The Hotel

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  With hesitant legs, I stepped over the threshold and into a dark, stinky room. A combination of smoke, liquor, sex and age-old filth met my nostrils and caused me to cough. Once I found the light switch, I flipped it on to reveal a room directly from the late 1960’s or early 70’s. There was so much color it was blinding. It looked like lemons combined with orange soda pops had erupted everywhere. Everything was yellow and orange. It was on the walls, the curtains, the bedspread, the chairs, and in the shag carpet. And it was in all sorts of clashing patterns from striped wallpaper, paisley-designed drapes and a swirly floral pattern on the bedspread. I thought of Ava’s yellow shirt with a big orange butterfly across the front and wanted to burn it.

  Once I recovered from the bold shocking burst of colors, I looked at the furnishings. A free-floating nightstand was attached to the wall on each side of a regular-sized bed. One side contained a rotary phone with a phone book in an open shelf underneath. The other displayed a Bible, showing little wear after, no doubt, years of being in this room. Two upholstered, very stained chairs were positioned at the front window with a small table separating them. Opposite the bed, and on the same wall as Greg’s unit, a credenza held a humongous, old tube-styled TV, and, oh goody, a minibar.

  No time was wasted in throwing my purse on the bed and then pressing my ear to Greg’s wall. Surprisingly, I didn’t hear a thing. No voices, no TV, no music. Nothing. I wondered if the walls were thicker than I had assumed. If not, what were they doing?

  Checking around for anything to assist in my surveillance, I looked for air vents or holes in the plaster wall ... not that I could discern a hole with that loud wallpaper going on.

  “There has to be something going on over there,” I muttered to myself.

  It occurred to me, room 7 might be vacant and the light was accidentally left on. “No,” I reminded myself because I saw a light on, then it went off. There had to be someone in there. “Maybe they’re in the shower,” I said, literally carrying on a conversation with myself. Going ino the bathroom I listened intently for the sound of running water or even the flushing of a toilet. Nothing again.

  Perplexed and staring at the wall, I sat on the nasty orange and yellow swirly floral-patterned bedspread. Had they gone to sleep? The sunburst clock above the old TV was grinding along, showing it to be a few minutes after eleven. My watch agreed.

  Then my mind played tricks on me, telling me maybe Greg had a change of heart about going to Vegas with Taylor Anderson. Maybe he wanted to come back home and apologize but, unable to face me, he rented this place for the night and was simply asleep in the room next door. I imagined him returning in the morning and dropping to his knees to beg forgiveness. Yes, that’s the way I saw this playing out. What a relief.

  Even though I didn’t believe Greg was alone and sleeping next door, it was even harder to believe that he was cheating on me and, of all places, at a dump like this. But if was cheating, why weren’t there any noises coming from his room? Greg tended to grunt a lot. Not terribly loud, but it was audible. Was he holding back, afraid he’d embarrass himself in front of his lover?

  Remembering, on the bathroom vanity, there was a tray containing an empty ice bucket and a couple of glasses, I went to retrieve one. It really grossed me out to find that it wasn’t wrapped in protective tissue or even covered with a paper sanitation lid. Undoing the minuscule bar of soap, I used it to wash the cup, but then had to use one of the motel towels to dry it, which was probably white several decades ago, but was now dingy and showed stains.

  Going back to the wall, I placed the tumbler to my ear on one side and the other against the wall and listened. Still, it was quiet. Pacing the room, I tried to decide my next move, entertaining my options once again. One of which was going home and waiting for Greg to come home Friday night and pretending like none of this ever happened, including turning a blind eye to his supposed seminar in Vegas. Because, when it came right down to it, I didn’t want our marriage to end. I didn’t want Ava to be from a broken family. Some might consider me weak in the face of a divorce. But only a week ago, I thought we were solid. What if I ignored having seen Taylor Anderson and dismissed overhearing Lisa Jacobs? What if I chose to believe Greg had quit racquetball because he was working? And what if he was only trying to spice up our love life with that sex move the other night? What if I left here to never look back? If I did all of that, would everything be swept under the rug, with us continuing in what I thought was a happy family?

