Motel. Pool.

by Kim Fielding

  “And about as authentic. Well, the panhandlers, drunks, and hookers—they’re authentic, I guess.”

  “Everything’s so big. And… shiny.”

  Tag thought that the city was pretty tarnished if you looked closely, but he didn’t say so. No reason to ruin Jack’s enjoyment.

  Shit. He was sitting here in Las Vegas, entertaining a ghost. The absurdity of his situation kept him immobilized after the light turned green, earning him a loud honk from the SUV behind them. Maybe he ought to find a place to stop before Jack worked himself into a phantom conniption and Tag ended up steering into the Bellagio fountain.

  He hadn’t really planned where to stay. There were tens of thousands of hotel rooms right here on the Strip, but none of the casinos appealed to him. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to stay in faux Venice, faux New York, or anyplace with a Cirque performance going on. And it wasn’t only that the crowded, smoky casino floors lacked appeal. It was the rooms themselves that he didn’t want. Too modern. Too clean. Too good.

  He was all the way back at the top of the Strip and considering heading downtown when he spied the small structures huddled in the shadow of the Stratosphere. He turned off Las Vegas Boulevard for a closer look and stopped in front of one of the buildings. It was made of painted cinderblock, U-shaped, with a flat roof. He could still see the kidney shape of where the tiny pool had once been; it was now filled with gravel, but a few broken plastic chairs were still scattered nearby. The weathered sign said Studios for Rent. $130 Weekly. Perfect.

  More signs directed him to the registration office, which was located in a separate building at the end of the street. Apparently he was about to check in to the Baja Inn and Casino. He parked the car and unbuckled his seat belt. “I’m gonna get a room,” he said.

  “You want me to stay here?”

  “Come with if you want.”

  Jack tilted his head slightly. “It’s okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Grinning, Jack bounded out of the car.

  A filthy man with a grizzled beard sat on the steps near the front door. He was deep in conversation with himself, gesturing broadly as he muttered about rhythms and spies and lizards. On a whim, Tag jogged back to the car and snagged one of the large bottles of water he’d bought along the way. He walked back and handed the bottle to the guy, who looked bemused. “It’s really hot out,” Tag said. “Maybe you’re thirsty.”

  The man smiled toothlessly at him. “Thanks. I’ll bless you ten thousand times.”

  “Well, I could use ten thousand blessings for sure.” Tag patted him on the shoulder and went inside.

  Jack had watched the interchange silently, but now he grabbed Tag’s arm to stop him. “Why’d you do that?”

  “I thought he could use some water.”

  “That guy was nuts.”

  Tag yanked his arm away. “So? Crazy people get dehydrated too. Some of the meds give them dry mouth.”

  “Are you a doctor or a psychologist?”

  Tag snorted. “Hardly.”

  Slot machines were ringing and some sports event was blaring from the televisions in the bar, and people wandered around or stared blankly, like zombies or like addicts needing a fix. The registration desk was hidden in a corner, and as Tag drew closer, he saw that the second t was missing from the Registration sign and the a was about to follow suit.

  “Help you?” The man behind the desk was enormous: at least six and a half feet tall and well over three hundred pounds of muscle and fat. His graying hair was pulled back in a ponytail and his beard was gathered in a rubber band. Aside from his face, all the bits of visible skin were covered in tattoos. His voice was as deep and rough as a truckload of gravel. If Tag had been into bears, this guy would have taken his breath away.

  But he wasn’t into bears, and he was tired and a little pissed off at Jack, so he scowled. “We need a room.”

  The man gave Tag a long, considering look. Then he turned his attention to Jack, who was gawping at some girls who were apparently testing the tensile strength of Spandex. The clerk narrowed his eyes at Tag. “How long?”

  “A week, I guess.”

  “One fifty.”

  “The sign says a hundred thirty.”

  “They don’t got taxes where you’re from?”

  Tag wasn’t happy about flashing his wad of money so openly, but he hadn’t been smart enough to set some bills aside ahead of time. He set three fifties on the counter. “I think taxes are everywhere,” he said.

  “Nothing is certain but death and taxes,” Jack chimed in. “And death… it’s kind of a so-so thing, sometimes.”

