by John O'Brien
The boy extracts a green piece of paper from his uniform pocket and looks at it. Unsteadily, he says, “Sorry, sir. I’m sorry.” He looks at the number on the door. “Oh… oh no. I’m on the wrong floor. I’m so sorry to wake you, sir. I got off on the wrong floor.” An attempted smile and a clumsy half-bow, and he is off on his way, the sound of a squeaky wheel on his cart Dopplering away to the hungry Mr. Frisk.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” says Al in an impossibly low voice. He knows the boy couldn’t have heard him.
He goes into the bathroom, and after shutting tightly the door, lies down on the floor. He feels the cold hard tile against his ribs, porcelain at his back and colder still. It is not as it used to be. Something is wrong with Sera. She is soft; he is too easy, perhaps out of practice. Everyone stares at him, yet no one knows him—he knows no one. Las Vegas stinks. It is loud and hot. He hates this city, his little room.
plums
This will undoubtedly go on for the next few days, thinks Ben as he stares at his naked wrist, expecting to see but failing to find his once prized Rolex. The watch has been swapped as planned for a few dollars at one of Las Vegas’ always cheerful pawn shops. Now, instead of a thirty-five hundred dollar Swiss watch, Ben has two hundred and fifty dollars and a vacant wrist—a bargain to go along with his basement. Rather than blend this money in with his working capital, he decides to keep it apart and use it deliberately for one single thing. After all, he didn’t pawn the watch for money. He pawned it to reaffirm his commitment to himself, to serve as an evidential footnote in his final chapter. So it is appropriate that any incidental money received from the transaction be used to complete the composition, to create a symmetry of action. More than appropriate, it is important. It is important because he needs to have something be important.
Maybe an overpriced hooker would be a good choice, someone to accept his last blast of semen, his final genetic statement. Too well paid to douche in his hotel room, the girl would leave with soggy underpants and shower at home. Hours later, the last of his DNA—possibly surviving him—would be wiped off the back seat of a cab with a paper towel.
His room is actually more of a motel room than a hotel room, probably because it is part of a motel, not a hotel. He had planned to stay in one of the many colorful towers that decorate the Strip, but was unable to come to terms with the corporate mentality regarding a reasonable extended stay rate. There were other problems too. Slightly suspicious of his motives and doubtful about his condition, the big hotels he tried were reluctant to suspend maid service on a daily basis, and Ben didn’t want a good bedridden binge interrupted by Mrs. Clean; he also didn’t want anyone fucking with his liquor. He was ultimately able to negotiate acceptable terms with the manager/owner of the Whole Year Inn—read the Hole You’re In—one of the smaller motels that stand on what could easily be imagined as vacant lots, up and down the Strip. For one hundred and fifty dollars Ben gets a room for a week, self-service at the maid’s cornucopian cart, and unlimited use of the ice machine and pool—No Life Guard on Duty. If there’s a problem he can always move to a hotel, though he is charged in advance for each week here. In any case, he’ll try to time it so that he gets a good view for his last days on the Strip, and week in or week out, Bank of America will write their whole loss off. Moving may take a few trips. Whenever he returns to his room he brings with him a bottle or two of something or other, and after less than a week here he already has quite a little stockpile of booze, a trick that he could never or would never manage in LA. Always have access to a drink. The little room holds several inventories. There are bottles under the bed, in the drawers of the particleboard dresser, on the toilet tank, one in the toilet tank, in his suitcase, small ones in the pockets of dirty clothes, chilled ones in a styrofoam cooler that he bought, and a few more under the bed—in case of an emergency. As he watches television and sucks vodka he can feel the presence of all his liquor, surrounding and always beckoning, comforting but not reassuring.