  We had been happy. We were happy. Just this week alone, we’d spent and amazing week together with Greg taking us on a picnic, he’d brought me roses, we’d gone to dinner and a movie, we’d had the night alone where I’d made his favorite dinner, we’d redone Ava’s room, he’d cooked me breakfast more than once, and we’d had a nice dinner at Saint-Emilion. For each and every event, Greg had portrayed himself as charming, charismatic, engaging and in a wonderful mood. Also, we’d had hot passionate sex every night this week. Not once had he hinted at being dissatisfied in our relationship. Even this morning, after I’d slept for the first time in our married life away from him, he’d told me our bed was extremely lonely without me next to him and he hated to leave town at a time when I was angry with him. Of course, he said those things at a time when he wasn’t leaving town and now his bed wasn’t lonely because he was in it with someone else.

  The idea of Greg leading two separate lives was hard to swallow. Surely it must require a massive effort to hold down his job, please a lover, and make his wife and daughter happy. Juggling the time alone would be exhaustive. Just thinking about it caused my feet to tire and I slumped back on the bed, hoping I didn’t get bedbugs or lice. What a filthy place this was.

  Folding myself into a cross-legged position, I stared at the blank TV and considered turning it on full blast to see if Greg beat on the wall or even came to my door to personally complain. I was just about to do it when headlights flashed across a tiny gap in the industrial thick curtains. Jumping from my bed, I ran and peeked out. It was just another car arriving. It came to a stop and three slutty girls hopped out and went into a room down to the right of where I was. A sure sign the “hourly” customers would soon be arriving. Maybe that’s what it was. Greg was quietly waiting next door for his harlot to arrive.

  My stomach growled, reminding me of only having eaten half an ice cream sandwich with Troy. Unfortunately, after checking to see what was in the mini-fridge, I found only a zillion tiny bottles of various liquors. Fearing this place might be hopping as the night wore on, I grabbed my purse and key and headed to the vending machines.

  Keeping on the sidewalk right by the doors, I quickened my pace toward the motel office. At the end, I went between two moveable cement curbs, crossed the last bit of the parking lot and entered the vestibule area in front of the registration office where the vending machines were.

  The burly guy was inside purchasing a pack of cigarettes from an ancient machine with pull-knob selectors, one with no way to monitor underage buyers. I wondered if the cigarettes were fresh or left from decades gone by. Then again, this place probably sold a lot of tobacco.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” He gave me a predatory look up and down and nodded.

  “It’s going just fine,” I told him, wanting to hurry up and get out. Quickly, I selected a diet Dr. Pepper, which felt unusually warm. Then, though I wanted to make a prompt decision, I found myself pondering the snack choices. My first selection was a bag of Baked Lay’s potato chips, which, after purchasing, suddenly served to remind me I was in a place where customers got “laid.” Next, I selected a Butterfinger, which, only after procuring, reminded me of that sex move Greg made the other night. Now I didn’t think I could eat it or the chips and so I chose a Baby Ruth and thought of my sweet daughter. The silver twisty holder spun to release the candy and hung up before dropping.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  Burly guy noticed. “Here, let me help you.” He came over and leaned the whole freak
ing machine forward and then let it drop back into place with a resounding thud. My selection fell, along with a KitKat. After pushing the trap door open, he handed me both items. “Here you go.”

  I looked at him for the first time. Although his face was mostly covered in a beard and mustache and his hair was somewhat scraggly, his appearance was softened with pretty, green eyes.

  “Oh, well, do you want the KitKat? I didn’t pay for it.”

  He chuckled and rolled his eyes. “What are you doing in a place like this? You need to get out of here.”

  ◆◆◆

  Of course, Burly was correct. I should leave this place at once. Before making it to the sidewalk, there were three other cars pulling into the parking lot. This place was getting busy, and it was no place for me. But did I leave? No, stupid me, I stayed.

  Back in the room, I tasted the Dr. Pepper, and it was too hot to gag down. Taking the ice bucket, I ventured out to the ice machine and filled it. On my way back to the room, I noticed Burly was talking to some barely clad girl.

  “Hey,” he called out, taking a few steps in my direction. I stopped and looked at him. “Here, take this. If you need anything, give me a call.” He held out a business card and I took it.

