Late Night Grande Hotel (Part 8)

Part VIII: Room 801 (Gold)

Fifty years later, Joseph and Grace returned to the Grande Hotel once more. They were some twelve hours later than they had planned...but they were returned just the same and that was the most important thing.

Grace shook her head...her soft, silver hair tight in a sturdy, unpretentious bun underneath her delicate black hat...saddened, yet again, at the way the neighborhood had continue to deteriorate. They came every ten years and every ten years it seemed the streets had aged twenty.

But Grace smiled, the steely twinkle in her azure eyes blazing with love and affectionate nostalgia, when Joseph turned the car into the driveway of the Grande. It was, as ever, a beacon and a haven...a place where they and their love will ever be welcome.

Some things are eternal. Like love. Like gold.

The children had wanted them to fly if they had to do it all. Long trip...you'll be all alone...you're not kids any more...the city's gone to hell...we worry about you...why don't you let us give you a party instead...

Joseph and Grace had listened patiently, loving their children and their heartfelt concern, and then they made the trip as always. Tradition is tradition...and as long as they both had breath in their bodies, this cherished journey would be made every ten years...

Joseph hoped out loud that they hadn't lost their reservations...but it was just idle talk, he knew without a doubt that the Grande would never turn them away.

They hadn't expected to find anyone working outside at that hour but a young blond bellboy, who had been idly smoking a cigarette near the front entrance, came over and took their bags.

"Welcome to the Central City Grande Hotel, folks" the boy said brightly, his steps slowed just enough to allow the couple to follow along. "My name is Jerry and I hope you have a nice stay with us."

Joseph and Grace smiled at each other. "We always do, son," Joseph said. He reached out with his dark, callused hand, his skin was turning deep enough to be almost the "coal black" that he had always half-jokingly claimed it to be, and opened the door. "We always do."

Grace went in followed by Jerry with the bags and they moved towards the desk. Red O'Malley, the Grande's seemingly ageless night manager, looked up from the magazine he was reading and smiled brightly. "Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Hayes," he said warmly. "We were beginning to worry. There are several messages from your children."

Joseph shook his head. "Darn old car started acting up," he said ruefully, "we ended up having to call the auto club. Sorry we didn't call you."

Red shook off the apology. "No problem, sir," he said. "Your room's waiting for you." He turned to Jerry. "Room 801."

Jerry nodded and started towards the elevators. Joseph paused. "You're Mr. O'Malley's boy, aren't you?"

Red nodded. "Yes, sir, I am. He had to go home but he told me to give you both his best." And then he gave a start and reached into the pocket of his starched white shirt and pulled out a small envelope. "I almost forgot...he also told me to give you this...wouldn't tell me what it was..."

Joseph took the envelope and smiled wistfully. "I know exactly what it is, son," he said. "Thank you."

"My father says that you are his favorite guests," Red said with a distinct measure of admiration; his father was not a man who was easily impressed by anyone.

Joseph and Grace shared a wistful smile. "He's a good man," Grace said. They both nodded with solemn affection and nothing more need be said.

Joseph and Grace held hands...ebony and ivory digits intertwined idly and indelibly...during the duration of the elevator ride.

Their mothers' voices...long passed on but admonishing, colored by fear and ignorance...echoed...warning...pleading... begging...you don't really want to...you can't... marry...that colored boy...that white girl...nothing good can come of it...

Fifty years later. Some things are eternal. Like love. Like the Grande. Like gold.

They sat in the room...their room...completely different and just the same as always. They called to reassure the children that all was well and then, hand in hand, they looked out at the night.

Grace smiled and held out her hand. Together they made their way up to the roof access door. From the little envelope, Joseph drew out a key. He placed it into the lock and the door opened for them.

And they stepped into the night...into the shadows behind the Grande's stately sign...basking in the golden moonlight. The same moonlight they had stolen away into fifty years earlier...on top of the world...safe from the world. Holding hands and kissing for the first and for the one millionth time. Finding the music...the never-ending love songs borne on the wind that only they could hear...and waltzing high above the city...late in the night...fifty years...happy anniversary.

