I remember counting the cracks on the ceiling while lying in bed. I remember listening to the sound the TV made as my mother clicked through each channel, searching for the next great stupid afternoon sitcom to drown our boredom with the laughter of dead people. I remember the rattling the vending machines would make after I’d found enough change in the hallway to buy a pack of Zingers. I remember the poetic sound of cum-soaked tissues softly splashing into toilet water. Everything has a rotation, everything is on its own schedule. My mind zoned in on it all. There was simply nowhere else for it to go.
I counted the seconds ticking by on the alarm clock between our two beds. I counted how many steps it would take to go from my bed to the bathroom, the steps from the door to the ice machine, to the elevator. How long it took the elevator to travel from one floor to the next.
The counting wasn’t too bothersome, at first. But then, like most things, it got weird. Whenever I checked the time, I would have to look at the clock, blink, look at it, blink, look at it, blink, and look again before turning my head quickly away. It was either that, or sometimes I would have to look at the clock, turn away, and repeat the action three more times. Everything was always in threes. Sometimes I would have to look at the clock nine times, going three times three. It didn’t make any goddamn sense to me but it still made me feel good.
No, “good” isn’t the right word. “Complete” is more appropriate. If I didn’t obey this strange obsessive command, my whole world would shatter. Everything would feel wrong. I would gain this sense of panic, this consuming dread that something was about to go to shit. I’d feel dirty and awful, and then the itching would kick in. It would be minor at first, and I wouldn’t think anything of it and scratch—this, of course, only increased irritation and it didn’t stop until I carried out my insane ritual of three. All willpower was out the door, as if a demon had possessed my fingers. They’d dig into my flesh and keep going at it until I put an end to it and gave in. Which I, of course, always did. Although that’s what made it worse, what made the OCD continue. The constant fear of this silly superstition I’d somehow convinced myself of believing.
It wasn’t just looking at clocks, either. When I closed doors, they had to be shut three times. When I ate food, I’d have to chew in quotients of three. I don’t mean I had to chew only three times and then swallow—just that I couldn’t swallow without having chewed it at least three or six or nine or twelve times.
I couldn’t walk on the right side of anyone. If someone else and I were side-by-side, then I had to be on the left side, or else…well, I’m not sure, but I bet something horrible would have happened. And God forbid we were on a sidewalk. I didn’t mind the cracks too much, but it was the big open space between the cracks—if I didn’t take three steps within each space, then Hell would surely open right below my feet and devour me whole.
It even affected my speech. At certain, seemingly random moments, I would get this, I don’t know, this craving I guess, to say things three times. Luckily, most of the time I would figure out ways to suppress this without coming off as too weird. Like if someone asked me a question, and I didn’t hear them, I’d act all dramatic and over-the-top deaf by going, “What? What? WHAT DID YOU SAY?” It didn’t always make sense of course. Try answering what you want to drink by saying “Coke Zero-Zero-Zero, Coke Zero-Zero-Zero, Coke Zero-Zero-Zero” and you come off as a fucking coked up nutcase.
The Merriam-Webster Dictionary describes insanity as: “a deranged state of the mind usually occurring as a specific disorder.”
Sometimes, when the TV was off, I would count the moans of my neighbors. In a motel room of silence, there are always moans. Sometimes, even, people moan in threes. What heaven these rare moments are, what pure fucking bliss.
Left in a room with nothing to do, you start grasping onto anything that’ll accept you. And that’s when you enter the bizarre. Sometimes isolation can be angelic, yes, but other times it can be absolute torture. Your mind becomes dependent on things that you’ve decided matter in the big scheme of things, despite how insignificant they are to reality. Of course they seem silly to everyone else—but to you, it’s fucking life or death, man. There is an omniscient force that you create but it becomes so real that it controls you.
You have to do what it tells you to do or else you die.
