I knew she had a point. Part of me wished she’d just shut up, though. Ignorance and bliss and all that. “What about you?” I asked. “What do you do that excites you?”
She’d frowned then, not expecting my attack. “It’s far too late for me.”
“Now who’s being a goth high schooler?”
“There are things about me you don’t know, Isaac.”
“Well, look what happened last time I asked you about your past.”
She’d sighed and said, “Listen, you just have to trust me on some things. I’ve fucked up too many times in life for a do-over. You, though, there’s nothing keeping you here. Get out of here while you still can.”
“But what’s keeping you here?”
“Isaac…I’m not going to talk about that.”
“The only thing keeping you from talking is yourself.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No. I guess it’s not. I’m sorry. You’re right. I should leave this job. I should quit and not look back. But…I don’t know, it’s just too reliable, I guess. It’s routine. If I quit, then what awaits me? Who the hell knows? My future becomes unpredictable, and that terrifies me.” Plus, I wanted to add, if I leave, some crazy cowboy will track me down and stick a switchblade up my asshole.
“Maybe terror isn’t always bad for you,” she’d said.
Then I looked into her eyes, knowing the next words out of my mouth would probably ruin our friendship. “The thought of leaving this hotel freaks me out more than ever, because that means leaving you, and I just can’t handle that.”
And she’d just stared at me for a moment, teary-eyed, then ran out of the hotel, fleeing to wherever she calls home.
Now here we are on the roof, two days later.
We haven’t said much. She knocked on the front doors, I let her in, she said “hi” and I repeated the same meaningless syllable. I asked if she wanted to see the roof and she nodded.
As I lie on the blanket and stare at the polluted, starless night above us, she says, “So, this is where the magic happens.”
“Ha.”
“What inspired you to do that up here? The first time, I mean.”
“You don’t want to hear about that.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Well. Okay. Uh. I had gone up on the roof one night because I thought this guy was going to break into a car. I’d noticed him earlier, through the window in the lobby, walking around in the parking lot.” I pause, closing my eyes. Why should I tell this girl something so personal when she won’t even tell me where she lives? Because I’d tell her anything, of course. Because I am an idiot. “Anyway, I lost sight of him. Odds are he was probably just drunk and couldn’t remember where he parked. So after a few minutes of trying to find him from each side of the hotel, I gave up and tried to leave. Except, sometime during my wanderings on the roof, I’d dropped the front desk keys. Which meant I couldn’t unlock the door that leads from the roof to the stairway.”
“So what,” Kia says, “you decided fuck it, if you’re gonna go out, you might as well go out jacking it?”
“I was just bored, to be honest. I searched all over this roof for the keys, but even with the light from my cell phone it was a lost cause. I gave up, figured I’d have to wait it out until daylight broke.”
“Couldn’t you call your boss?”
“Well, cell phones aren’t allowed at work, so I was afraid he’d be an asshole and write me up. I was still pretty new then. Now, if I thought someone was going to break into a guest’s car, I wouldn’t even give a shit. Not my problem.”
“What if someone broke into your car?”
“Then I’d probably kill myself.”
“I admire your honesty. But back on topic. You’re stuck on the roof. What leads to your hand squeezing your dick?”
“How else was I supposed to pass the time?”
“You raise a good point.”
“The fucked-up part of this story, though, is that the keys ended up being in my pocket the whole time.”
“Get the hell out of here.”
“Seriously.”
“How does that even happen?”
“I…I am not quite sure.”
The laughter that follows travels through the night sky. If the guests can hear her, then they’ve been given one of the best gifts a pair of ears could ever dream of receiving.
This is the moment. This is when I’m supposed to roll over and kiss her. This is what I’ve been waiting for since she first walked into the hotel and vomited in the bathroom. This is it.
Then her laughing evolves into crying and she says, “I’m sorry, Isaac, I can’t see you anymore.”