  The bear snorted. “I need ID. And a credit card for damage deposit.”

  Not that again. Tag pulled out his driver’s license and set it down. “I don’t have any plastic.”

  With his bushy brows drawn, the clerk inspected the license. The rectangle looked tiny in his enormous paw. “Taggart?” he growled.

  “Tag.”

  “You live in Iowa?”

  “I am currently of no fixed abode. C’mon. I just want a room, all right?”

  “And him?” A meaty finger was pointed at Jack, who smiled sweetly.

  “He doesn’t have any ID,” Tag said. “I’ll vouch for him.”

  The guy chuckled like a chain saw. “Right.” Then he spent a moment or two staring into space, deeply lost in thought. He must have reached a decision, because he shook his head wryly, handed the license to Tag, and scooped up the bills. “No drugs. No noise. No crime. My name’s Buddy. You do right by me, we’ll be pals. You fuck up and I’m your worst nightmare.”

  Tag gave him an even look. “You haven’t seen my nightmares, Buddy. But that’s fine. We’ll be quiet and law-abiding.”

  Buddy opened a drawer under the desk and dug out a couple of keys—the old-fashioned metal kind, on green plastic fobs. “Room 132. It’s two buildings over. Park in the back.” He grinned. “Wouldn’t leave any valuables in your car, if I were you.”

  Tag grabbed both keys and was going to leave, but Jack leaned across the counter. “It doesn’t bother you to rent a room to two fellows, Buddy?”

  “Long as I get paid and the rules get followed, I’d rent to a three-headed Martian.”

  “Yeah, but what if we’re queer?”

  Buddy sighed—loudly. “I don’t give a flying fuck who you’re screwing so long as it ain’t illegal. Besides….” He pulled out his chain wallet and produced a photo. “This here’s my husband.”

  Tag squeezed in close so he could see. The photo showed Buddy next to a shirtless hirsute man who was even larger and more heavily tattooed than him. Jack’s eyes had widened. “Husband?” Jack asked.

  “Sure. Went to Barstow and stood in front of a medicine man and tied the knot, all legal and legit. Fucking Nevada lets you marry someone you met ten minutes ago when you’re both shitfaced and an Armenian Elvis is officiating, but not if you both got dicks.” He shrugged. “Kinda funny, going from Nevada to California to get married.”

  It was probably going to take Jack a while to process this. Tag waved a thank-you to Buddy and led Jack back outside. The man was still sitting on the stairs, only now the water bottle was half-empty. He bobbed his head at Tag. “You are an angel come to walk the earth, sir.”

  “I’m just a man.” Tag jerked his thumb at Jack. “Now, my friend….”

  The guy made a face and flapped his hand. “Naw. He’s just a man.”

  “So much for the wisdom of the insane,” Tag mumbled as he and Jack walked to the car.

  As Buddy had directed, Tag parked in the lot behind the buildings, in the spot marked 132. He gathered up as much of his stuff as he could carry and was pleased when Jack pitched in too. “You have a lot of things,” Jack complained as they walked to a narrow passageway.

  “It’s all my worldly possessions.”

  “All my worldly possessions didn’t take up nearly as much space in my car.”

  The walkway between the buildi
ngs was dark and smelled like piss. An air-conditioning unit dripped on Tag’s head as he walked beneath it. “You had all your stuff in your car?”

  “Yeah. Until she broke down. Then I had to leave most of it.”

  “That sucks.” He found the right door. It was painted pale green on top and peach on the bottom, like a ghostly visit from the 1980s. He really was being haunted nowadays. With some difficulty due to his full arms, he managed to get it unlocked.

  Tag and Jack dumped their burdens in the middle of the room and looked around. There wasn’t much to see: queen-size bed with mismatched nightstands, dresser with an ancient console TV, table and two chairs, lumpy-looking love seat, and kitchenette that looked straight out of 1968, complete with harvest-gold appliances. One door led to a claustrophobic bathroom and another revealed a closet that smelled like feet.

  No doubt about it—the place was a dump. It filled Tag with the familiar sense of home.