At least, that was my mindset. Thankfully, as my period of living in motels ended, so did my OCD. It didn’t go away like that, but over time it became a habit I dropped, thanks to new distractions in life, such as being wanted by the police for pretending to shoot all those mimes. But that wasn’t my fault, anyway, I just wanted to see how far they would take their act.
And boy, did I get my answer.
The Merriam-Webster Dictionary describes a pathological liar as: “an individual who habitually tells lies so exaggerated or bizarre that they are suggestive of mental disorder.”
I still can’t walk on the right side of somebody, though. I’d rather risk walking on the road and getting hit by a car than going through that kind of hell.
In my apartment, I scrub my flesh harder, thinking about the days I once lived and the days I now live. How much has changed? This isn’t my blood washing down my body.
This isn’t my blood.
This isn’t my blood.
This isn’t my blood.
I’m seeing talking owls and I’m smuggling corpses and I’m saying things in threes again and nothing is the way is should be, nothing is the way I want it to be, nothing is the way I need it to be.
Nothing is.
Nothing is.
Nothing is.
Part 20
“Thank you for calling the Goddamn Hotel—no, we don’t have any fucking rooms, go kill yourself.”
I stand behind the front desk wondering if I actually just said that on the phone or if I dreamed it. Am I awake? Is the hotel even real?
A man storms into the lobby and slams his credit card on the desk. “I need one room.”
“I apologize, sir,” I tell him, “but we’re all booked up tonight.”
He literally scoffs. “That cannot be possible.”
“Well, I’m afraid it is. It happens quite a bit around this time of year.”
“I want to speak to your manager.”
“I am the night manager. We do not have any rooms.” The truth is, we have plenty of rooms. But fuck this guy. In fact, fuck all human beings.
“Well, where can I go?”
“I’m honestly not sure. The entire town is all booked up tonight.”
He slams both hands on the desk, making the impact echo throughout the lobby, and says, “What is a town?”
He’s practically snarling at me now and it takes all I have in me to resist laughter. “It’s, uh, it’s like a city,” I tell him, “but smaller…”
“Ugh, bullshit!” he shouts. “I fucking hate Texas!” He runs out of the hotel and drives away.
Just as the doors begin closing, the cowboy calls down to the front desk and says, “We need to talk,” then hangs up. It’s the night after Yates’s death and I still can’t remove the now phantom sensation of blood sticking to my skin. I lock the register and drag myself upstairs, wondering why I’m obeying his orders, wondering why I don’t run away, what I’m trying to prove.
Hobbs lets me in and plops down on the bed after maneuvering around his various sewing paraphernalia. The cowboy sits in the corner of the room, at the desk, still wearing the ridiculous straw Stetson. If anyone else was wearing it, I might laugh. But after all the shit that went down last night, the sight of his hat is enough to make my work shirt stick to my spine. Although he doesn’t exactly seem pissed. More amused than anything. The smile on his face proves hard to distinguish. Somewhere between I’m gonna kill this motherfucker and I wonder how this night auditor would react if I started juggling fruit.
He waves his hand at the bed, so I sit down next to Hobbs. The springs sink under our weight, sounding like a gunshot through my n
erves.
“So,” the cowboy says, “John here tells me y’all had quite the time last night.”
I lick the roof of my mouth, scavenging for courage. “You could say that.”
Hobbs laughs, but with less confidence than when his brother isn’t around. “Should’ve seen him. He turned into a lunatic, threw the motherfucker off the hotel. Fuckin’ split down the handicap sign. Reminded me of goddamn Mortal Kombat. Talk about a motherfuckin’ fatal fatality, shit.”
“And you put the body in the dumpster?” the cowboy asks. The question seems open to either of us, yet he’s staring at me only. Like he knows something. Like he’s caught on to my insanity.
“Yeah,” I whisper, “that’s right.” Except that’s not right at all, but who knows how he’d react if he found out the body is currently hanging out at my apartment. What kind of lunatic brings home a corpse? He’d have to kill me on the spot out of fear of me trying to blackmail him and his brother by threatening to show the body to the police.
