Wonder what this man would feel like on top of me. I slide into the seat he’s saved and am greeted warmly, first by him, then by our bartender.

  “Your friend is drinking a manhattan. Can I get the same for you?” he asks, placing a black napkin in front of me.

  “Passion cosmo.” I’m hoping vodka will wash away much of today. Dale, Vicki, my boss. The list is ever growing.

  “Sure thing.”

  A compartmentalized dish containing nuts, olives, and cheese sticks materializes along with my drink.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” I say.

  “My pleasure.” Like Honor, his iPhone and cell rest on the mahogany bar.

  At 6:00 p.m. the bar is busy, but not overwhelming as I fear it will become. A restless hum transcends the room as more and more tables are occupied by people waiting for their counterparts to show.

  I lift my drink. “Would toasting ‘to finding my uncle’s ashes’ be inappropriate?”

  Wes shrugs. “No, just optimistic.”

  We clink glasses, take sips from our drinks before setting them down again. “I guess there’s no word yet.”

  “No, I’m sorry.” The phone vibrates and he checks it quickly.

  “Look, you’ve been very honest and up front.”

  “How’s your mother doing?” I stare into his eyes for verification of whether he actually cares. As green as they are, and as sincere as he appears, there’s a deadness behind them. My father wears the same expression.

  “She’s holding up surprisingly well. They weren’t that close, but the shock of how he died and knowing someone else has him hit her hardest.”

  Wes nods, then takes another swig from his drink.

  “What’s it like working for the mayor?”

  “It’s okay. I think people are more impressed by the word ‘mayor’ than what I actually do, which can be rather tedious.” He finishes his drink, then requests a second. “I work with the police commission, write a lot of reports on policies that should be enforced, attend too man
y press conferences, watch a lot of things done incorrectly, see more than enough incompetence, and then watch those same people get promoted. But once in a while we do something correctly.”

  Two drinks turn into three, which effortlessly spill into four for Wes as he tells me about growing up in Boston, attending St. John’s, about his parents and family, and, lastly, the fire that caused him to lodge with us for the past two weeks.

  “The building was evacuated, and I thought about calling in a few favors, but decided it was best to let things happen on their own.” He’s clearly tipsy because he’s talking too close to my face and a glaze has come over his eyes. “A few neighbors and myself went across the street to a restaurant and got drunk. Then we went back upstairs, I packed a few essentials and came here.”

  “How civilized,” I order a third cosmo, and continue to chew on the end of my straw, the sight of Vicki becoming a mental blur.

  “Honestly, I thought after a night or two that would be it because we were told it was safe to return. I went home to check things out, and as I’m packing a bag, mostly stuff for the Thanksgiving weekend, the fire trucks come back and I think, ‘This has got to be a joke. Or maybe they’re doing a follow-up’”—he laughs—“as if. But supposedly they hadn’t fixed the wiring correctly or something didn’t hold, who knows. We were evacuated again, and that was enough to push everyone over the edge. I came back to the hotel after the holiday weekend and have been here since.”

  “That’s really awful.” I start to giggle. “Not staying at the hotel, the idea of being homeless.” The room is moving slightly, the lights are becoming harsh, and halfway through my third cosmo I realize I’ve reached my drink limit.

  “This second time, several floors were burned pretty badly and everyone was crying and hysterical. Tomorrow they move me and the other neighbors into temporary housing, which should be a nightmare.” He sets the empty glass on the bar, looks at his dancing iPhone but ignores it. “But I think I might stay here,” he shrugs. “Even if I have to pay for it myself.”

  Over the past hour and a half the bar has become intolerably loud, filled with people who are crowding us, leaning over Wes, reaching over me for their drinks, and invading our personal space. A woman two seats away has an ear-piercing cackle. A man behind me keeps knocking his elbow into my head. When Wes’s phone rings, I’m momentarily relieved for the break in conversation.

  “Excuse me, might be the mayor.” He raises the phone to his ear. “This is Wes.” He lets out a deep sigh of frustration. “Yes Franny. I’m in the middle of something. Look, I’m really not the best person to call about these things.”

  There’s a pause. “I’m at the hotel one more night, maybe two. I guess they’ll move us individually. I really don’t know.”

  Another pause provides time for me to realize I’m pleasantly drunk.

  “I’d like to help, but I’m really not a good person to phone. I haven’t been on the board in years. I would try Lester or Mitchell. They’re both in charge of the fire committee.”

  There’s more pausing followed by Wes raising his hand and making the talking sign, fingers and thumb coming together like a duck’s beak. “No, it’s fine, but honestly, I’ve got a lot going on and just can’t deal with this right now.” He groans, then leans closer to me so I can just make out a muffled voice of a woman on the other end of his cell. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” He hangs up. “I think I’ve got a stalker.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Really? Who?”

  “Some nut job that lives above me. I helped carry her bags and things when we were first evacuated, and now she assumes I’m the go-to person for answers. I’m sure your uncle would have enjoyed working with her. She calls every few days asking for updates on the apartment, if I’ve heard anything, where will I be staying, is there something the mayor can do. Like what’s the mayor going to do?”

  There’s a hungriness about him, a frat-boy-like quality in the way he drinks from his glass, in the way his hand scoops out the nuts, even in the way he chews, harshly, causing his jaw muscles to bulge each time he bites down.