After pawning the watch this morning he spent some time at poolside, watching a fat family from the midwest splash around in the dirty water. They are staying at the motel for two days as part of their vacation and seem to be satisfied with the accommodations. Talking with them, Ben felt a great sense of admiration for their general contentment, but he knows that this wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny; their life could no more work for him than his for them, nor would he want it to. He was also impressed with the friendliness that this cholesterol-ridden, white-skinned little family exuded, a virtue that tends to run rampant in the midwest. Now, after his swim, he takes it easy on his bed, in front of the television, putting the final touches on his argument to himself in favor of buying a girl tonight, and selling his car tomorrow.
The trip from Los Angeles, the last time that he has driven, was indeed difficult for him. At this late date it has become nearly impossible to strike the balance of maintenance in his blood alcohol level. The line between too much and too little has long since become far too fine for his blurred vision to discern. So he is loath to get behind the wheel and jeopardize his best laid plans, not to mention the well being of the population of Las Vegas. There are cabs available anywhere, anytime in this city should he feel the urge to go someplace far. Las Vegas has also helped to rejuvenate his penchant for walking. Though he is physically no longer capable of the long, brisk walks that he used to take around Venice, he is perfectly happy to stumble up and down the Strip at night, swerving and tripping, a menace only to himself. Vegas has always had this attraction for him, the world’s most amusing walking grounds, sober or drunk. So really his car has become something of a liability, a loose end. He can imagine it now: he’s lying on the bed, sighing with relief as he realizes that he is gasping for his last breath, only to be interrupted—saved—by the manager/owner of the Whole Year Inn, who has come by to complain about the abandoned car in his parking lot. More realistically, owning a car is not exactly conducive to the anonymity that he is seeking here. The car must go. Tomorrow he will take it to one of the resale lots on Fremont and no doubt strike as good of a bargain for it as he did for the Rolex this morning.
As far as a hooker goes, concerning the skirt, pussy to be bought and paid for, perhaps even actually indulged in, his feeling is: of course. He wants to talk to a girl, a girl, girl, girl, girl. If his dick still works maybe he will even fuck her. His money is holding out just fine and can be easily concealed. He no longer has anything else to lose. At this point in his life—very nearly the period—the only thing that he could possibly crave, the only nonalcoholic thing, is a warm body. Up close evidence that life does go on. This will be his secret bargain, his revenge many times over for the watch and the car. He’ll pilfer this little piece of ecstasy from a girl who thinks that he is paying for mere sex. She’ll come to him, wielding her savvy and thrusting forth her hard earned survival, and he, unbeknownst to her, will suck off an extra hour for his own life. He will feel her heart beat and sit in joyous wonder of her, someone who takes the trouble to work so hard just to live so hard: a neat trick.
Sera, looking rather glum and spectral, yet more intact than she has recently, stands on the sidewalk with her hands on her hips. The bruises that adorned her face have run away during the night, much the same way that they appeared, leaving only the cut on her cheek to suckle nutrition as it matures into Al’s indelible signature. Moving headlights catch and play with her features, little shadows dance lightly over her impassive eyes. Pursuant to Al’s request, she is working the Strip tonight. But something is missing, and she can’t imagine how she once took such satisfaction in standing on this little patch of sidewalk… This little patch of sidewalk… Not unlike a confused cat on a dark road, she is experiencing one of those dormant moments of self-hypnosis and is somewhat mesmerized by the traffic. The slam of a car door stirs her, and she turns toward the sound.
Ben is standing on the driver’s side of his car. “Hello,” he says.
“Hello. You shouldn�
�t stand out on the street like that. You might get hit,” says Sera.
“Are you working?” he asks.
“Working? What do you mean working? I’m walking,” she says.
As if to demonstrate walking she takes a few steps and pauses on the passenger side of the car. They look at each other across the roof. Ben is quite taken with this girl, with her dark beauty, and so remains silent rather than say the wrong thing. Far from the mechanical process of picking up a prostitute, to him this is more like asking for a date. He looks around. If he waits too long she will be suspicious and leave. If he is anything but direct she will think he’s a cop. He reaches into the car and grabs the can of beer that he was drinking before he stopped. After draining it quickly, he tosses it back into the car.
