Hot House Flowers

Each house had its own unique smell dictated by the habits of those that dwelt within its hardy walls. This one smelled faintly of cigar smoke and coffee and roses, of cologne made from orange blossoms and the wood of the floor and of course, clean linens. Elsa washed these herself once a week and ironed them before folding them away in the linen closet. Now she changed the bedding, stripping the navy blue cases from the pillows and peeling away the old sheets from the large mattress in the master bedroom.
There was a bar of Belgian chocolate wrapped in gold foil under Mr. Gardner’s pillow with a wilted wild flower and a small note card hidden between the foil and the paper wrapper. The note card had only a time scrawled in the banker’s flowing script: 1:00. Elsa smelled the chocolate and the dehydrated little flower with a smile before pocketing these items in her cleanly starched apron pocket. Mrs. Gardner would get fresh roses this evening, but her maid felt that she was the one getting the better part of the bargain. At 23 she was still young enough that hot house flowers seemed befitting only of grave yards. She finished making up the bed with the clean set of avocado green sheets and pillow slips and moved on to the dusting and emptying of waste bins.


Mrs. Gardner would have friends for tea at 11:00 and enlisted Elsa’s help in preparing the table before she left. She was paid weekly with a check from Mr. Gardner’s book for basic housekeeping, but never minded being asked to help with something extra. In particular she liked handling the fine bone china with little pink roses painted on them. She couldn’t imagine bothering to drink from cups so small and delicate herself, and never coveted such items. She was content to handle all of the belongings of Mrs. Gardner only momentarily, becoming acquainted with their textures and shapes and odors without ever having to worry about loosing them. She even helped fasten the pearls around her employer’s neck before she departed, thereby adding their smoothness to the storehouse of her memory. She neither envied nor pitied Mrs. Gardner, but felt something like disdain for this woman who knew so little of her husband and her house that one could hide notes in the other without fear of discovery.


The Finch household was another arrangement all together. Elsa tripped on the garden hose left carelessly in the walkway on her way to the front door. The houses on this street were smaller than those on the street where the Gardners lived and nestled together like pigeons on a rooftop. The yards were composed of neat little squares of green grass protected by white fences and within their confines, clothes lines were strung flying brightly colored shirts like flags. The screen door hung crooked over the threshold of the Finch residence and Elsa opened it and let herself in. The odor of bourbon and old grease from frying greeted her nose along with the scent of stale cigarette butts and bleach. Dahlia Finch was hanging off the sofa in a nude toned satin slip surrounded on all sides by half drained glasses of bourbon and Jim Bean. She appeared to be sleeping with her mouth wide open and a burning cigarette dangled from the fingers of one hand.


Elsa gathered up the glasses and put out the cigarette, taking them all to the little kitchen. Elroy Dean, Dahlia’s brother was sitting at the round wooden table solving crossword puzzles in his rumpled undershirt and boxers. His greasy dark hair was turned every which way.
“Oh. Hi Elsa, how are you doing?” he asked her in his soft almost lisping voice glancing up at her over his thin spectacles.
“Fine Roy. You?” she asked, filling the sink with hot sudsy water.
“Uh, very well under the circumstance.” He said shuffling one black sock clad foot around on the linoleum under the table. His big toe protruded from the end of the sock.
“What circumstance would that be?” Elsa asked him.
He sighed deeply and stared intently at the crossword puzzle, penciling something in.
“Oh, uh, Bertrand hasn’t been home for a few days.”
Elsa shut off the faucet and dropped the glasses and an assortment of dirty dishes that she gathered from the countertops into the hot water. Then she turned to face him drying her hands on the apron.
“Really?”
Roy looked at her and nodded.
“Where did he go?” she asked and he shrugged.
They looked at each other silently for a moment, Elsa forgoing the formality of asking why. One glance around the house supplied enough “why”. The disheveled brother in law in the kitchen and drunkard wife in the living room were adequate explanation for the departure of any reasonable man.
“You want to smoke a reefer?” Elroy asked her after a while.
She shook her head,
“I have an appointment in an hour.” But then she walked across the kitchen and ran a hand through his stringy dark hair. She bent over him, bringing her face close to his. Breathing the scent of his unwashed hair and searching over his pale face with her blue eyes she brought her mouth to his and whispered,
“But I might take one for the road.”
She pressed her lips against his. Slowly she worked her way from his mouth, down his throat and chest under the shirt and beyond, until she had sunk to her knees and Roy unraveled her bun so that the blonde hair spilled out over his lap like liquid gold.