50 years ago...sure they were going to be turned away yet again...and indeed, the elder O'Malley had raised a wary, questioning eyebrow...I think you folks are nuts, but some things can't be denied... certainly not by me...but then he let them register. Room 801.

The room had been humid and their hearts were too keyed up to sleep even after they had lain together as husband and wife for the first glorious time. They dressed and made their way to the roof access door...someone had forgotten to lock it...they stole up to the roof behind the Grande's towering sign...on top of the world...safe, for a few eternal moments, from the unforgiving world.

They had danced...a graceful waltz...while the elder O'Malley, investigating the open access door, watched briefly then stole away smiling to allow them their peace.

Some things are eternal. Like love. Like the Grande. Like moonlight. Like waltzing in the night with the only one you've ever loved. Like gold.

Late Night Grande Hotel (Part 7)

Part VII: Room 707 (Moonlighting)

Maria wanted to live in the America she was teased with on late night basic cable. Life was so special on late night cable TV...so much more colorful, so much more exciting, so much more fulfilling. She desperately wanted to be Maddie, trading coy quips with David while they were finding and savoring all of the adventure and mystery and romance that life had to offer.

Maria wanted that America. The Real America.

The hotel was a good start...an oasis in a seedy, rundown hellhole (that she could find back home)...big...if not really as big as its name promised..."Grande"...but bigger by far than anything she'd ever walked through the front door of back in Manila. Real America.

But she was still Maria, not Maddie. And the awkward man in the off-the-rack suit struggling with their luggage...well, he was certainly not David. Maria shrugged. If this were only the outskirts of the Real America, she would make do for the time being.

Maria stayed two steps back as the awkward man ("Richie" she sighed...children are named "Richie" in the Real America...children, not husbands) conducted business with the immense red bear behind the reception desk.

Maria regarded the bear with a mixture of fear and morbid fascination...she had never seen a human being so large (except maybe Ralph Kramden) and he indeed seemed more beast than man. She wanted to dislike him intensely.

But as she looked at him more closely...his smile was opaque but his eyes were alive with expansive tales both lived and observed...in the real America...broad, full-bodied tales lived in bold primary colors.

His teeth were straight and white, his shoulders broad and sturdy. His shirt was neatly pressed, unstained by sweat or foodstuff despite his bulk.

And, most importantly, his hands were tapered and powerful with fingernails that were immaculately manicured.

All was forgiven...the red bear was massive and masculine and calmly sure of himself...he was America incarnate and Maria's heart swelled with chaste but proprietary affection.

Richie inspired that kind of affection in Maria once upon a time.

All of the American sailors...on leave from other ports since the US bases closed...had the glow and sweet musk of America about them. She danced for them...danced on their laps and made their American thingees stand up and take notice...danced and waited for the one who would be her David...who would make her Maddie.

Richie looked smart and sturdy in his crisp white uniform...she thought he was the one. She was wrong...but he got her to the outskirts of Real America anyway and she was grateful to him for that.

Grateful for the voyage to the outskirts of America...and for the little green card in her purse...and for the little gold wedding band on her finger. All of these were significant. All of these were important. Almost as important as America. Maria could forgive him for not being David...maybe that comes later.

The boy who relieved Richie of their bags moved with an effort that was just the other side of laziness. This Maria understood all too well. Invisible sighs and reluctant performance had been part and parcel of her life for as long as she could remember.

At home...she remembered performing…in the bar, grinding on the laps of boy-men from the other side of the world. At home...she was still performing...in the role of doting wife, here and now on the outskirts of Real America.

At home...she was performing...doing her new job…as Richie’s submissive spouse…on the side until she was called, finally, to her real job somewhere in Real America.

Moonlighting.

The boy ("Jerry", Maria sighed with exasperation. She wished that she had found the courage to ask the red bear his name...it was not "Richie" or "Jerry" of this much she was sure) and Richie and Maria spoke not at all as they rode the elevator to the 7th floor.

