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Episode 043 |
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“Leave tomorrow ‘til it comes, Sleep will ease your mind. With the dawn, you’ll find Problems realized a different way Than yesterday.” Return of the King, Leave Tomorrow ‘Til It Comes
We finally find a place just as the clock of a local church tolls eight times in the distance like a moaning ghost. It’s a seedy hotel building, constructed as if out of plywood and sheet metal in between a wide alley formed by two larger brick buildings. Running up the side, neon letters spell out ‘Heart o’ the City’. “Why in the world did they import slums?” I gawk, staring at the sign. I look around the city street and the squalor and trash that looks like it’s been around for years. “They said they wanted a real city environment,” Slate explains with disinterest, looking up at the six story hotel. Some guys walk by us, staring at Slate’s mid-drift and lower, but she ignores them. She looks over at me, hesitant. “I’m open to other ideas,” I say. She shakes her head in submission as we head in. Through the dented wooden door covered in several layers of chipped paint, we find an orange-carpeted room with stained walls and a wood-like tiled desk. A large man almost as wide as he is tall is sitting squat on a table, watching a television on the counter. When we walk in, he looks up at Slate and back down at the television. “Fifteen an hour, honey,” he says, fondling the pocket of his tobacco-teeth colored shirt. He takes out an ancient package of slim cigars and starts to chew on the end of one. “They charge by the hour?” Slate tries to swallow. She turns around to me, astonished. I try to speak quietly to her. “This place is for hookers,” I explain quietly. “It’s not used for overnight stuff.” She turns from me, then back, glaring at me. “We are not staying in this…” “Then where else?” I ask. “I’m open to suggestions, Slate, I really am. But do you think crashing on the street again is a good idea?” “Hey!” We both turn as the hotel manager lifts himself up a bit, glaring at us through his cataract-ridden eyes. “You either get a room or get out. You understand?” “We’re getting a room,” I say before Slate can snap at me. I move around her, coming up to the desk. “I’ve got my card number, but I forgot my card,” I say, looking down at the tiny man. “But we want a full night’s stay. Fifty bucks.” He looks up at me and scoffs. “Fifteen an hour.” “Fifty bucks for eight hours,” I state. I refuse to turn around because I know Slate is glaring at me. He looks up at me, pretending he’s watching the television. “Six,” he spits out. “Final offer.” I take a breath and look back at Slate. She’s fuming. But she doesn’t say anything. I turn back to the little troll of a man. “Deal.” “Six hours?” Slate glares, standing in front of me as we move down the short hall to the stairs. She catches my shoulder and turns me around. “Sam, that money could have bought us food. Could have bought us…” “Food won’t do us any good, Slate, if we’re falling asleep on our feet,” I say patiently, but sternly. “And what are we going to do tomorrow night?” she demands. “We will figure it out tomorrow night,” I answer simply. I look at the stairs, then at her. “You got the key.” “Yeah,” she mutters, holding up the dangling silver key against the gaudy dark brown key ring. “Room 313,” She says. I look at her and smile. She rolls her eyes. “Don’t get superstitious on me now,” she says, motioning for me to lead the way. We head up to the third floor, navigating a flight of squeaks and bends that passes for steps. Flowing along the dilapidated ceiling are exposed pipes, many of them rusted and limed with build-up. We get to the third floor and I stop Slate again. “This place looks like it’s been falling apart for a decade, if not longer,” I say. “How did they, why would they…” “Sam, I don’t know,” she says, her exhaustion getting the better of her. “Maybe they transplanted parts of an old town or city or something. I mean, does it really matter?” “It might,” I say, following her as she leads me all the way to the end of the hall. Against the constant din of traffic outside, she unlocks the white door with a tarnished brass handle that shows a three, a one, and another three dangling by a tack. She shoves the door open, exposing the dark room to the light as if for the first time. It’s a small room. Hell, who am I kidding? It’s a large closet. There’s one bed, a double, in front of a television that looks like it dates back to the Carter administration. There’s a chair in the corner, under a lamp that doesn’t even have a bulb. At the far wall, there’s a door that leads into a half-bath. The toilet’s practically under the sink. Slate shuts the door behind me and we both stare at the bed. I look at her, but she just rolls her eyes. “Set the alarm,” she grumbles. “And you better not snore,” she says as she kicks off her army boots. I go over to the clock by the bed and set the alarm. “I’m setting it for seven hours,” I say. “If he wants to kick us out, he’s going to have to climb the steps himself.” “Yeah, not likely,” she agrees, sitting down on the far side of the bed. The metal springs beneath the mattress squeak badly, but the bed itself seems soft. She looks over at me and sighs. “You don’t, like, sleep in the nude or anything do you?” I can’t resist. “Is that a come-on?” I ask. She hits me on the shoulder, unable to keep from laughing. “Jesus, if you cop a feel while we’re asleep, so help me…” “Don’t worry,” I say, pulling the top blanket off her side of the bed, leaving her with the sheets and the middle blanket. “I’ll be a good boy.” I settle in on the side of the bed near the door. I kick off my shoes and lay down, my bones aching as I’m able to lay out straight. I remember seeing something like this in a sit-com. A funny line comes to me. I roll over to tell Slate. The woman’s face lays bare on the pillow, the blood from her body staining the white sheets. Sam’s eyes lift up from the pillow to see Slate’s body in the bathroom. She stands in front of the mirror, swaying slightly in the luminescent light from the shower. The ambient sound of running water drowns out the scratching sound. Sam moves just a bit, lifting up towards Slate. He tries to move around the corner of the bed, leaning over the blankets. And as he does, he sees past the wall, sees the mirror that the woman is staring in. A fragment of muscle falls, dropped into the sink. Slate lifts up with the knife in her hand, carefully sawing away another strand of muscle from her exposed face, slicing away the flesh around her skull. Blood pours out from her wounds as she stares deadpan into the mirror, the light from the shower detailing every action. Sam gasps. And her eyes lift up from her work. She’s staring right at him. She’s staring right at me. I jerk up from my bed, shrieking. I push myself back against the wall, panting in terror. Slate jumps up as I did, leaping back from the door. Her hands are up and ready, but her eyes fearfully scan the area of the room. When it slowly begins to dawn on us that the world is okay, she sighs weakly. She sits down on the bed, forcing herself to breathe slowly. “You okay?” she asks over her should her after a moment. I’m still plastered against the far wall. “Yeah,” I say, my voice shaking as it escapes my lips. “Bad dream?” she asks, rubbing her eyes. “Just a little,” I say, beginning to pull myself off the wall. “Wanna talk about it?” she asks, sitting up just a bit. I look at her, the image from my dream super-imposing over the back of her head. “No,” I squeak. “I’m cool.” “Good,” She says spitefully, bundling back under the sheet, leaving me alone. “Good night,” she says with an angry tone, turning away from me, laying back down where her face had been in my dream. I don’t go back to sleep. |
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