At 12:30 Elsa stole a shower and borrowed some black lacy undergarments and a dress from Dhalia’s closet. By then the Matron of the household was stirring and volunteered to help the other woman doll up. A cigarette dangled from her lip as she applied the make up to Elsa’s face in the bathroom. Roy, partially clad now with a pair of gray slacks and fedora to accompany the rumpled undershirt offered to drive Elsa to her appointment. She accepted and had him drop her off a block away from the hotel. Before she climbed out of the car, he fished three joints out of his pocket and pressed them into her hand.
“For the road, remember?”
She put them in her purse and walked the block to the Hilton.


1:00 at The Palace. Hotels too had their own smell, clean and impersonal. One might catch a whiff of polished brass or the detergent used to clean the carpets. Bell hops smelled like soap, desk clerks like after shave. There were lilies and carnations and roses mingling together in crystal vases in the lobby and under mirrors in the halls and in the rooms. The heavy drapes had been pulled shut blocking out the afternoon sun and a view of the street. Elsa felt the glorious starchiness of the white sheets on her naked body and the warm softness of Agnew Gardners great paunch under her arm. The scent of his cologne, familiar to her from her daily visits to his home blended with the impersonal hotel odors forming a collage of worlds in her mind. She pretended to sleep because that was the way he liked to leave her, no good byes, no promise of future encounters, and a fold of bills on the nightstand, to keep things fair and impersonal.
She let him slip out from under her arm, a great round man with thinning flaxen hair and large pouty lips that covered her whole mouth when they kissed. She listened to the shower run briefly, then as if it were all music, to the rustling of his clothes as he dressed himself, to the sound of the door opening and closing with a soft hiss as it scraped the plush carpet, and at last to his footsteps fading in the hall. She could picture him in his dark blue suit and hat strolling down the street, traversing the three blocks back to the bank, whistling to himself and tipping his hat to other pedestrians cigar in hand. She rolled over and tossed back the sheets, then paused before rising. There on the night stand rested the customary fold of bills, but on top of it waited a little crystal vial of perfume. She smiled broadly, fingering it, feeling a rush of warmth spread through her body.


Mrs. Peffing answered the door when Elsa rang the bell at 2:45.
“Elsa!” she exclaimed throwing both hands into the air, “I forgot you were coming. It’s just as well, come in.”
Elsa followed her inside and into the kitchen, cheered by the aroma of citron candles and sunflowers and vinyl.
“Please sit down and help yourself to a piece of lemon cake. Baked it this morning. I know how you like cake, though you’d never know it by looking at you, you skinny thing! I’m running late for a dentist appointment. Would you let Henry in when he comes? He lost his key again.” She shook her head of shiny brass curls, “I don’t know what he’ll do when he goes away to college year after next.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Elsa told her, admiring Mrs. Peffing's creamy skin and thick arms as she set out the cake and knife, a plate and a fork. “And I can let him in today.”
“Wonderful, thank you so much!” Mrs. Peffing’s apple shaped cheeks shone rosily as she smiled.
“Just let me go and cut you a check before I leave. I’ll be right back.” She said and hurried out of the kitchen.

