Estimates on Repairs
“𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗”
The glee was palpable in the text. Well not the whole motel, Eliot explained. And not “all the way down” down. A wing of rooms damaged, seven or nine or six. Who remembers. Estimates on repairs came surprisingly quick.
You saw a strange shadow entity in one of the rooms once, crashing onto Eliot’s new girlfriend Sally. She slept in the twin adjacent to yours, both “checked into” an unsold room by Eliot for a few hours of sleep before morning classes at the nearby community college. A 15-minute drive, flat. You watched as the towering, spindley figure emerged from the bathroom, composed entirely of black negative space. It moved strangely in the pre-dawn haze, shadows stretched across the room, odd shapes cast in relief by a parking lot light shining in from the open window. The shadow stood at the foot of her bed, before launching into the air, arcing down onto the mattress. Classic sleep paralysis situation, you can’t move, bolted, you’re stuck—but that didn’t stop the tortured yelp that cracked
from your throat, waking and scaring the hell out of Sally. She stares at you in startled terror and asks if you are OK.
Who knows. You’ve been neglecting your need for rest. Most mornings, you arrange the pastries. The donut guy shows up at 3:30 or four. Pause the DVD. Arrange the fruit, some yogurt, fill up the cereal, tidy the lobby. Turn on the TVs. Terri Schiavo is on the news. They picked a new pope.
Insolent and young, charged with aggrievements and self-righteousness. You are young and broken hearted. You are ill-equipped for heartbreak, still so much inherited relationship weirdness to unpack. You wouldn’t even know where to begin. So it’s utter doom. An unstoppable combination for sleepless nights.
“You should work overnight shifts at the motel,” Eliot explained. Recently promoted to night manager, he was on the inside track. You almost never heard from the owners, he said, a Pakistani family who operated from an office in Arizona City. And you almost never heard from the general manager Monica, either. “It’s sleepy, but it’s easy money.”
You handle the front desk OK. Militia types book up the place, Minutemen. Sometimes trainee sky divers from Eloy. Couples who don’t need the room for the whole night, but there aren’t hourly rates, you explain. Occasionally, you do get called up to rooms. Someone’s locked out or can’t figure out the remote control. Or worse, it’s a plumbing thing. You plunge the toilet furiously as the customer stands in the doorway, staring daggers into your back and complaining about the establishment. She is above you, and you bear the brunt of her offense, the toilet water sloshing terrible sounds as you try not to think too much about what’s happening. Once, a race car driver tracked oil through the lobby. Eliot chased him down, brandishing a tire iron. He shows you the security footage as you clock in and he clocks out, smirking and proud.
I think it was a kid playing with some matches said the janitor, who had been reprimanded last week for leaving an unattended lit cigar in a maintenance closet by the laundry room. You could smell wherever he’d been. Thick staleness. “I think it was a kid playing with some matches.”
Part the plastic tarps hung up to quarter off the burned rooms. Stare at the walls, streaked black with ash. Wander through and take in the toasted smell. Exit out to the swimming pool. The sun is rising over the freeway, streaks of impossible blues, pinks, and oranges. There are cow pastures not far off, viridescent and wafting. Smells like shit you say, taking a drag. Smells like money says the farmer’s son, stubbing out his cigarette.