  “Thanks.” Without reading it, I dashed back to my room, shut the door and made sure the interior bolt was thrown. Sitting the ice on the table, I looked at the card. It was from Liam Marshall, Private Investigator.

  Interesting.

  Though I didn’t think I needed it, I placed it in the front of my wallet. Once again, I did my sound check, listening for noises in room 7. Much to my surprise, this time, I heard the low volume of a TV. But after closer investigation, I realized it was coming from an upstairs unit.

  Cleaning the tumbler previously held up to my ear, I shoved in some ice and poured the soda over it. After a few sips and a couple of bites of the Baby Ruth, I heard a foot hit the floor. This time, coming from Greg’s room.

  Then it happened.

  A voice came from the room next door so muffled I couldn’t make it out. I ran and pressed one ear flat against the wall and heard, “God, I want you so much. You’re the best.” It sounded husky, like it could be Greg.

  The female was too soft spoken for me to hear.

  “You’re so beautiful. I love your blonde hair. Come here, baby, I’m so ready for you.” A pause, then, “Roll over for me baby, and stick your ass up.”

  My insides turned over and the candy suddenly became a gummy mess in my stomach. In only a matter of minutes, with one ear pressed flat against the wall, I heard all kinds of deep male grunting and groaning. The female was high-pitched and squeaky.

  “Ohh, ohh, you feel incredible. God, I love being inside you. Ohh, ohh.”

  Then I heard a slap, maybe on her butt?

  “Ouch, ouch,” I heard the squeaky voice.

  “You like it ... don’t you?” Grunt. Grunt. Grunt. “Tell me you like it.”

  “I like it. I like it.”

  “Ohh, ohh.” Grunt. Grunt. Grunt. “Get on top of me now.”

  Shit. Screwing my eyes shut and holding my ears, I wanted desperately for this to go away, not be real. I could hardly bring myself to accept it. Greg was having an affair. A deep, sickening ache clutched at my stomach and my heart pounded in my chest to the point I could barely breathe. Even though the moment of discovery was inevitable, I still couldn’t help the feeling of being blindsided. I wanted to go back to hanging onto the slenderest thread of hope, to believe my husband wasn’t a cheater. But now those tiny strands were completely frayed.

  As I listened to those awful love-making noises seeping through the wall, only a few inches away, thoughts screamed in my head. Horrible thoughts of wanting to kill him. I wanted to kill Greg. I did. My so-called loving husband had now completely torn at my soul and ripped my guts out. It felt like a horror film gone bad. This had to be my worst nightmare. My hands were shaking uncontrollably. And I thought about the gun in my purse. I did. Oh, God, I did.

  Pulling my ear away from the wall, I paced the room again. I was a nervous wreck and needed something, anything, to ease my tension, and certainly before I pulled out that gun. I eyed my purse. Then I forced myself to look away. Don’t do anything stupid, I warned myself.

  Grunt. Grunt. Grunt.

  Disgusting noises continued seeping through the wall. Now I wanted to go back to the quiet room. Back when I had hope. Hope. I laughed hysterically. Right now, if someone saw me, they would know I had gone mad and haul me away in a straitjacket. I eyed my purse again and imagined the gun in my hand. “Too loud,” I warned myself. I’d need to use the tire iron.

  Flipping the lights off and parting the curtains, I peeked outside. The parking lot was surprisingly packed with cars. The whoring business must be doing very well. Surely everyone was doing their own grunting and groaning and wouldn’t notice me going for the tire iron. And if they were as loud as Greg was right now, they wouldn’t hear me bashing his skull in. Hers too. Whoever she was. I didn’t care.

  Then I thought of Ava. My baby. It would be way worse if I went to jail for killing her father. Though he deserved it. He did. It was bad enough for Greg to have ruined our family. The three of us had been close, always doing things together. We had been like the Three Musketeers. “Oh, I should have selected a 3 Musketeers bar,” I suggested to myself.