“Isn’t it illegal to drink and drive?” she says.
“That’s funny,” he says. “I wonder if you’ll take two hundred and fifty dollars to fuck me? That is, if you’ll come to my room for an hour I’ll give you two hundred and fifty dollars.”
He bites his lip and waits for her response. His never-steady nerves are not helped by the modified moderation that he attempted this evening in anticipation of driving. Less than a mile away, his roomful of liquor beckons.
“You’re pretty drunk,” she says.
Seeing that she will go with him, he relaxes a little and says, “Not really. My room’s not far—the Whole Year Inn—-you can drive if you want, or we can walk, or I’ll give you cab fare, whatever you want. I’m in room number two.”
“Why don’t you give me the money when we get in the car, and I’ll drive with you,” she says, her hand now on the door handle. She falls easily into the groove of another trick, another simple hour of doing what she’s told and getting some more bread for Al. It allays her anxiety, this procedure; it has too quickly become her only sure way to draw approval from him, the cheese at the center of her rat’s maze.
Ben gets behind the wheel and reaches over to unlock the passenger door.
“I’m Ben,” he says as he hands her the money, freshly extracted from his left front pocket.
“Hi. I’m Sera.” And as if momentarily beheld by a doppelganger, she hears herself say, “That’s with an E, S-E-R-A, Sera.”
They shake hands then smile together at this. Though her smile seems to be in reaction to his, she is pleased to have impulsively identified herself to him in a way that was slightly beyond the call of duty. It felt clean, like the first totally self-motivated thing she has done in days.
Ben pulls back out into traffic for the short drive ahead. Instantly there is between them, however slight, that elusive chemistry which occurs only occasionally when two people meet. Always a welcome surprise, it is a sort of quick familiarity, implied permission to conduct relations at a level which is a bit deeper than the superficiality of introduction. Ben senses this and is beaming. But realistically he knows that his alcohol riddled brain may be overstating the case and that an hour from now he will never see this girl again. Though she is much friendlier than other hookers he has met and seems to like him, she is with him because he gave her two hundred and fifty dollars. She would probably be here whether she liked him or not, regardless of how much liquor per day he may be consuming, irrespective of any need she might perceive in him. And then it hits him. He adores this girl because she has a valid reason for liking him: two hundred and fifty dollars.
“I’m sort of curious,” she says as they near the motel. “If you’re willing to pay me two fifty—not that I mind… I mean, I’m okay with that—why aren’t you staying at a real hotel? I have the feeling that you can afford it.”
“We can go to one if you like,” he says quickly, worried over her disapproval.
“No, this is fine. I was just wondering,” she says.
He pulls into the parking space in front of his room, tires spanning the white spray painted 2 on the blacktop. “Well,” he says, turning to her, “I’m here because I’m a drunk who tends to pass out at odd hours for unpredictable stretches. They’re willing to leave me alone here as long as I pay for the room by the week, in advance. But it is sort of dreary. I’ll probably move to a hotel soon, a room with a balcony for me to pass out on… or off.”
Turning off the car he falls silent but makes no motion to open the door. Sera waits for something to happen. Common wisdom would indicate that she should be a little apprehensive but her instincts tell her differently; this person wishes her no harm. Too, she hasn’t felt inclined toward apprehension lately. She has quickly faded into an observational fatalism—or is it bland apathy? She doesn’t really care. She knows only that Al has certain expectations of her.
“Umm,” she starts, trying to break the silence gently, “we can stay here in the car for an hour if you want, but I really have to go then. It’s your time.”
“Right,” he says. “Sorry. I tend to fade in and out lately.” Finding this quirk genuinely amusing, he smiles. “I’ll get your door.”
“I guess I do too,” she says, almost to herself.
“You what?” He didn’t quite hear her, but he wants to encourage even this, assuming it to be her patter.
“I sometimes fade out.” A little embarrassed, irritated at the repetition, she would have denied having spoken at all but failed to think quickly enough.