  Ten

  TAG STOOD near the closet, trying to decide whether unpacking all his stuff was worth the effort. Jack was right—he had too much crap. When he was a kid, he’d been able to cram all his belongings into a single large trash bag.

  “Are you angry about something?” Jack asked.

  “No.”

  Jack stepped closer, hands on hips. “You got mad at me over that crazy guy.”

  “Not really. It’s just… you need to have compassion for people like him. It’s not his fault he’s mentally ill.” He hung a plaid shirt on a wire hanger.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry.” He tilted his head quizzically. “The subject’s important to you, isn’t it?”

  Instead of answering, Tag bent, retrieved a white oxford shirt from his suitcase, and put it in the closet. It was wrinkled, but he wasn’t likely to wear it anyway.

  His ghost was nothing if not persistent. Jack came closer, blocking Tag’s access to the closet. “And you didn’t seem happy about Buddy’s husband. How come? Are you against two men marrying each other?”

  “I told you I’m gay, so no. I don’t really care who gets hitched as long as they’re consenting adults, yadda yadda.”

  “But something about that photo upset you.”

  Tag glared, but when the only response from Jack was raised eyebrows, he sighed. “I was seeing this guy. Jason. We were together almost two years.”

  “Did he cheat on you or something?”

  Tag’s answering laugh was without humor. “Jason cheat? Jesus, the earth would probably stop spinning. He’s a great guy. Handsome, funny, sweet. He used to bring me flowers sometimes—how corny is that? And he’s smart and nice and honest and… all the Boy Scout virtues. He’s practically a saint. I even used to call him that sometimes—Saint Jason.”

  He gave up on the closet and instead crossed the room and started shoving underwear and socks into a warped dresser drawer that wouldn’t close all the way. When he turned around, Jack was right behind him.

  “What happened to Saint Jason?” Jack asked.

  “Nothing. He has a new boyfriend and they’re happy as clams, far as I know.”

  “What’s the punch line, Tag?”

  Nobody had ever before been this persistent at dragging information out of Tag. When Tag didn’t want to talk about something, Jason used to shrug good-naturedly and change the subject. Jack’s approach was annoying… but also kind of nice, as if someone cared enough about his answers to badger them out of him.

  “Jason and I went out to dinner at this nice restaurant. It was Valentine’s Day, although honestly that didn’t register with me until later. And in between the salad and the main course, he got down on one knee and pulled out a ring. Everyone in the place oohed and aahed and clapped.”

  “He proposed to you?”

  “Yep. He had this whole little speech and everything. God, he’d probably been practicing it for weeks.” The words hadn’t registered much at the time; Tag had been too shocked. But he could easily recall the expression on Jason’s handsome, open face: hope and love and adoration. That expression had changed very quickly when Tag muttered something incoherent and bolted from the table.

  “What happened?” Jack asked quietly.

  “That night I moved all my stuff out of the apartment we shared and into a motel. I found a new place of my own a few days later. He tried to talk me into getting back together, told me we didn’t have to hurry things, but I said no.”

  “Why? Didn’t you love him?”

  “I… I don’t know.” Tag dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, then ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m not sure I’m capable of it. And I knew for certain I’d never be good enough for him. He has this great life, and I just fuck things up.” He grabbed a handful of T-shirts and stuck them in the lower drawer, then buckled the suitcase closed and looked around for a space to store it. There was a platform under the bed, so no luck there, and it was too big for the closet. He ended up wedging it between the love seat and one of the chairs.

  Jack sat on the love seat and traced a finger over the suitcase handle. “How long ago was this?”

  “Six months, more or less.” Actually, five months and seventeen days, but who was counting?

  “Then what happened?”

  “Nothing. We went our separate ways. But a couple weeks ago, I ran into him and his new boyfriend at the grocery store—it’s not that big a town—and everyone was polite and everything. But then I went home and had a meltdown. I realized… I don’t know. That I am always going to be too big of a screwup to be happy. No matter how many chances I get, I’ll ruin them with bad decisions. Next day I quit my job, packed up my stuff, and hit the road. Didn’t even give two weeks’ notice.” It had been a decent job too, by far the best he’d ever had. He’d helped run the tech end of the classrooms at the university. The pay was good, the hours decent, and he got great benefits.