And the night sky burns red with fire and the hotel begins shaking beneath us and the universe has cracked and I’m stranded at the fault lines, holding on by a single trembling pinky finger. Let it swallow us. Let it consume us and shit us out into beautiful nothingness. Let it create us and let it erase us. Let it be our own personal apocalypse.
“Why?” I ask, although a thousand plausible answers flash through my mind like a dying film projector. I’m too fat. I’m too young. I smell. I obsess over owls. I’m creepy. I’m clingy. I’m a pussy. I ask too many questions. All I do is read books. I drink and masturbate too much. My dick is too small. Wait, has she seen my dick? Of course she has. If she’s watched me masturbate then she’s seen my dick—or lack of a dick, at least.
“It’s complicated,” she finally says. “It has nothing to do with you personally, I promise.”
“Then why?”
“It’s just…I’m not in my right head these days. I can’t trust myself. I need to get right.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Kia. You’re perfect just the way you are.”
She laughs through her tears. “What did I tell you about sucking Hallmark’s cock? You gotta cradle the balls, too.”
“I’m serious.”
“Me too. We can’t see each other anymore.”
“Please—” I reach out and she slaps my hand away.
“Isaac, I have a child.”
“What?”
“I’m a mother.”
“That’s okay. There’s nothing shameful about that.”
“No, man, it’s not okay. It’s not okay at all. I should be with my kid, not raiding hotels all night and purging. I’m too fucked-up in the head. This shit needs to change.” I try to argue, but she shushes me. “I’m sorry, Isaac. I should have never came here.”
She leans forward and kisses me. Her breath smells terrible. I grow instantly hard despite my tears.
Then she stands up. “Please, do yourself a favor and quit this fucking job before it kills you.”
And she leaves.
Well, she tries to, at least. The exit won’t open without my key.
I let her back inside the building then lie down on the roof again, crying harder now that I’m alone.
Somewhere, an owl hoots.
* * *
George pounds on the front doors and I’ve never been more relieved to see him in my life. It’s been twelve years since Kia walked away from me and in that gap I’ve successfully ditched all remaining sanity out on the curb. Or maybe it’s only been twelve seconds. Time means nothing.
When I let him inside, he takes one look at me and says, “Dude, you look like shit.”
“Thanks, man, you too!” I slap him on the back and lead him through the lobby. “I’m so glad you stopped by. You’re just in time for key packet Jenga.”
“Uh, what?”
“Hotel olympics! It’s the next best thing since the automatic wake-up call.”
In the back office, I show him the stack of key packets towering from the carpet to the height of my abdomen. It’d taken me two hours to get them to balance. I gesture to the stack and laugh. “Key packet Jenga!”
Saying the word “key” is as pa
inful as slamming the register against my scrotum. One syllable, one vowel away from breaking my heart all over again.
“Key packet Jen—?”
“Shhh.” I press a finger to his lips and he slaps my hand. “It’s my turn to perform.”
I approach the tower and kneel down, carefully inspecting every possible strategy. Once I determine the best packet to grab, I reach up and immediately knock down the tower. I collapse to my knees and throw a temper tantrum.
George grabs my shoulders and forces me into one of the desk chairs. “You gotta calm down, dude. You’re acting crazy.”
“That’s what the owls want you to think.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I’m too tired to know. Always so goddamn fucking tired.”
“Wait. Have you been neglecting your naps? Not even joking. Night auditors are required by law to nap at least one hour per eight-hour shift. Otherwise they lose their shit, as you clearly have.”
“I miss her, George. I really miss her.”
“Miss who? The throw-up girl?”
“I think I love her.”
“Oh Jesus fucking Christ. You gotta forget about her, man. Move on until some other succubus scuttles along and deep-throats your soul.”
I feel like crying again, so I get up and move around. Harder for the tears to reach lift-off. “I don’t know how to move on. All I do all night is stand at the front desk staring at the entrance, waiting for her to show back up. But she’s not going to. She’s gone.”