Elsa’s hand was on the knife slicing the cake when Henry popped in a moment later.
“Hello Miss Daning.” He greeted her. She clapped a hand to her heart.
“Oh, Henry! You startled me. I didn’t hear you come in the front door.”
“I’m sorry.” he said coming closer to her with his sunny smile, “Are you alright?”
His hair was brassy like his mother’s, his jaw square, his teeth straight and white. In his yellow and blue sweater he looked like a young Apollo, the lean muscular chest and arms evident under his school colors.
“I’m fine,” she assured him.
“Is my mother home?” he asked her.
“She’s just on her way out, she has a dentist appointment.” Else explained putting the slice of cake onto the plate and pushing it towards him.
“I know she does.” He grinned breaking a piece of cake off with his fingers, “I’m the one who had her appointment moved to today instead of Friday.”
“What? Why?” Elsa inquired.
“So that I would be here alone with you.” Henry answered pushing the plate with the slice of cake back to her. His brown eyes bore into her. She fumbled with the fork and managed to knock it from the table.
“Why would you…would you want that?” she stammered.
Henry moved quickly, kneeling beside her chair to retrieve the fork before she could. With one hand he set it on the table while with the other he stroked her calf and turned his eyes back on her.
“Don’t you think you should look for a nice girl your age?” she asked him striving to maintain an icy demeanor.
“Oh, I’m not looking for a girl. And I was kinda hoping you aren’t too nice.”
Elsa’s jaw dropped slightly but she found that she could think of nothing to say to the young man who’s hand was traveling from the back of her knee to her thigh under her dress.
“Here it is.” Mrs. Peffing said from the hall just before entering the kitchen. Henry slipped swiftly under the table where he was concealed by the long linen cloth. Mrs. Peffing handed the check to Elsa.
“Did I hear Henry come in?” she asked.
“I don’t think so.” Elsa answered. Henry’s cheek pressed warmly against her inner thigh under the table and his hands caressed her calves. She picked up the fork and smiled.
“I worry about him sometimes.” Mrs. Peffing said, “He spends more time at the drug store after school lately, socializing, which I think is healthy, but I hope he doesn’t loose track of his studies. We have such high hopes for him.”
He now had her gripped by the thighs with both hands and his face was well nuzzled between her legs so that she could feel the heat of his breath through her panties.
“Well, I don’t know him well, but he seems like a nice boy.” Elsa said and he pressed his nose and then his mouth against the thin undergarment.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Peffing smiled. “Try the cake before I go.” She gestured to plate sitting before her house keeper.
Elsa sunk the fork into the moist slice of cake and brought it to her mouth while Henry chewed the panties with his perfect white teeth and his mother looked eagerly on.
“What do you think?”
“Delicious.” Elsa answered breathlessly.
Mrs. Peffing clapped her hands together.
“That’s what I thought too!” she exclaimed, “Now I really have to run. Oh, Elsa, before I forget, we’ll be out of town next week. Could you come again this Friday before we go? ”
“Of course.” Elsa told her, feeling Henry’s tongue dart daringly beyond panties.
“Excellent! See you Friday.” Mrs. Peffing said and hurried out of the kitchen. Elsa waited, straining to hear the front door close before she moaned.

They lay on their backs in Mr. And Mrs. Peffing’s bed afterwards sharing one of the three marijuana cigarettes that Roy had given her and eating the chocolate left by Mr.Gardner.
“What made you so bold?” Elsa asked after they had passed an eternity in restful silence.
“I don’t know.” Henry said as if he too was full of wonder. “I mean, you want to know something? I never did it before. I told guys I did, and they pretended to believe me just like I pretended to believe them, but I never have. Until now.” He rolled onto his side and gazed at her. “You’re just… your just so very beautiful.”
“I wish I wasn’t.” she sighed, “I get into more trouble…” she passed the joint to him and the quiet settled over them again. Sunlight slipped in through a crack in the curtains and the muted tinkling of wind chimes reached their ears from beyond the pain of glass.
“What kind of cigarette is this?” Henry asked her. He laughed his easy happy young laugh.
“It’s marijuana.” She told him with another sigh.
“Really? Well I never tried that before either.” Again he laughed.
Again the silence and the shadow of a tree branch dancing over the sunlight that peeked in past the curtain. He passed the joint back to her, “Miss Daning, I think I love you.”
She turned her head so that they were face to face.
“I doubt that Henry. You don’t really know me, but you should call me Elsa now.”
“Elsa. I think I do love you. And I know all that I need to know. How could I not love you? Now that I’ve really seen you. I used to watch you dusting and pushing the Hoover, and think ,‘man she’s something!’. But that wasn’t like this. I never saw you like this before today.”
She smiled and he kissed her softly, with renewed fire.