Maria wandered the length and breadth of their rooms...a honeymoon gift from Richie's tomato-faced parents...while Richie paid Jerry to go away.

Jerry winked lecherously at Maria as he disappeared through the door. David would have done it too...but with style.

In five minutes, she would be reminded that men are all thumbs and unfocused heat when they're undressed. In five months, a bored doctor would tell her that she was pregnant. In five years, she would be three children...and twenty-five pounds...heavier and still living on the outskirts of Real America with an uncomplicated, unromantic boy-man who allowed himself to be called "Richie".

In her heart she already knew all this...but she didn't dwell on it. Maddie wouldn't dwell on it and neither would she.

The Real America was out there...David and Maddie proved it...the red bear proved it...late night cable TV enshrined it...and she had made it to the outskirts. She couldn't be more than a heartbeat away. In the meantime, she would make herself happy in her part-time job. Moonlighting and marking time on the outskirts of the Real America.

Comments

Blogger's comment feature has been especially unstable on this blog so I've added Haloscan to see if that will work better.

All of the previous comments are archived apparently...but they're no longer viewable on the blog (until I...semi-Luddite that I am about some of this computer stuff...figure out how to bring them over to the new system.)

Perseverance furthers...or so I'm told anyway...

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Late Night Grande Hotel (Parts 5 & 6)

(Parts 5 & 6 are of a piece...and part 6 is just a short epilogue to the preceding two parts anyway...so I'm presenting them both in this same post. FYI, one last time for this story: part 5 contains some sexual situations.)

Part V: Room 646 (Girl)

It was going to be so easy...Jimmy had said so...and the girl wanted to believe him. She loved him and she wanted to believe in him and his dreams and his plans for their future. Jimmy had said it was going to be easy...and the girl wanted to believe that it was true.

But there...in the oppressive luxury of suite 646...it was hard to believe in anything.

Daddy would have laughed bitterly and spat...making grim light of what she was doing before stalking off to get drunk somewhere. Mama probably would have never stopped crying. The girl rocked herself absently, naked under the big robe, sitting in the plush reclining chair, waiting for the terrible knock at the door.

She wanted a cigarette. She knew that she had quit and that she didn't want to start again but she wanted a cigarette something awful just the same. She got up and wandered past the bathroom...wondering idly who the half-naked painted lady in the mirror was as she did so. She found her small purse in the closet next to her jeans and blouse and fished out a peppermint. She took the wrapper off the candy and popped it into her mouth without ceremony.

The girl wandered back out of the bedroom...she didn't want to think about it at all...and paused by the bathroom. She saw herself, a painted lady naked under a thick robe. The girl felt sultry and mysterious.

The knock came at the door. The girl felt small and exposed.

She crept to the door and reached tentatively for the handle. She jumped with a second series of knocks...more impatient...came. She opened the door and a man brushed past her into the room.

The girl closed the door and stood still. The man sailed about the suite as if he was making an inspection and then he paused at the wet bar. Jimmy said this would be so easy. She wanted to believe.

The girl turned around when the man spoke. The man reminded her of her daddy. Perhaps he would laugh bitterly and go off and get drunk instead. He threw his overcoat on the sofa and loosened his tie. The man spoke...softly, with no fear of disobedience...and the girl stepped out of herself.

The girl undid the sash on the plush robe and it fell away. The man took a deep breath and his cool eyes dilated. He beckoned her over and the girl, still outside herself, saw her lips being mashed...her mouth being probed by a fat pink tongue...her breasts pawed by hot, damp hands.

The man picked up his prize and carried her past the bathroom to the bedroom. He placed her on the center of the bed and then tore at his own clothes, his eyes memorizing every inch of her lithe body in the dim light.

It would be so easy...Jimmy had said so. She wanted to believe. The man who reminded her of her daddy was so involved that she didn't really need to be. She stayed outside herself. She heard her mother crying. She wanted to believe.

When the girl returned to herself, her skin was moist and tender and violated. The man gurgled happily as he, fresh from a shower, reclaimed his clothing and chattered on about God knows what.