“I’m sorry. Shit sucks. I know. But look on the bright side.”
“What’s that?”
“I brought whiskey.”
He busts out his flask and we continue the inaugural session of hotel olympics. After the complete disaster of key packet Jenga, we move on to Russian Roulette, which involves seeing who can get the closest to the front entrance before triggering the motion sensors, then the plate toss, which is exactly how it sounds, then the great throw-a-pen-into-a-cup game, and finally we conclude with our main event: the luggage cart races. We bring two luggage carts to the fifth floor and begin at opposite ends of the hallway. We both take off at the same time, riding the luggage carts like skateboards and meeting in the center. We click the elevator buttons and wait for one of them to arrive. It’s a fight for us both to squeeze inside, as we attempt to push each other out. Eventually we realize the door is never going to fucking close if we keep interrupting the sensors. It’s a long ride from the fifth to the first floor. We spend the way down sweating and panting, because we’re fat bastards who haven’t exercised since grade school P.E. class. I’m the first out of the elevator once we hit the ground floor and I ride the luggage cart around the hallway and into the lobby, then stop in my tracks at the sight of a line of guests waiting at the front desk. How did they even get inside? I smile and wave and George smashes into me with his own luggage cart. We fly over the lobby furniture, laughing and cursing. The guests just stand there, staring at us like we’re all a part of some bad dream. And we are. But the thing is, none of us are ever going to wake up again. But the thing is, that’s perfectly okay.
Part 16
I’m spreading cream cheese on a bagel when something pounds against the front doors. It’s loud enough to hear across the hotel, in the kitchen. Rapid pace, like someone furiously knocking on the glass. Maybe Kia’s returned after realizing she loves me and wants to grow old together. She’s come to rescue me from this wicked place and run away. No more Hobbs. No more sleep deprivation. No more bad coffee.
I set down a serving of cream cheese and jog across the lobby, instantly running out of breath. A guest stands outside, his back to the hotel, smacking the locked front door with his fist as he talks with some other guy. A dark expensive-looking car is parked next to them with the engine running. I recognize the guest who’s knocking as a platinum elite member named Art Yates. I’ve never seen the other guy in my life, but he looks pissed about something.
They’re yelling when I walk outside, cursing and threatening each other.
“What’s going on here?” I ask, trying to sound authoritative and not even coming close. The fight is long out of me. Let these savages kill each other. None of it matters anymore.
“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Yates says, pointing at the other guy. “Your fucking luggage boy here is praying to get his ass whooped.”
The other guy, resembling a skeleton with leprosy, laughs. “I doubt you’ve ever been in a fight your entire life, Pops.”
“Um, he’s not our luggage boy,” I say.
Yates screws up his face. “What?” He looks at the stranger. “You don’t work here?”
He shrugs, laughing. “Not exactly, man.”
“Well, then fuck you kindly.”
The stranger raises his hands, preventing Yates from entering his car. “But that don’t mean I don’t deserve no tip, right? I helped you with your bags and shit, right?”
“Yeah, and I already thanked you, now back away before I call the police.”
“What’s the matter with you, huh? You can’t afford to tip people who help you, now? Spent all that rich white-boy money on this stupid-ass car?”
He kicks the bumper of the car and Yates gasps. “For your information, if I so chose, I could tip you quite handsomely right now, but I do not choose, and I will never choose. Gratuity is a fairy tale invented by welfare babies.”
Both the stranger and myself just stand and stare at Yates for a moment, at a loss for words. Then the stranger says, “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t just hear all that, and instead go ahead and take my tip.” He bends down and unzips one of Yates’s bags and searches through its contents.
“Release my belongings, nigger,” Yates says, and attempts to punch the stranger. He doesn’t even come close to connecting.