A fresh vase of red roses expelling their perfume into the atmosphere of polished wood and coffee, cologne and cigar smoke. That same familiar smell. Hot house flowers for those who have something to loose. A card under the pillow reading, 7:00pm, beside it a lavender blossom stolen by Mr. Gardner’s plump fingers from some hedge. A check signed by Mr. Gardner handed over by Mrs. Gardner while in the living room white gloved friends waited to commence with a game of bridge.
“Miss Daning, I regret to inform you that I will no longer require your services. On account of the short notice I asked my husband to write you a check for two additional weeks of pay. I’m sure you will find it generous of us. Good bye.”
Nothing further was said by either woman. No questions asked no explanations given.
On the way from the front door to the street Else asked herself again and again,
‘Does she know? Does she know? Or was it something else? Forgetting to dust the mantle?”

Walking to the bus stop, the smell of fresh cut grass. She passed a hedge of lavender. Could it have been from this bush that Mr. Gardner selected a bloom? And from that house over there, yesterday’s daisy? Would there still be 7:00pm at the Palace tonight, 1:00pm tomorrow, 3:00pm or 5:00pm the next day?
“Does she know? Does she know? Or was it something else?”

Locked Hotel

The sun is setting and the orange gold light of the late afternoon streams in through the plate glass window and doors on the western side of the hotel lobby. There is a certain amount of tension in the room, there is a cluster of people in the center by the large round wooden table and flower arrangement.
We move hesitantly for a few seconds, like a school of fish not quite sure where to move, but I grasp that I need to get out of the hotel quickly and walk towards the door with a setting sun in the distance. I see her out there on the other side of the sliding glass door, her huge blond, almost white afro teased into a puff of cotton candy. With her lean tan arms raised, she pushes the door closed from the outside, her fingers and palms pressed against the glass doors, pushing the door towards its stable counterpart, locking them together as I, and the rest of the group walk towards her quickly.
As soon as I see her bleached white hair I know it’s too late, the exit is a solid opaque wall. I turn mid-stride, looking quickly at the other glass door on the other side of the thin-carpeted lobby. It is darker by that door, leading into a casino that dark walls and dim florescent bulbs, but also at the same time, providing an escape to the outside world.
I walk quickly, covering the lobby in five long steps, but I’m not fast enough, there’s someone else out there, an androgynous figure covered dark brown cloth and plaid. There are another set of hands pushing that glass door shut and I know that we are locked in.

My sister and I are in a hotel room above the locked lobby doors. We are locked into our room too. My sister is on the queen sized mattress, reclining against the headboard on a few fluffy white pillows, her bare white legs are stretched out on the thin maroon bedspread with a satin sheen and a polyester feel. Her elbow is pressed into the mattress by her hip, her raised hand holds a silver remote limply, pointing to the quickly changing bluish hues of the tv. Her face reveals nothing but boredom and she searches for escape.
I am standing a few feet away from the tv on the light brown carpet, my bare feet are pointed to the room’s window on the wall perpendicular to the tv. The window does not greet me with cool fresh air, but rather provides a view of an open-air hotel restaurant on a lower floor. I approach it and kneel, as it is close to the floor.
I look out the window, seeing long rectangular cafeteria-sized tables, fake green ivy in large tiled rectangular pots and a few open umbrellas that insinuate sun, though only a thick roof hangs above. The interior walls of the hotel are painted a reddish brown and look even darker with the sparse lighting.
I turn my attention to our window and examine the sides of the glass and then push on the screen. I quickly find that the screen is easily removable and I pull the large mesh frame from the window and lay it beside the bed.

I am in the restaurant two floors below our locked room. I sit on the long wooden cafeteria tables surrounded on all sides by employees of the Italian- theme restaurant. I turn and look up towards the open window and remember my sister is still up there watching tv.
The workers of the restaurant are understanding and sympathetic, they know where I have been and what I ultimately want. They crowd around, providing me with a bit of shelter and a sense of protection. Their bodies protect me from an unseen oppressor.