  Room 906 is not one of my favorites. It’s a standard with a queen-size bed, desk, and chair. It tends to run smaller than most, and you can hear the constant sound of the elevator. But Wes has kept it organized and hardly has any belongings for someone who’s been homeless for a week or two. There’s no suitcase, no shopping bags, no clothing folded carefully on the back of the chair. Nothing. The only way you’d know someone is staying here is that the desk has a myriad of objects on it: plugs for his electronic devices, yellow legal pads, handful of markers, contracts, reading glasses folded and resting perfectly in the middle of the pad.

  In all the years I’ve worked here, I’ve stayed over in the hotel twice. Once for a friend’s bridal shower that turned into a slumber party, and once during a blackout when I was in charge of the hotel that night. As I take a step forward, Wes dims the lights so low I can barely see. He moves to the bar, the light from the mini refrigerator momentarily illuminating him, making him garish in appearance.

  “What’s your poison?”

  “Nothing for me thanks, I’m good.”

  He shuts the door and the bottles rattle inside, as if trying to escape. He slinks over in my direction. I take a step back, my body now up against the wall. Everything feels too close.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve been intimate with someone,” he tells me. “I tend to take things slowly. I know it’s not very guylike, but I’m not much of a player.”

  The most exciting thing Bernard ever did was drizzle some wine over my breast and lick it off, and even that was tame because he only wanted to use white. But Wes is a liar. I know it and so does he. The way his mouth lingers at my ear and then hovers near my lips while his fingers press at my breast, forcefully and confidently, betray his words. He is too savvy and smooth. His business card, which has too many words and abbreviations after his name, has gotten him through many a locked door. Has let him receive knowing winks from an inner circle of power players. My guess is a hurt trail of thinly woven women who are impressed with his job and good looks feel cheated and abandoned. I wonder what he would think of the leather brace, if he would go with me to a sex club.

  I already know condoms are kept in his dopp kit. That as minimal as his hotel room is, he keeps his home the same way, the burnt one that’s probably fine. But a hotel is a lot sexier than an apartment. And I’d bet my job that several women, and maybe a man or two, have seen the inside of this room in the time he’s been here.

  When his hands reach around my neck a wave of claustrophobia drowns me. I close my eyes, fight the urge to take a deep, cleansing breath as Vicki’s face mixed with traces of Dale’s enter my vision. I want to leave. I need to. I don’t want the back brace thing or Wes’s drunken body touching mine. Instead I want Trish, and my sister, and I want my friends, the married ones, to be single again. I want them all here at the hotel with brighter lighting and a cart of make-it-yourself ice cream sundaes that the hotel offers to parents throwing their children birthday parties. I want John Hughes movies and sleepover parties and nothing but a lifetime to grow up ahead of us.

  “It’s late. I should go.” I keep my voice even, void of emotion, just as they taught me in management class. It calms people down and is used to deactivate a tense situation. My hand searches blindly in the dark for the doorknob. “This was my mistake. I’m not allowed to become intimate with the guests.” And taking the blame is supposed to remove anger in the other person.

  “I won’t tell if you don’t.” His lips are at my mouth again, his tongue trying to make its way past my clenched teeth. Acid is churning in my stomach and moving up to my throat.

  “I know, but it’s wrong. This was really my fault.” I try to reach for the light, but can’t find it. I try to push him off of me but am finding him too heavy. “Please, I need to go.” Urgency has filled my voice, and I think how weak I am for not being able to stay c
alm. “Please,” I whisper, almost beg, “I need to go. I need to go.”

  Wes releases me. He babbles something about mixed signals, about calming down, about my uncle’s ashes, but I can’t hear him because my hand is on the doorknob, my heart and cosmos are in my throat, and I’m fighting once again for the breath I can’t seem to take.

  Chapter 9

  Morgan

  The Lobby Lounge

  I exit the Fifty-eighth Street side of the hotel and walk across the street to Duane Reade anxious to see the photos from the camera found in Vicki’s room. Three days ago when I dropped it off the lady behind the counter looked at the device as if it were an artifact. Sunglasses hide my face as I wait my turn on line. I surrender the slip of paper with a phony name on it and ask for a pack of Spirits—the healthy cigarette. The salesgirl whispers something to her co-worker and a manager is requested to come to the front.

  “Is there a problem?” I ask.

  “Just a minute,” she says, smacking gum and twisting her frosted orange hair with her index finger.

  I can hear muttering coming from behind me, all from people anxious to get on with their shopping. Within a minute the manager appears, a stout man with bushy hair and matching eyebrows.

  “She’s the one with the photos,” the girl says, popping pink gum.

  “Oh, yeah?” He looks me up and down. Then he flicks his head to the right and we both slide over to another register. “The photos are a bit, well, raunchy. Do you know what’s on this film?” he says, a smug look on his hairy face.

  I nod. “I do.”

  “I’m wondering if I should call the police.”

  “We thought the same thing,” I lie, hoping my hunch is correct. “I work across the street. We found one of our guests like this. These pictures are for the insurance company and to protect the hotel.”

  He nods as I reach for the envelope.

  “I’ve never been to the hotel before.”

  “Really?” I can’t believe we’re playing this game.

  “I hear nice things. People come in here all the time talking about the food.”