The girl laid on the bed...her right leg still bent at the knee...and thought about Jimmy. The man, fully dressed save for the tie and overcoat in the other room, smiled...a bit tenderly, a bit cruelly...and bent down to kiss her, his massive hand cupping and squeezing (just a bit too roughly) her left breast. The girl kissed him back as best she could. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a money clip. He peeled off three hundred-dollar bills and put them on the nightstand next to the bed.

The man bent down once more and kissed the girl, this time on her forehead. He thanked her and turned and walked out of the bedroom. After a bit, the girl heard the front door click softly shut.

The girl laid in the soft lamplight, sweat being cooled by the air conditioner discreetly placed in the far wall, and thought of Jimmy. She thought of her father getting drunk and her mother crying. Her mother couldn't stop crying. The girl shuddered and felt a sudden need to shower.

The hot water pounded her with staccato rhythm washing away as many traces of the man as they could. The girl barely felt it. She wanted to believe. Jimmy was dreaming. Daddy was drinking. And Mama...Mama couldn't stop crying.

* * * * *

Part VI: Room 646 (Boy/Girl Epilogue)

The boy pulled on his jeans and pulled down a white tee shirt; he didn't bother with shoes. He gathered up his room keycard and slipped out of his suite. He trudged down the hall to the elevators and took a quick ride up two floors.

He knocked on the door...646...and it opened almost immediately.

The boy stepped in and the girl, in a white tee shirt and white cotton panties, folded her body into his.

She was damp and shivering and she couldn't stop crying.

The boy nuzzled her hair and cooed reassuringly. But the girl couldn't stop crying.

The boy stroked her and rocked her gently, matching his rhythm to her own. But the girl couldn't stop crying.

He plied her with his favorite tales of the Caribbean and shiny black Jaguars and silver trays full of Godiva chocolates...

We're going to be rich one day

...but the girl couldn't stop crying.

The boy put his hand on the back of the girl's head and pulled her tight to his chest. He kissed the top of her head and rocked her. He looked up to the ceiling and drifted away.

The boy rocked the girl and dreamed.

We're going to be rich one day.

The girl couldn't stop crying.

Late Night Grande Hotel (Part 4)

(Parts 4-6…”Boy”, “Girl”, and “Boy/Girl Epilogue”…are interrelated as will become obvious once they’re all presented. Again FYI: This section contains sexual situations.)

Part IV: Room 464 (Boy)

The boy (at 23 he still thought of himself thusly) paced idly from one end of suite 464 to the other. He wasn't nervous. It was just something to do. A necessary step to get everything they ever wanted. The lights in the living room were dim; the lights in the bedroom were dimmer, everything was ready.

Soon would come the furtive knock at the door and it would begin. Not soon enough for the boy. We're going to be rich one day. The mantra sustained and emboldened him.

He was ready for anything.

The boy made sure the ashtray on the table next to the reclining chair was straight. He didn't smoke but that wasn't the point. He made sure the little wet bar next to the little refrigerator was straight. He didn't drink either but, again, that wasn't the point. We're going to be rich one day.

The furtive knock came and the boy took a deep breath and moved smartly towards the door.

The man moved into the room with surprising speed, his face slightly flush and his eyes somewhat haunted. The boy shut the door and offered the man the reclining chair.

The man, somewhat rumpled despite his expensive suit, pale and paunchy but reeking of money and power just the same, nodded gratefully and plopped into the proffered chair.

The boy, a savvy veteran, went to the wet bar...lingering just long enough with his back to the man...and made a drink for the man. The man took the drink with another nod of gratitude, the fear in his eyes being replaced with something more heated.

The man emptied the glass with three gulps and sat it down on the table next to the ashtray. He murmured appreciative come-ons to the boy and beckoned him.

The boy, coy on cue, sauntered over and stood in front of the man, his legs slightly spread open, his hands away from his body. The man began to pant...there was no other word for it...and he reached out tentatively, laying his clammy hand on the boy's shirt just above the boy's belt-less jeans.