I look up at the window without a screen. I think I can get my sister to climb out the window, there are plenty of decorative ledges along the wall that lead to our window. I imagine that I can climb those ledges and use them as foot holds, I imagine my sister could do the same. But then I remember, it’s not just the hotel room that’s locked, the glass doors leading to the street are locked as well and I don’t have a solution to escape the glass doors.

The Motel Room

I stood beneath a white four-legged canopy, content that a bit of canvas was blocking the full force of the summer sun. In front of me was Kevin, the customer who always wore politically slanted marijuana related T-shirts.
“Do you work for an advocacy group? I always see you wearing those political marijuana shirts.”
He looked down a bit startled, unsure of what he wore.
“Oh yeah, I used to when I lived in DC.”
“Cool.” I said nodding, “do you know Craig Reinarman, from Santa Cruz?”
He looked into my eyes deeply for several seconds then I saw something flash.
“Yeah, I do. He does some good work, has written some good books.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding again, “His sociology class really altered the course of my life.”
There was silence between us and we looked at each other. Then another customer walked up to the table laden with breads. I turned my attention on the new person, smiling help. I smiled at Kevin while I packed up pretzels for the other woman at the table and he walked away towards the chocolate seller.

Next week was the same. Another sunny Saturday shielded by the white canopy. Kevin came up to the small booth and bought a loaf of bread. I asked him a question, something so simple it slipped through the grasp of memory. When I was waited for his response, he started to nod, his head bobbed up and down, almost like a tick. It looked like the words where getting caught somewhere between his brain and mouth. I looked at him with a soft smile, his eyes were looking down, then to the left, then the right. I was not sure what was happening to him, but I felt amused and wanted to watch, like a puppet was trying to come to life.

He looked up.
“You know,” he said by way of explanation, standing a little on his toes when he finally got the words out. “I’m self conscious almost to the point of it being crippling. I’m working on it though.”
“Oh really, I never would have known if you didn’t say anything.” My face was covered with the expression of shock, my eyebrows raised slightly by the information. “But I know what you mean. I’m self conscious too.” He looked up, a bit surprised. “I wouldn’t say its almost crippling, but I do know what you mean.”
He nodded. “You are easy to talk to.”
“Good.”
Then another customer walked up and asked questions about the pastries. Kevin waved a silent goodbye, tucked his loaf into his yellow bicycle bag and walked towards the small hill behind the line of booths. I turned and watched him take a seat on the grass next to a slender black woman who I assumed was his girlfriend. I had seen them sitting in the same spot every Saturday, sometimes they would lay in the sun, letting the sun bathe their skin in warm light.