  “What are you doing on the road, Tag?”

  “Finding myself.” Losing himself. Hard to tell the difference.

  Jack didn’t look convinced, but he stopped the interrogation. Tag slowly put away the rest of his things, wondering if Jack missed his time-lost belongings. Maybe ghosts weren’t very tied to material goods. Strangely, Tag felt slightly buoyed by his conversation with Jack, as if sharing the tale of his failures relieved a little of the pressure in his soul.

  To the extent that a plan existed in Tag’s brain, the idea had been to unpack, maybe grab something to eat, and hit a casino. One of the older ones, probably, like the Riviera or Circus Circus. Not one with a shiny glass front and huge glass sculptures hanging inside.

  But he stood in the middle of his crappy motel room with a ghost who was looking drawn and anxious. “Are you okay?” Tag asked. Maybe dumping his woes on the poor specter hadn’t been very fair.

  Jack nodded slightly and unconvincingly.

  Tag kicked an empty box out of the way and collapsed onto the love seat. “What’s the matter?”

  “I…. It’s a lot.”

  “It’s been quite a day.” He thought for a few minutes. “Tell you what. Why don’t you stay here and rest? I’ll go pick up some groceries and stuff.”

  “All right. Can I watch TV?”

  “Do whatever you want, as long as you don’t incur the wrath of Buddy.”

  “Thanks.” Jack sat on the foot of the bed, pulled a cigarette out of thin air, and lit it.

  “That’s a pretty neat trick.”

  “Huh?”

  “Magic cigarettes.”

  Jack examined the cigarette as if he’d never seen one before. “These are easy. It’s everything else that’s hard. Clothes. My body.”

  “Oh.” Jack’s naked body flashed quickly through Tag’s imagination, making him blush. “Uh, maybe you want to, um, decorporealize while I’m gone. Have a rest.”

  “What if… what if I do and I can’t come back?” Jack looked at him with eyes full of despair. “What if I find myself back in Jasper?”

  “Then I’ll dr
ive back there and pick you up again.”

  “You’d do that?” Once again, Jack managed to look very young, and lost, and just the tiniest bit hopeful.

  “Of course. We’re friends, right?”

  Oh, Jesus. When Jack smiled like that he was beautiful. “Yeah,” he said.

  Tag hauled himself upright and tossed the remote to Jack. He patted his pockets to make sure he had wallet and keys, and he headed for the door.

  “Tag?”

  He turned around.

  Jack was looking down at the remote in his hands. “I didn’t have a lot of friends. When I was alive, I mean. There were fellows I knew, but… we weren’t close.”

  “Me neither. I’ve chased all my friends away by being an asshole.”

  They looked at one another, and for a brief moment, perfect understanding passed between them.

  Swallowing, Tag turned back to the door. “See you in a while.”

  HIS INTENTION had been to find someplace to buy a few basic groceries. A minimarket, maybe. But instead he started walking down the Strip, and before long he found himself outside one of the shopping malls. He went inside. Ah, blessed air-conditioning.

  He hated malls. When he was a kid, he rarely went to them, and when he did go, he felt taunted by all the things he couldn’t afford. When he got older, it was the stark display of normality that got to him: families with young children, clumps of teenagers, retired people getting some exercise. But now here he was, bathed in the scent of pretzels and perfume, the sounds of voices echoing off the high ceilings and polished floors.

  The Apple Store was on the lower level, near Nordstrom. It was a busy place, with people trying out the gadgets or chatting with salespeople. Fortunately he was able to find an unoccupied iPad right away. Glancing furtively over his shoulder, as if he were going to surf for porn, he opened the browser and went to the Internet Movie Database.

  A search for “Jack Dayton” produced three results: a cameraman, a Foley artist who worked on a bunch of movies in the 1980s, and an actor. The actor Jack Dayton appeared in two movies in 1955 and ’56. One was a comedy called Dancing at the Grand, in which Jack Dayton played a bellhop. In the other movie, Central High School, Dayton played Mikey Collins. There was no biography listed for the actor, but IMDb did list years of birth and death: 1934 and 1956, respectively.