The boy sighed as the man's hand wandered with increasing proprietorship along his muscled torso. And above. And below. We're going to be rich one day. He thought of Lee and he thought of the Caribbean and his body rose to the occasion.

The man smiled triumphantly and rose from his seat. He put his hands on the boy's hips and murmured something. The boy didn't really hear what he said but he knew what it was nonetheless.

In the bedroom, the boy's senses were only vaguely aware of the scents...sweat and lust and bourbon and latex... crowding the room. He moaned when he was supposed to and caressed when he should; he gave the coy submission the man wanted. We're going to be rich one day. He thought of Lee...and he thought of sleek black Jaguars roaring in the Caribbean moonlight and his body rose to the occasion.

Later, the boy lay on the damp bed...the lights turned up...his sleekly muscled body still casually nude...thinking. It was something to do. The man was long gone...leaving facile protestations of "love" in the air and six fifty-dollar bills on the nightstand next to the bed. He glanced over at the money. We're going to be rich one day. He thought of Lee. He thought of silver trays filled with Godiva chocolates and silver goblets filled with coconut milk.

He shivered but gave no thought to the solitary tear tracking a wandering path down his cheek. It was something to do. He thought of Lee. He thought of the Caribbean. He thought of sleek black Jaguars in the moonlight. It was something to do.

Late Night Grande Hotel (Part 3)

(FYI: This part of the story contains fairly explicit sexual situations…noted just in case you’d rather skip this section.)

Part III: Room 525 (Voyeur)

Jerry the bellboy, a sloe-eyed blond who moved just fast enough not to be completely annoying but not fast enough to be considered conscientious, told Red that he was going to take his lunch break.

Red nodded absently and threw him an inscrutable glance; then he went back to reading his book.

Jerry arched a wary, guilty eyebrow...Red always struck him as being somehow omniscient to all the goings-on in the Grande... and stole away across the reception area to the bank of elevators.

He slipped into the first open car and punched the desired button. A number of seconds later, the doors whizzed open and Jerry stole purposefully out into the still fifth floor hallway.

Jerry was old enough to drink...but not old enough to consider growing up yet. He took the job at the Grande when his vague ambitions of modeling and/or acting in porn movies came to nothing. He'd been there two years and was making no active plans or ambitions to leave anytime soon.

Glancing back and forth for eyes that were not there, Jerry hunkered down and made his way quickly to 525. He reached into his pocket and produced a keycard with a number...525...embossed onto it.

Jerry slipped the keycard into the slot...quiet as a whisper...and held his breath while he pushed open the door.

The pungent darkness...perfumed with cigar smoke, rum, cocaine dust, sweat, and sex...rushed his senses. He gave the hallway a quick glance and, with practiced grace, he slipped into the room and shut the door softly behind him.

He stood still waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The only light came from the bedroom door of the suite, languidly dancing candlelight seeping through the open door.

Jerry moved through the room... avoiding the coffee table and the recliner but getting caught up in some of the items...shoes, a dress shirt, a brassiere...strewn like breadcrumbs from the couch to the bedroom door. He waited to see if his presence had been detected...and then he moved on towards the bedroom door.

As he drew closer, the unmistakable sounds and musk of sex assaulted his senses and gave him a small electric charge and a half-hearted erection. Jerry went flat and against the wall and, ever so gingerly, moved the door open with the flat of his hand.

On the queen-size bed, haloed in the flickering light coming from a half-dozen, strategically placed large candles, a couple rutted feverishly their flesh commingled and flushed.

On her back, the woman thrashed and yelped, her painted fingernails raking the man's back, her legs (a bit too pudgy around the thighs in her own estimation) high and wide.

On top of her the man, middle-age sag taking his midsection despite his best efforts at the gym, worked furiously... grunting and swearing and pawing randomly at her quivering breasts... between her welcoming thighs.

Jerry slipped into the shadows along the wall of the bedroom and stood there watching...his lips getting dry and his erection taking a bit more interest underneath the rumbled pants of his uniform.

