The hotel sign glows on a darkened street as I turn the engine off and scan the entrance for the valet. It’s almost 12:30 am, the evening staff has long gone home. I should have left the office earlier for the three hour drive to Des Moines, but the extra few hours in the office has made up a little for the past three weeks of travel. There is a moment of silence as I stare through the bug smeared windshield exhausted gathering the strength to leave the car. Opening the car door I place a leg on the pavement as a white light of searing pain runs down my left side. I knew the drive would be hard on my back which was tender from eight hours of lecturing on a concrete floor in Boston followed by a confined plane ride back home.
Slowly I crawl from the vehicle like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. With each movement flashes a bolt of pain through my limbs as I grab the door to steady myself. I allow a few minutes to stretch waiting for the body’s natural pain killers to kick in. As the world sleeps I open the trunk and carefully remove my luggage. With a quiet determination I roll my belongings into the lobby looking for the check-in desk. The hotel is a renovated historic property built in 1918 and restored to its beautiful former opulence. The lobby has an intimate small feel punctuated with elaborate stout columns. The marble floor and subtle cream color scheme provides a timeless elegance.
Waiting for the sleepy night attendant I notice a display panel of the hotel in its old glory. There are photos of forgotten weddings and important meetings mixed along with a few matchbooks and faded menus. The men are dressed in black top hats and the women wear large ruffled gowns. It must have been the place to be at one point a long time ago. The night attendant methodically checks me in to a suite with out ever making eye contact. I think to myself at least I be leaving in a couple of days, but he will return day after day until someone determines he does not have the personality which fits the corporate image, at which time he will be called into an office and unceremoniously dismissed. Looking to the left is a dimly lit door with a flickering green neon sign above it identifying the lounge. I ask the attendance when does the bar close and he replies in a bored monotone voice that they should already be closed. I collected my keys and limp into the lounge.
The room is dimly lit with a small group of drunken poker players sitting around a table singing old rock classics along with the radio. A couple at the bar is intensely discussing the immigration issue as a prelude to foreplay. Scanning the bar shelves to determine which cocktail will best sedate my aching broken back I lean over and decide to drop a wrench in their flowering courtship. “Have you ever considered the immigration problem is not with the immigrants but with Americans?” Leaning over to make a point I continue “There would be no immigration issues if we stopped hiring illegal immigrants and fostering an underground economy which rewards the immigrants.” They stare at me puzzled. “It’s like the drug problem if no one purchased drugs there would be no market for illegal drugs. I think we should focus our attention on prosecuting Americans that are intent in breaking the law and stop this underground cash economy.” To illustrate the pointless debate I conclude. “As American businessmen we should do the law abiding thing and outsource our labor needs to China and India, which would be truly patriotic.” We can tread on a lot of issues but by god don’t tread on capitalisms right to exploit the people of our choosing.
The couple decides to change the subject as I order a martini on the rocks with a twist. The bartender is an overweight girl which is probably working the night shift to earn a few extra dollars as she attends community college to be a hairdresser. I watch in disbelief as she proceeds to make the martini in an old fashion short bourbon glass. Pouring the vodka on the ice with out shaking or stirring she picks up a large wedge of lemon and squeezes it into the glass. She then proceeds to cut out the pulp from the lemon wedge and drops the rind into the glass while handing me the glass. Holding my vodka lemonade to the light I ask “Have you made many of these martinis before?” She huffs while taking my twenty dollar bill and turns toward the cash register. Assuming I’ve done enough damage I limp out dragging my luggage and vodka lemonade.
The old creaking elevator opens at the fifth floor as I begin my long hobble down the hall to my suite. As I open the door I am unable to find the light switch. Groping around in the dark I am immediately aware of the musty stale odor of the room which reminds me of my aunt’s attic. I can already tell by the smell that the suite will not be sweet. I set down my vodka lemonade and luggage and run my hands the entire length of the wall without success. I decide to move to the silhouette of desk in front of the window and find the lamp. As the light illuminates the room my immediate impression is that of a garage sale. The front room of the suite has a small 1950 style flowered couch which has faded to a washed out pastel. The two lamps on two sitting on dark mahogany end tables are dented and scratched revealing the cheap pine construction below. My eye is immediately drawn to the lamp shade that is tilted off center. Maybe it was a brave attempt to create some contradiction and contrast to this retro composition, but it is disturbing that it slants in opposite direction from the starving artist fake oil painting.
In the entrance of the front room is a kitchenette with its avocado green counter top which has not been used in forty years. The owners must have gotten a deal on some mini refrigerators but decided not to spring for the extra cost of installing them in the cabinetry, instead placing them on the counter top so that the back was sticking up 24 inches from the counter top. I open the mini fridge door and felt a very slight draft of coolness, thinking that it was the perfect incubator for some unknown disease which would disable or maim anyone careless enough to place food in it.
Opposite from the couch was the business center which consisted of a desk, a lamp and an internet connection. I unpack my computer and plug it in only to learn that it will cost an extra $11.95 per day for the privilege of access. I agree to add the cost to my room and check my emails. There are a couple of easy emails to reply to. As I click the send button I wonder what the recipients will think when they see me working at 1:15 am or will they ever notice. Finally I turn my phone off and plug the recharger into the business center and call it a night.
The bedroom is no better. The garage sale furniture is scattered around. To my disappointment the bed is also a vintage model. Most hotels have upgraded their beds to high end luxury overstuffed beds that almost made sleeping in a strange location tolerable. To make matters worst the pair of queen beds have different patterned bedspreads which clash. Sitting down on the corner of one of the beds I decide to place my cell phone next to me on the end tables because it is oblivious that after sleeping on these beds with a bad back I will be crippled and will need emergency assistance to rise from bed in the morning. I chuckle as I look at the two paintings hanging over the two beds. The paintings are identical as I spend ten minutes scrutinizing each brush stoke to discern the smallest of differences. There are none. I wonder why the exact same picture was hung next to each other. In an odd way I find it the most interesting aspect of the suite. I think about getting my camera out to take a picture of it but decide it is too much trouble.
In an attempt to add some depth to the room I pull back the drapes to reveal a solid concrete wall no more than ten feet away. The only view of the city is possible if you press your face against the glass and squint as far as you can to the left in which you have a distorted view of the parking garage across the street. The whole scene reminds me of a subsidized low income government apartment in Moscow. I decide to distract myself and catch the news on the television. I fumble with the remote which does not work. I’m not sure that any remote in any hotel room I’ve ever stayed at has worked, so I’m not surprised to learn that the batteries are missing. As I manually turn on the TV I find out that the hotel is not connected to cable and the regular TV reception is so poor behind this concrete building next to me, that one three stations are available. It takes about 20 seconds to determine that my three sons, a John Wayne movie or local governmental channel is not going to provide much entertainment valve.
Finally deciding that any more investigation would be depressing I pull the bedspread from the bed grabbing my Ipod and vodka lemonade in the process. I’ll save the joy of discovering the bathroom until tomorrow. Turning off the lights, listening to my music and sipping my back medicine, I think about the old Motel Six commercials where Tom Bodet says “All hotels look alike when you turn the lights out.” He’s probably right unless you’re sleeping on a bed of nails.
As the rest of the world quietly sleeps I aimlessly stare at the shadows on the ceiling. The pain in my back has begun to retreat leaving a tingling numbness in my left leg. I’m reminded that I forgot to eat dinner, but immediately dismiss the surprises awaiting me with room service. Gradually I drift into sleep watching the silence in the shadows.
