San Francisco. A brand name hotel. "Cash or credit?" asks the desk clerk. Magnetic stripe keycard, marker graffiti in the elevator, and a third floor room. On the left is a sink and enormous mirror. The bed is like a stage. A small refrigerator in the corner. A window overlooks the parking garage.
Open the fridge and put a six-pack of Budweiser inside. Place a box of take-out sushi on the coffee table. A door beside the bed connects to an adjacent room. It is locked from both sides. A phone rings from behind it. The voice of a young woman answers.
"Hello? ... yes, the pictures are of me — my rates go by the 1/2 hour — 375 — That's nothing extra, no oral or anything, just twenty minutes of sex — 350 — what do you mean by open minded? — Sure we can do that. That will be an extra 20 — Ok, well, I already have a hotel room but I can do an outcall for 275 — sure, I know how it is... you know... you just want to get laid — (nervous laughter) — alright, on my face for 250 — what? Oh, could you hold on a second? Or, um, let me put you on hold..."
A hushed conversation with someone else in the room. An older voice, a woman.
"Hello, are you still there? Sure, we could do maybe 200, but that's it. This is a business."
And now the sound of motion, "Cali, do you have a key?" — "Yeah" — movement through the hallway. I eat a piece of sushi and open a beer. This place is seedy. This roll is good.
The phone rings again, "No, really all I can do is 175, maybe 170 but that's it — Ok, well maybe if I'm bored sometime or something I could give you a call?" She hangs up and begins to sob full force.
I stand, surprised by the situation. I remove my hat to better press my ear against the door. Three minutes of weeping. Four minutes. The sound of water in the walls, pouring into toilet tanks and draining to the sewer. A welling urge to open the partition door and gently knock on hers. Ring-ring, sniff — "Hello? Ok, I'll meet you out front, ok? Just call me when you are out front, I'll meet you out front, you'll see me."
Feel a strong desire to protect her. One hand on the handle and the other on the lock, will I open it and stop her? Consider the consequences: what if she freaked out, or ignored my knock. What if there is a silent, deadly pimp in there with her. What if she and I connect and then I cannot be rid of her? She's so sad —I could slip a note under the partition. Or under her front door.
I hear a window slide open. It’s hers. I rush over to mine. But first I replace my hat. My character's accoutrement. Now I lean out and look, expecting eye contact — but nothing. No wistful profile. I feel foolish. She is leaving soon. I must do something. I could call. Yes, I'll call. What is her room number? No, no — that won’t work… Grab a blank notebook, tear out a page and write: "I'm sad because you are sad. I hope you'll be OK."
Open the front door, lean out and drop the note against the wall. A careful piece of litter, dropped with careless precision. Quietly close the door and return to the sushi. It's topped with tiny orange spheres. They taste like a sea. A sound in the hallway, someone walking by. Leap to the peephole and peek through — A man, a passerby. He appears to notice the note but does not stop. I resume chewing. Another sound of movement. The same passerby, now with a styrofoam cup of ice. He stops and bends over the note. He reads it without touching it.
The phone rings again — "I'll be right there" — bounce back to front door and peep through the hole. Her door clicks open and closed, and she passes through my field of view. A young woman no older than twenty-two years. Long, straight blonde hair. High cheeks. Warm skin. She looks like she’s been crying. She's a beauty. Motion twisted by peephole optics. The moment she's out of sight she halts — takes a step backwards, and collects something from the floor.
When she has gone, I open the door and confirm: the note has been taken. Close the door and here I am, standing in front of a half-built vanity. Eyes on the raw 2x4 timber under the counter. Eyes up to the enormous mirror. I take a swig of beer and watch myself in the mirror. Hat on my head, notebook and pen peeking from my back pocket. I am an actor watching scattered plots unfold. I’m going to be a writer!
I collapse onto the bed, excited by craziness. She picked it up! She turned back for it and took it! Ten minutes elapse. Then her voice is in the hall, walking by, crying, "Please, please call me. I have to talk to you. You won't believe what Cali just did to me. Please. Please!”
She's enters her room and I run to the connection — she collapses on her bed and beats the pillows with her fists. "Damnit — damnit – (whimpers) … I want my mommy!"
Submitted December 29, 2015 at 07:36AM by drunknbold http://ift.tt/1kpbgnu WritersGroup
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