He is caught off guard, surprised by her candor. “Oh… well, maybe we’d better synchronize our spells… or stagger them,” and he half grins, half frowns, ready to support her reaction to his quip.
“You were going to get my door.”
He rises out of the car and crosses over to her side, pleasantly surprised to see that she is indeed waiting for him to open her door. His arm offered and accepted, they leave the car and proceed to the room. The orange Day-Glo door opens with a tiny click, and Ben pats the wall immediately to his right, searching for the light. The switch is flicked and the room springs to life, telling its story to Sera.
“What this place needs,” she says sarcastically, looking here and there at all the stashed bottles, “is a few more bottles of booze stashed here and there.”
“Probably,” he says.
Standing five foot four to his six feet, and at arm’s length, she looks up at him and says with a tentative frown, “Why don’t you undress. Mind if I use the bathroom?”
“Of course. Want a drink? I’m having one.”
“A shot of tequila, if you can spare it, and a beer,” she says, her tone laced with undirected defiance, and closes the bathroom door.
Ben feels like a teenager on his first date. A shot, a beer, and sarcasm to boot: this girl may be perfect. After preparing her shot in a plastic motel cup and putting it, with a can of beer, on the nightstand, he impulsively downs as much bourbon as he can in one continuous swill—about six ounces—and puts the bottle down so that he can pick it up as if for the first time when she walks back into the room. The reflexive old habit surprises him, for he has not felt the need of this sort of sly drinking behavior since his wife left him. Hearing that the water is still running in the bathroom, rather than being watched in the awkward act of pulling off his pants, and in line with her suggestion, he quickly undresses and slides between the sheets.
Sera emerges from the bathroom wearing nothing except one of the Whole Year Inn towels wrapped around herself. But upon seeing that Ben is already undressed and in the bed, she nonchalantly discards the towel and walks naked to the nightstand where her drink is. Draining the cup with one swallow she sits on the bed next to him and pulls the sheet from over him.
She tells him prosaically, “For two fifty we can do pretty much anything you want. You’ve been drinking, so it might be better if I got on top, but the other way’s fine too. I have some jelly in case you want to fuck my ass… that’s up to you. If you want to come on my face that’s okay too, just try to keep it out of my hair and eyes.” She thinks about asking him not to hit her, but decides that he’s not the kind that would anyway. In any case, he wears no rings, and it i
s doubtful that her cut would open from just a slap. “It stings my eyes, and I just washed my hair. I’ll suck you for a while… to get started.”
Before he can speak, he is in her mouth. Though he is hard, he knows he won’t come: the experienced alcoholic whoremonger. Thinking that she will be more comfortable having done something, he lets her go on for a few minutes, but he wants a drink more than he wants a blowjob. He sits up, putting a hand on her shoulder as he does, and so indicates that he would like her to stop.
“Do you want to fuck now?” she asks.
“Maybe another drink first. More tequila?”
“Okay,” she says. Then with piqued confusion, “Whatever. What’s the story? Are you too drunk to come?”
Ben, just now refueled by the recently consumed bourbon, responds to her challenge. There is just enough liquor in his voice now to mask the tones of adolescent puppy love.
“I don’t care about that,” he says. “Just stay with me for a while. There’s time left. You can have more money. You can drink all you want. You can even have my car; I’m selling it in the morning anyway. You can talk or listen. Just stay. That’s what I want.”
She sees that this is all true, and part of the hooker in her runs away from that vision. Nor does she have the tools to manage him; Al has taken them away. The vacuum remaining can be filled only by some of what is left of her real self. Befuddled, she drops her head in thought. She sees her breasts, her vagina. She could talk to him, she thinks. It might be nice to talk a little.
So, left with no good rap, and also because she wants to know, she asks, “Why are you selling your car?”
Having won he smiles and hands her drink to her. Propped up on his pillow with a girl and a bottle is exactly where he wanted to be, and that’s where he is right now.