I stand aside watching the fight unfold in slow motion, unable to act, frozen on the sidewalk. The stranger tackles Yates to the ground and strikes him repeatedly in the face. Something eventually rewires in my brain and mobility returns. I push the guy off Yates and tell him to fuck off, reaching for the mobile hotel phone in my pocket.
“What the shit is wrong with you?” the stranger says. “John said you were cool. Fuck.”
I pause, holding the phone but not dialing. Yates cries on the sidewalk, holding his bloody face. “What are you talking about?” I ask. “John who?”
“You know who the fuck who. He set this up. Told me to help guests with their bags, collect tips. Shit, man. Don’t you know nothing?”
“I have nothing to do with this.”
“Bullshit you don’t,” he says, and kicks Yate as he attempts to stand up. “He told me you and him have a deal worked out.”
I return the mobile phone to my pocket, too tired and stressed to concentrate. Yates remains on the ground, saying nigger this, nigger that. The stranger’s kicks serves as a backup vocal to Yates’s bigotry.
I scan the front of the hotel, then the lobby. Nobody’s noticed the fight yet. We are still nonexistent. But it won’t last. We could keep standing here and get noticed and surrender as everything goes to hell, or I could take action, actually do something for once.
This guy, this pedestrian scam artist, he obviously doesn’t know much more than I do. Just another pawn owned by Hobbs and the cowboy, although I doubt Hobbs has much say-so on anything important.
It’s all the cowboy.
“You’re all gonna fuckin’ fry,” Yates says.
I rub my eyes, hoping it’ll wake me up, but it doesn’t, because this kind of sleep you don’t wake up from. “Shit,” I say, and nod toward the lobby. “Bring him inside, hurry up.”
We each grab one of Yates’s arms and drag him back in the hotel, then down the hallway toward Hobbs’s room. Yates starts to scream, and this time I’m the one who speaks up. “The louder you are, the worst it’s going to be,” I say, not sure if the words coming out of my mouth actually belong to me. Sometimes walkie-talkies accidentally stum
ble upon the wrong channel. Signals cross.
We throw him in the elevator and ride to the second floor, then knock on room 209. Nobody answers, so I knock harder, louder.
“Be careful, man,” the stranger says. “People can get fucking paranoid when they sew. Don’t want him thinking we’re the feds or some shit and get a few holes in our faces.”
I cock my head, face screwed up. “Did you just say ‘sew’?”
The door opens slightly and Hobbs sticks his head out, eyes wide and bloodshot. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Yo, John, we got ourselves a situation here,” the stranger says.
Hobbs eyes Yates. “Who’s he?”
“The situation,” he says, and pushes Yates inside the room. There’s a brief moment where I’m the only one standing out in the hallway, then I’m dragged inside, directly into the fire.
* * *
“If we’re going to kill him, it can’t be in here,” Hobbs says. “You try getting bloodstains out of Nikes. It’s fuckin’ impossible.”
Yates goes wide-eyed and squirms. Hobbs hits him until he quiets down. I remain standing by the now closed door, trying my best to understand what I’m seeing in the room. I had expected glass canisters and other lab equipment shit. Basically anything out of Breaking Bad. Instead, the room is littered with hundreds, maybe even thousands of sneakers.
“What do you want me to do then?” the stranger asks, whose name turns out to be Leo.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, stepping forward. “You guys can’t seriously kill him. Come on now.”
Hobbs glances at Yates, then at a wall of sneakers, then back at Yates. He shakes his head. “He’s seen far too much.”
“I won’t say anything, I swear, please,” Yates says.
“He called me a nigger,” Leo says.
Hobbs shrugs. “Well, you are one.”
“Man, fuck the both of you.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean any of it.”
“What are we going to do?” Leo asks.
“Just let him go. He won’t tell,” I say. “C’mon, you guys have scared the shit out of him. He’s learned his lesson.” What that lesson is, I’m not quite sure. Don’t be a cheap racist?
The Nightly Disease (Serial Novel) Page 13
