For A.C.
Once you know how, you can freshen your makeup without seeing your reflection in the mirror. It took years of practice and a Herculean effort to ignore the plummet that deposited her in room 207 of the Heart o’ Chicago motel, where, even at 11 on a Friday night, you couldn’t go a minute without hearing a discontented car speeding by. Three more for the night and then she could walk the two blocks home, hoping no one would notice she was in a dress increasingly inappropriate for a woman of her age.
She could be any age from the seemingly innocent, yet highly experienced, ingénue, to the English teacher with the whip-fast ruler to whatever age was sufficiently old enough to absolve them both so that, when it was over, neither one felt the need to speak.
First came Brad, former classical trumpeter and now perpetually flailing salesman who traveled too much to justify how little he made—as his wife kept pointing out. They met in Cleveland when he was a student at the Conservatory and she was a business major at Case Western. She loved the artist’s life and supported his assent up the orchestra ladder until he stalled at the Skokie Valley Orchestra. She had never mastered a poker face and her disappointment was even greater when he took a job selling hospital-consulting services. He didn’t make much of a dent in that industry either, leaving both with unspoken, but fully acknowledged, disappointment. Oh, for someone who would forgive him, comfort him and give him a blow job.
He never minds the long-haul flights. Once he has a cocktail, kick off his shoes, close his eyes, and dream of bigger things. He is content. In the morning, he could look forward to being in a city, Boston, Miami, Dallas or Los Angeles—a city of importance to match his prospective own. It is the short trips that suck him dry, not only can he never truly relax on board, but he ends up in a place he would never want to visit or be associated with: Buffalo, Des Moines, Grand Rapids or Midland. Basically, he has thirty minutes max before his ears start to pop and he searches the dark Earth for something that looks desirable.
The woman next to him stretches her legs and rubs against his. Sorry not sorry. Soulful brown eyes greet his. She has such a nice, sexy smile—friendly and completely indifferent to the cause that put him on a flight to western Michigan. The beverage cart pulls up. He usually does not drink on short legs—but if a cute woman, who is obvious tipsy, offers you a drink, why not take it?
She stretches and their legs touch again. This time she leaves hers there. A smile mirrored on her face. She rubs his legs through her stockings. Is it her pulse or his? He can feel himself blushing. My lord, how good it would be to feel her arms around him. Her hand slips across as if driven by remote control and slowly unbuckles his lap belt while he looks around to see if anyone is watching. She slides across his body and whispers: “count to 30 and join me in the back.”
When he left, she ignored the bill on the table, pretending it was his business card. She had learned long ago to let men leave before retrieving the money; it preserved the illusion of normalcy for a few moments more.
She poured two fingers of vodka in a plastic cup, rinsed her mouth and spit into the sink. She looked at the mirror and saw her makeup could use touching up. She wanted nothing so much than to scrub her face—as if she would ever feel clean again. She knew she wouldn’t and tidied her lips.
A knock on her door. Ira, the night manager. For the first couple of months, he convinced her he was the son of the owner and that one day the motel will be his. And from here, he will launch his empire of boutique hotels. But she saw Mustapha, who really owned the motel, reaming out Ira and realized there was no relationship and no plan. It is just a pathetic lie he tells himself in the early morning gloom.
He looks through the stained and threadbare curtains. The parking lot is drowning in harsh amber light, revealing only three cars in for the night. They will lose less money turning on the no vacancy light than paying maids to clean clean rooms. The only money coming in that night will be from the stoned kids who descend on the vending machine after the clubs closed.
It is enough to want to hang yourself, if only there is anything in this damn motel sturdy enough to hang yourself from. If there is a dead-end, this is it. Even the nearly empty parking lot is an enormous cul-de-sac that leads out to a one-way street that ends at a warehouse. The only way to leave the motel is to go the wrong way down a one-way street. Says it all.
He wants someone to recognize him for the ambitious and intelligent man he is. The man who is going places. Someone to share the dreams, he mutters to himself alone in the early morning office. A few furtive glances and then mad passion—on the bed and off.
She watched him walk to the door, look at the table and then snort, knowing it was merely her cost of doing business in the motel, where from 10 pm to 7 am, he was the petty tyrant.
One more. Gary the depressed therapist who mounts her while psychoanalyzing her—insisting her chosen profession was the result of possible abuse by an alcoholic father and/or detached mother. He was wrong, but she let him believe in his diagnosis, just like she let him cuddle up with the illusion that he was a generous lover.
At any moment, a flood of thoughts would overwhelm her. Why was this the closest thing to a real relationship he had? Two wives came and went and the current one who was more like a sparring partner than a spouse. He admitted he went into psychology just to feel superior.
But that isn’t what she is thinking. She remembers when she was 14 years old, feeling like a mouse walking the peeling halls of high school. Her family had moved from Pittsburgh just six weeks ago and she knew all of one person, Christine Alhbers, who lived down the street and already hated her.
She watches the hormone-soaked kids pairing up, knowing it is merely a game of musical chairs and she will forever be the one standing when the music stops. When she looks in the mirror, it is not hard to see why. She is built like a leafless shrub with enough acne to be confused with an alien landscape. She has bad asthma and it takes but the slightest whiff of an offending odor for her to cough uncontrollably. Who would want to kiss those chapped lips, caked with blood and whatever she had for lunch?
Why is she thinking about these memories that have been buried deeply under the strata of disappointment and misfortune? Why go back thirty years to dredge up these memories when there were so many fresher, more troubling memories?
A quiet knock on the door. She prepares to confess her unquenchable desire for Gary. He averts his bushy eyebrows and steps aside to reveal a wispy boy—anemic and obviously chronically ill. “Please,” Gary whispers, “the boy’s never been kissed. I just thought, you know, you could make him feel better for a little while. Please.”
Like a leaf in the slightest breeze, a nod.
Gary’s face brightens. “You are a darling.” He walks the door, fumbles with some bills, thinks better of it and winks. He closes the door so silently.
She takes a step back, pushing the robe off her shoulder. To revel again in awkward teenage coupling. Both terrified. Both excited. Both briefly unaware it will never be this good again.