Kevin and I were in a motel room together. There were two full beds in the room separated by a small end table and wall-mounted lamp. The room was filled with the same yellow light that always exists in all motel room chambers. He had offered to help me with my German lessons and there were several hardcover course books on one of the beds. I sat on the floor and flipped through the numerous workbooks I had. I knew there was a particular assignment I was supposed to do, but after I flipped through three different workbooks, I couldn’t find it. I wondered if the pages had gotten torn out somehow.
It was very late and I gave up one finishing the assignment. I started packing my bag. I looked over at Kevin, he was topless and in one of the beds under the covers, his left arm holding onto a pillow.
“Are you sleeping here tonight?” I asked.
While I waited for his answer, I looked around the room. It was full of my things. Clothes, my artwork and photo albums, the pieces of fabric I had been collecting for a decade, some scrapes from Kauai I hadn’t seen in years. My red guitar was on the other bed, sitting right on top of the nicely made bedspread.
“…is it because we haven’t made love?” Kevin asked.
I was sitting on the floor by the door putting my jewelry into a box.
“I have a boyfriend, so that never would have happened.” I said it looking down, keeping most of my attention on the jewelry, yet feeling the air between us change.
I felt his body stiffen with my words. He grew more quiet, though he had not been talking anyway. I stood up, putting another box of my things by the door. I felt fine now to say anything since the delicate balance between us had already been broken. I didn’t look at him as I surveyed the room.
“People are only nice when they think they can fuck you.”
The words came out harsh and I was startled by the accentuated way I said “fuck.” It sounded so cold, like steel that could never grow a heart. “You know, you never asked me out.” Even as I said it I wondered if it was true.
I knew he was mad and I knew I needed to leave, but my things were everywhere. In every drawer I opened where more albums and CDs and artwork. I knew I needed to take everything I cared about because he was angry and I thought he might start to destroy my things. I put the stuff I wanted by the door, opening it slightly and positioning one of my jewelry boxes to hold it open.
When I opened the door, I saw a blue plastic shopping cart in the hallway and thought I would be able to put a lot of my things in there. I stepped further into the hallway and onto the maroon carpet. My sleeping bag was all spread out on the ground, I wondered how it had gotten that way since I didn’t remember doing it. I looked up and saw a man in the doorway of his room.
I turned and went back inside to gather my things. Everything was a mess, completely disorganized. I didn’t want to leave anything, but I needed to prioritize what I would take since I couldn’t bring everything. I thought that even if he didn’t destroy my things, I had no idea how I would be able to get the rest of it in the morning after checkout since I didn’t have a key.
I stepped into the hallway once again and turned to the camera.
“See, this is the reason we fought over the joint earlier. Whoever got it would be in power.”
Ultimately it had all been about power, it was laying right under our feet all along, precisely where we weren’t looking.
Without looking back, I started to walk away.

The Magician

The room was dim, lit only with one small white candle in the center. The candle flickered in a shallow glass dish above a square wooden table. The table was plain, embellished only with the swirling grains that came naturally to its form. Below the table was a striped woolen rug. There was not a single window. At one time, it had been a storage closet, but it had been converted into a living space not too long ago. Though the sky was hidden behind walls and a roof, he could tell it was evening. There was something tangible that had changed, something just a little softer that came through without the constant glare of the sun, like the walls themselves had relaxed with the setting sun.
A man stood upon the rug. He was five foot four and very slender. His feet were warm in their felt slippers, protected from the scratchy woolen rug below him and the cold linoleum floor which surrounded it like an ocean of cold. The man stared at the flickering candle on the table and spoke softly, just a few decibels above a whisper.
“Yeeessss!!! Oh god, Yessssss!”
The man looked up at the wall in front of him. The wall was bare, but behind it, on the other side, was a woman.
“OHHhhhhhh!!”
Her sounds were deep and guttural, mixed with a sigh of pleasure and a hint of pain.
He had never seen the neighbors, but he heard them often. Every few days he would be jolted into their universe with the first word that traveled beyond the wall, finding him amid prayers, or reading, or having a snack.
She always found him with her moans, and when he heard her screaming, it was like he was with them, in their bed, naked and grunting in unison. He imagined her spread-eagle on a bed where the sheets had been pulled back. Taut white skin glistened beneath the dim lamp and beads of sweat dropped from her lover, splashing over her firm nipples. He was with them, staring down like a bird, watching her wince in pleasured agony. He swooped down, nipping her skin with his beak, filling her open mouth with a drop of his spit.
He imagined the man, a huge beast that turned his woman into tiny pretzels, filling her with every bit of power that he had. And he was with them, when she moaned, he was with them, glistening and panting and moving in one more time.
He moved his toes in his felt slippers.
“Yes,” he said to himself, “come back to what you are doing.”
“AHHhhhh!” the woman screamed.
He wiggled his toes again in an effort to ground himself, to bring himself back into the walls he knew as home. There were other times he could be with them, now he had started his mantram and he needed to focus. The walls of his house, the candle before him, his feet above the woolen carpet.
“Be here.”
He felt a flush of movement within him as his mind raced back to the naked woman. His penis filled with blood. He took a deep breath, the slow inhalation lasted for thirty seconds. Then he held it, letting his chest grow tight with the pressure of so much air. When he couldn’t hold it anymore, he exhaled slowly, so slowly he felt like he had to take another breath very soon, and though his body cried out for air, he maintained his slow release.
The candle flickered violently in the wake of his exhalation and he looked into the flame. It moved always, allowing him, if he could manage to hold his attention, to never see the same thing twice. He stared and it was long and slender, nearly completely white, then it flickered and danced, moving to the right in a graceful sweep around the side of the wax. He inhaled slowly as he watched it, drawing up the energy which had filled his penis, letting it rise and swirl within his chest.
“Oh yeah, oh yeah, ohhhhhhhhhhhhh……”
“She’s climaxing,” he thought. He let himself feel her tension, letting the sound of her come into him while he held his eyes on the candle.
“Don’t fight it, take her in.” he told himself.
He listened to her, he could almost feel a rocking motion in the floor, he could hear her panting. He let the reverberations of her pleasure fill him with energy. He brought it up, out of the solid shape which had been his penis and into his spine, up into his chest, letting it move through his heart. The question was never where the energy would come from, but what you would do with it. And he felt a rush of gratefulness.