“Well, I gotta admit,” the cowboy says, “I didn’t think you had it in you. You’ve definitely surprised me.”
“Last night was bad, real bad,” I say. “I can’t keep doing stuff like this. I know I stole your brother’s wallet and I’m real fucking sorry but I just can’t do this anymore. Someone died last night. That’s nuts. Don’t you think we should just go our separate ways after something like that? Please. What’s it going to take to leave me alone?”
The cowboy’s smile vanishes. I guess he was hoping I’d kneel down and suck his dick after all those compliments. “Pay us back what you stole, times three, and we’ll leave. Until then, you continue entertaining us, or else you’ll end up in the dumpster, too.”
“I can’t afford that kind of money. As it is I’m paying for this room every night so my boss doesn’t get suspicious.”
“Not my problem, kid. Can’t do the time, then don’t do the crime. Or at least don’t get caught. Right, John?”
Hobbs jerks awake, having nodded off. “Are we gonna kill him now?”
The cowboy laughs. “Not yet, John, not yet.”
I rise from the bed. “Can you at least stop having your goons assaulting the guests?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing,” Hobbs says. “Ignore him. He’s stupid.”
The cowboy eyes me. “Did my brother leave something out about last night?”
“I don’t know. What did he tell you?”
Hobbs grabs my wrist. “Kid, I will crack your fucking skull open.”
“John, shut up,” the cowboy says, then returns his full attention on me. “The way I heard it was: you somehow accidentally checked the now dead man into our room here, and he discovered our little counterfeit shoe operation. To take care of the situation, you dragged him up to the room and threw him off.”
I laugh and my chest burns. “I didn’t check the guy into anything. Some friend of yours named Leo tried to mug him in front of the hotel, then when he wouldn’t cooperate, we dragged him up here to your room. John decided he should die. The guest fought back and escaped. I followed him up to the roof. He was scared. He fell off. I never pushed him. I didn’t do anything.”
Both Hobbs brothers are silent. John’s the first one to speak.
“Look, Billy, I’m sorry, okay?”
The cowboy’s eyes remain closed when he speaks. “You brought your shithead friend to our place of operation? And you had him pulling petty shit outside?”
“You don’t—”
“Do you have any idea how much shit we’d be in if the cops discovered our little shoe racket in here? Because if you did, you sure as hell wouldn’t be socializing with scumbags like Leo.”
“Billy, please.”
The cowboy clears his throat. “Isaac, I’m going to have to ask you to leave us now. I need to speak to my little brother in private.”
I don’t need to be told twice. Halfway down the hallway, I can hear Hobbs screaming.
* * *
After our talk, things begin spiraling even further into chaos. Maybe Hobbs and his brother feel like now that I’ve allegedly murdered a guest, they can pressure me into not only paying for their room, but also assisting them with their criminal activities. Before Yates died, they had only sewn shoes at the hotel, which I guess isn’t a crime? Hell, I don’t know. But now they’ve grown ballsier and have started selling the shoes at the hotel, too. Knockoff brands, counterfeit Nikes.
I learn the hard way they intend on using me as the go-between when a man covered in dust rings the buzzer outside the front doors. He doesn’t look entirely trustworthy, but of course none of the guests at this hotel can really be trusted. He approaches the front desk, eyes full of expectation.
“Good evening, sir. Do you need a room?” I’m out of reservations, so I’m thinking either he’s a walk-in or he’s here to rob me. At this point, I’m welcoming a robbery.
“I’m here for the presidential suite,” the man says, licking his sore-infested lips.
“Uh, I’m sorry, but we don’t have a presidential suite. We do have suites, however. Our double queen suite has—”
“No.” He raises his hand, cutting me off. He’s wearing fingerless cotton gloves. “You’re not getting me, man. I’m here for the presidential suite. You know what I’m talking about?”
“No…”
He grunts. “Goddammit, John told me that was the code word.”
“The code word for what?”
