Tuesday night. The most boring night. Last weekend's guests have checked out, and nobody's here yet for the next one. I usually spend these nights reading a book, maybe a magazine. Tonight, I'm training the new girl.
It's not really hard, I tell her, the hardest part is putting up with the guests. Guests and weekend traffic gets pretty hectic. Rigging the ice machine to work is no picnic either, but the guests are what'll get to you. She nods and smiles at me, pretending to be interested in the job-related checklist I'm going through. She's convincing enough. Some of these are on the photocopied list, others are things I throw in for the boss.
Answer the phone.
Keep the front desk tidy.
Don't mix up the room keys.
No visible piercings or tattoos.
"Uh-huh". She nods. She doesn't have any.
Don't steal pens, or the mints we leave on pillows. Don't steal anything, in fact.
The uniform is to be returned if you quit or are terminated.
I show her how to confirm reservations using the computer at the front counter. She stands behind me and watches, but doesn't lean in to see the details. She says amicably that she'll learn from experience. I say that's fine 'cause it's pretty easy anyway. I sit down at my end of the counter, by the long hall that leads to the rooms, and I pick up where I left off in the local skate 'zine. She's got that look of passive teenage boredom on her face, like the world is a Greek play she has to sit through between internet videos and the latest episode of Jersey Shore or Celebrity...whatever. I see a slight shift, her face perks up. She's gonna start talking. I pretend not to notice at first.
"So how long have you worked here?"
I look up at her, eyebrows raised, and blink. Her short, thick legs dangle from the tall chair parked in front of the computer. She's a big girl-- not tall, just sort of short and stout. She's packed into worn jeans that are probably a size too small, and she's wearing a loose blouse-type deal with big, inky-looking flower patterns in blue, white, and brown. We don't have a uniform shirt in her size yet. Her hair's a flat shade of brown, falling evenly, more or less, from a middle part down to her shoulders. Her face is doughy at the edges, but cute. She's wearing make-up. She tries to take care of herself.
Do you really care?, I want to ask, because your tone says anything is better than silence and I'm basically your last resort. And it's not like you'll be here next week or anything anyway because the only people I know who've ever lasted more than a month are Spencer and me. I want to ask her where she sees herself in a week. I blink again and turn my attention back to the magazine.
"Two years." I say, shoving some fake energy into it. Maybe she'll stay, I think. Who knows? Let's not close any doors.
"Oh wow, really?" She's said this phrase a thousand times before, a hundred times this week by the sound of it. Not the type to have insightful conversations, I decided. She paused, then added, "Shouldn't you be, like, a manager by now or something?"
"I guess." Even if there were managers around here I doubt there'd be much to do. The hotel employs a grand total of five people at any given time during the year: a receptionist for the front desk who manages reservations and rooms, a valet attendant, a cook, a bellhop, and a maid on occasion. I'm the bellhop. Spencer's the valet attendant. We've been best buds since grade school. Sometimes we get extra help during the busy season, but...Well, I'll get to that.
She digests the answer with a thoughtful half frown stretched out on her face. She turns back to the computer and checks it out for about a twenty seconds before she realizes she won't get to Facebook on it, let alone the internet, then sighs and slumps her shoulders a bit.
I don't want to care, but I can't leave her hanging. I fold the magazine up.
"Tucker."
Her eyebrows shoot up.
"My name. It's Tucker. Nice to meet you..." We shake hands.
"Jeannette."
"...Jeannette. Welcome aboard, then. Not to scare you off, but uh, we get a lot of new people here."
"I thought you said it wasn't hard?" She tilts her head and squints a little, an upturned hand pointing a finger at nothing in particular. She looks like she's trying to solve some sort of riddle.
"Well it's not, it's just...How did you find out about this place anyway? I mean, it's not really a tough job, it's just that there's a lot of weird stuff that happens here."
"I answered the ad I saw online-- I've worked in customer service before, so I figured...why not? And what do you mean by--"
Suddenly, the whole lobby smells like dead river. There's a man standing at the counter, glossy eyes locked somewhere off in the distance behind us. He's late sixties, maybe early seventies, but it's tough to tell since his skin is a grotesque, pulpy shade of purple. His suspenders keep his wrinkled, soggy jeans up as best they can, and he's dripping onto the carpet. Dripping from everywhere, from his bald crown and his bushy mustache and his bloated hands and crumpled flannel shirt. His mouth hangs slightly agape and I'm instantly reminded of a turkey staring up into a thunderstorm, drowning itself in the rain. Jeannette freezes, looks like she's going to draw a breath but seems to gag on the smell and starts coughing hysterically. Our first weeknight guest in a month, and his timing couldn't be better. I swing to face him, back straight and everything.
"Sir, I'll be with you in a..." No response. Good. "If you'll excuse us a second sir." I grab Jeannette, who's almost recovered, and yank her around the corner, down the hallway a few feet to the ice machine.
"Listen, this is going to seem really bizarre, but play along. That's all I need you to do, just play along and treat this guy like a normal human being. He is a guest. Okay?" I stare into her soul. She's swallowing carefully to keep from heaving, and her face looks like she's sucking a salted lemon. She closes off her nose.
"Ogay."
"Good. When we get back there get started checking him in. I'll get the information from him, you just hand him the key once we figure out his room. Remember: Think normal." She puts her game face on, and now it looks like she's swallowed the lemon instead.
I bring her around to the counter again and the old man is still standing there. Of course he is, I think, he's dead. He's probably having trouble remembering right now, too. Jeannette starts learning the computer system while I approach him, the wet stench permeating into everything.
"Welcome to the Twilight Arms Hotel, sir. Have you booked a room for the night?" I speak loudly, clearly, like he's deaf. Somewhere in his fog he hears me, and his milky eyes blink, stretch open, and then focus in on my face.
"I...think so, young man." A gush of filthy black water pours from his mouth like a bilge pump across the counter toward me. I pretend it didn't happen at all, and he doesn't seem to notice. Jeanette is at the brink of insanity. "I'm in...Room one-one-three, I think. Have you seen my son Dennis? We were supposed to go fishing, and I haven't seen him. His name is Aaron Evans. Did he call here?" She's already scrambling for the room key.
"No, sir, I don't believe so. If he calls, though, I can ring him through to your room, if that's all right with you."
"Oh...Oh, that's fine, thank you young man." He's having trouble focusing again, and starts staring down the hallway. Jeanette shoves the key into my hand and almost sprints to the lobby door, blurting something to the tune of Igoddago. I wonder if it's the last I'll see of her. Probably, I think. They never last more than a week or so anyway.
"Can I help you with your luggage, Mr. Evans?" He blinks himself back to me and nods.
I scoop up his fishing tackle he calls his baggage and lead him back down the hallway. He never stops dripping.
Tonight I find out how Walter Evans died.
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edit for formatting and minor tense fix. -M
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