The Worm

Click, it was the sound of metal releasing, all the right parts opening in unified collaboration. The key turned and the handle released in my hand with a creak of audible pleasure. I found myself momentarily on the thin line between spaces, not yet in the hotel room, not exactly in the hallway, and though I never stopped moving, the thin barrier seemed to last forever. I could not remember the series of steps my body took to end here, at the heavy door I had begun to push with my shoulder.
Had we driven? What city were we in? What were we doing here? The thoughts raced close to the walls of my skull, fast as lighting on a stormy night, without much significance, passing itches that were only vaguely distracting. The long carpeted hallway was typical of hotel interior design, a floral-inspired beige wallpaper covered the walls, its sleek surface intercepted every eight doors with oval mirrors and small wooded tables that sat in front of them like altars, holding vases with silk flowers upon them like offerings to the dead. The walls breathed the scent of cologne and business men in gray suits and overnight stays that hovered close to metal tubes, and tepid take-out, and mini bars left decimated.
The key turned and I took the first step, pushing the heavy white door open with a single whispered creak. My fiend was right behind me, so close I could feel the heat of his body like a slept in blanket. My other friend made no movement to follow. Her presence hovered like a low riding cloud, not quite with us, but still in the atmosphere. Maybe she knew safety remained in the corridor of yellow light and interspersed wall hangings that offered the gift of reflection. But I never asked.
Pushing on the heavy door, I stepped into the double room, my eyes zeroing in on the wall to my right, something was moving, I squinted, looking more intently. Suspended parallel to the floor, at the midway point from carpet to ceiling, was a single gossamer thread, an almost invisible tightrope made evident only by the foot long worm that traveled upon it. It was about a foot away from the front of the wall and silently, inch by inch, it shuffled along in the way that worms do, slowly approaching the wall. I watched and time seemed to hold still as the worm traveled.
I stood, conscious of nothing else, not my breathing, not my body, not my first friend next to me, I only saw the worm. It seemed like only a second had passed and it was almost at the wall, just an inch from its hard white goal, if worms have goals, and just as it took its final step, it evaporated. My neck turned without a clear intention and I shifted perspective, I looked at the wall opposite the door, the one in front of us.
There was the worm again, on another thread, five feet up from the pale green carpet and a couple inches from the wall. We watched it again, its methodical movements, but a foot from the wall, the worm started to sway, the back end of it fell from the thread and it held on for a second, but then it dropped from the spider’s thread and fell to the floor. I watched in silent horror as it fell through the air like a strand of spaghetti, landing quietly on the narrow walking space between the two beds of the hotel room.
On contact with the ground, the floor opened, the hole in the floor kept growing, opening wider and wider, revealing a pile of junk that had sat buried beneath the floorboards. The worm was lost among the refuse. Rusted metal chairs and crumpled papers and dented cans and bags of trash in black plastic. It stayed like this, as though the worm had pushed a button that it could not undo.
We could not stay here, the room had been exposed, its façade opened, gaping and unlivable, obvious to us because of a quiet sacrifice. I looked at my friend, his eyes were fixed on the refuse…quietly, he instructed me to find the receptionist and search for another room. I stepped towards the door without question, I knew that there was no other option.