He lays out both hands, perhaps holding an imaginary Halloween treat bag. “I’m looking for a new pair of Jordans, man. This is the new place, ain’t it?”
I eventually come to terms with reality and send him up to room #209. Later on, after the man leaves wearing a new, remarkably clean pair of shoes, Hobbs comes down to the lobby reeking of booze and unwashed genitals. His left eye is black and swollen. “You done did a fine job tonight, Eye Sick. Not sure what my brother told you, but this will be the way things go from now on, ya hear? Customers come to you, you send them to me. But you gotta screen them, all right? If they look like a pig, you send them squealing the other direction.”
“I don’t want to be involved in this.”
“Well, I reckon you should have considered that before snatching a wallet that didn’t belong to you.”
“How am I supposed to tell if someone’s a cop?”
“You’ll smell bacon.”
“Funny.”
“Funny, sure, but also true.”
“You know they can’t come here on my nights off, right? We’ll all get busted if you try pulling this with the girl who works Fridays and Saturdays.”
He frowns. “Those are my two best nights to sell.”
“I can’t switch schedules. Those are the nights she works, and she’s not gonna put up with any of this. She even gets a whiff of…whatever the hell it is you’re doing, and she’s calling the cops.”
“I don’t know how I feel about this, Eye Sick. I thought you were a team player.”
“What if I never come up with the money I owe?” I ask, balling my fists. “Are you guys just gonna stay here and torture me forever?”
He appears to think about it for a moment, then nods. “Yeah, I reckon so.”
“What if I get fired? What if I quit?”
“You’re not gonna quit.”
“I might.”
“Then we’ll probably fuckin’ kill you.”
“You guys don’t even know where I live.”
“Or maybe we’ve just never told you we know where you live.” He spits tobacco on the lobby floor. “Like, we could be saving that twist for later down the road, when you try to flake out on us. We show up at your apartment unexpectedly and shove a switchblade up your asshole, something along them lines.”
After he leaves I search for Air Jordans on Amazon. The prices range from $200 to $700. Why cook meth when you can sew shoes? I scroll through a list of third-party vendors. It’s meant for people sellin
g used products, stuff they no longer want, typically at a slightly cheaper price than what you’d pay for something brand new. Any one of these users could be the Hobbs brothers. Considering how many shoes are stored in room #209, it only makes sense that they’d be selling them online as well as in person. After all, how many degenerates are going to randomly stroll into a hotel hoping to score counterfeit shoes?
Well, at least one person, so far.
I lock up the front desk and escape to the roof and drink a pint of Shiner I’d bought at the gas station before clocking in. I lean against the ledge and drink and stare at the sorry sons of bitches passing by on the highway. This has become my new ritual. I barely even talk to George, although he calls about every other night, wanting to hang out. I’m too embarrassed to approach him. I can’t tell him how bad things have gotten over here. He’d just call me a pussy and tell me to man-up or something. “If it were me,” he’d say, “I’d beat the shit out of every last one of ‘em.” Although in reality George is my clone and can’t fight to save his life. Hobbs and his brother would break out that baseball bat and kick his ass, and George would be in the same exact situation that I’m in now.
On the roof, I scan the Other Goddamn Hotel for a sighting of George on top of the building. Doubtful, since he almost never explores his own roof alone. He might be afraid of heights, but refuses to admit it, so whenever I want to come here he sucks it up and joins me. The last time we were up here together on my roof, it was Halloween night. We’d each purchased the biggest pumpkin we could find. George went first and pushed it off the ledge. I watched it drop like an anchor. One moment it’s on the roof, the next it’s exploding next to the swimming pool behind the hotel. The impact sounded like a gunshot and echoed across the parking lot. “Oh shit,” George had said, laughing, “you think we woke anybody up?”
“They can sleep when they die!” I screamed, and threw my own pumpkin over the ledge. A second gunshot and everything felt beautiful in the world.
The Nightly Disease (Serial Novel) Page 17