  My hysteria had turned into a raging river of tears to the point I could no longer see. I stopped and slid down the wall into a crumpled heap on the nasty orange and yellow shag carpet, finding myself next to the small fridge. Rifling through it, I came out with a tiny bottle of something. It was too dark to read the label. Twisting off the top, I downed a few swallows. It burned my tongue, causing me to splutter on the already filthy carpet. Like a blazing fire it traveled down to my stomach and seared a hole in it. Once I downed it, I pulled out the next miniature bottle and downed it too. My head was leaning against the wall and I was getting another earful.

  Grunt. Grunt. Grunt. “Oh baby, God,” Grunt. Grunt. Grunt. “That’s it, baby. God, you’re good.”

  My unrelenting crying resulted in my nose dripping out a big slushy booger which I wiped on the carpet and then reached for another tiny bottle and drank it. Pretty soon I had all those teeny bottles lined up like dominoes on the credenza. I didn’t care what they were. I just wanted to forget. Then one by one, I drank them all. Later I would regret my actions, but in this moment, I didn’t give a damn.

  My brain swirled like a spinning vortex. All liquored up, I felt my tongue loosening and suddenly going next door and giving Greg and his nympho a piece of my mind sounded like a good idea. That’s what I’d do. Placing my hands on the credenza, I used it for leverage to pull myself to standing. As soon as I did, the room began closing in on me, stifling like a vacuum sucking the air from my lungs and suffocating me. Daylight had long ago drained from the room. And after my last peek out the window, I had turned off the switch and couldn’t see anything. The entire dingy, smelly room was nothing but entire darkness. Feeling woozy and needing to lie down, I struggled to stumble across the filthy carpet. Trying to keep upright, the floor lurched around me. My head reeled as I tried with great effort to walk the tightrope between the credenza and the bed. Unable to make it, I crawled the rest of the way and clawed my way to the top of it.

  ◆◆◆

  God only knows how long I was passed out. When I forced the slits of my eyes to open, the room spun, and the mattress rocked. A roaring sound pierced my ears and dizziness had everything twisting and turning. My face was covered in drool and I felt sick to my stomach. My head hurt and my muscles ached. Drunk. I must’ve been drunk off my ass. Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited a moment, hoping for the queasiness to pass. Prying them back open, I scanned the room trying to figure out where I was. Everything was dark and, despite my own alcohol-ridden breath, wherever I was added to my own stench. Hazy and unrecognizable images doubled my vision. Slowly coming to my senses, I remembered being in the m
otel room ... with Greg next door ... with his damn hussy.

  Trying to stand, the room tilted and swayed. Stumbling, I stumped my toe on the end of the bed. Trying to muffle my scream, I dropped to the floor and crawled across the room and placed my ear back on the wall.

  Everything was quiet. Dead silent. Dragging myself across the floor, I pulled up on the chair so that I could turn on the lights. When the room illuminated in the brightest light known to mankind and orange and yellow swirled around me like a giant kaleidoscope, I flipped them back off and slumped in the chair. My dizziness wasn’t going to let go and my head was thundering like a stampede of wild horses. Why did I do this to myself? I knew I’d regret my copious drinking.

  When I woke the next time, I had slid from the chair to the floor, my nose was buried in the putrid scent of the shag carpet and an empty bag of chips and the wrappers from four candy bars were crumpled beside me, including a 3 Musketeers. How did that get in here? Evidently, I must’ve gone back to the snack machine.

  Pulling myself back in the chair, and not about to turn on the light, I lifted the curtain and looked outside. It was just before the break of dawn. Several of the cars had left. Maybe their hour was up.

  Desperately I needed some fresh air. Using the chair and hauling myself upright, I reached over the table for my room key and placed it in my jean pocket to prevent accidentally locking myself out. Opening the door and stepping into the brisk early morning air, I noticed Greg’s car was still here. He was still in that room with his marriage-wrecker. Maybe now was a good time to confront his ass. Even if he donned his trousers, he wouldn’t be able to explain being here this early in the morning. There were no lies he could invent at this point to take away those awful, awful sex noises still ringing in my ears.

  My heart leapt into my throat when my feet headed toward room 7. A horrible, horrible confrontation was about to ensue. Even if there were no words spoken, the writing was on the wall. Greg and I were over. I wouldn’t tolerate this treatment. I deserved better. So did Ava. He did this to himself. The blame rested on his shoulders.