The couple on the bed collaborated on a symphony of profane endearments and heartfelt prayers as she locked her ankles under his ass and moved up to meet his every thrust with equal force and fury.

Jerry couldn't really hear what they said because his ears were filled with pressure and seemingly about to burst...this surprised him a little as did the fact that his erection was now angrily trying to force itself past his zipper...but he just stood there and watched.

The couple was rolling and crying and swearing and thrusting, moving back and forth across the bed as Jerry, disguised as a shadow, watched from the edge of the room.

The woman gasped and began to shudder...the man swore and began to spasm...they seemed to levitate for an instant, bathed in candlelight and sweat, and then they collapsed into each other panting and caressing and giving breathless thanks.

Jerry, his erection giving up its anxious struggle, kicked free of the rush and the lust that he felt and slipped back from the animal humidity of the bedroom and backed up into the living room.

The couple lolled about the bed, a hair's breadth between them, spent and satisfied.

Jerry moved towards the door, his flagging erection quickly leaving his mind. He stumbled over a glass on the floor and it moved rolled through the darkness tinkling. It rattled against the sofa and the sound echoed through the stillness.

There was a rustling in the bedroom and Jerry froze. The door slipped open and the man...covered by a hotel robe and not moving with any alarm or wariness...came out and turned on the light in the bathroom.

Light oozed out into the living room and Jerry was revealed standing still near the front door.

The man, his hair still dark and slick with sweat, came closer to Jerry. Jerry stood still and waited.

The man smiled and amiably slapped Jerry on the back. He reached into the pocket of the robe and then brought out a small packet and pressed it into Jerry's hand. "Thanks again, Jer," the man said happily, glancing back at the door of the bedroom, "your timing was perfect as usual."

Jerry pocketed the packet and smiled. "Anytime, Mr. Johnson."

The man winked and patted Jerry's shoulder once more.

Jerry nodded and quickly exited the room, making sure to lock the door. He paused at the door long enough to see the light from the bathroom disappear once more. He opened the packet, finding the promised recompense...two crisp hundred dollar bills...therein.

Jerry sighed with unabashed, unrequited lust...replaying the dance in his mind's eye...and ambled unhurriedly towards the elevators.

Late Night Grande Hotel (Part 2)

Part II: Room 315 (Garbo)

Nanci was right, God bless her...she was right in that goddamn song...

Caroline paced the length of the suite slowly. The drapes were open wide to the night but there was nothing but traffic noise and moonlight coming through the open window. Her suitcases were still next to the door where that insolent bellboy had left them. Her Pierre Cardin pantsuit and Macy’s pumps were thrown haphazardly over the reclining chair. She felt wicked and free wearing just the frilly silk black bra and panties she had bought at Victoria's Secret on her way from the suburbs to the hotel.

A fifth of Jack Daniels...one-fifth empty...rested next to a bucket of ice and a heavy highball glass on the coffee table (the bellboy had seemed less insolent, more interested when he brought those up on a silver tray.) The second highball glass was in her hands...the ice melting but not really taking the edge off the liquor.

Michael must have found my letter by now...finally come home from whichever late afternoon meeting...or early evening whore...he had spent this particular night giving his attention to...didn't think I had in me did you, you bastard? Didn't think I would slip the walls of your gilded cage and fly away, did you? Well, here I am, sport...spending a grand night in the Grande Hotel...and tomorrow? Tomorrow I take to the friendly skies and leave your cheerful neglect and unspoken recriminations far, far behind...

Caroline swallowed the liquid fire and winced while it did its work. She sat the glass down on the table and wandered on slightly unsteady legs to the bathroom. She flipped on the light and stood admiring herself in the long mirror behind the door. I'm still one helluva woman, you blind asshole! She cupped her hands under her breasts, her nipples tickled by the new silk, closed her eyes and sighed. I'm still...

She slapped at the light switch and the light retreated. She wandered back into the outer room and sat down on the plush sofa. She poured another drink and took a long swallow. Thanks, Jack, I needed that. She put the glass down on the table and stretched out on the couch.

Are you worrying about me now, Michael? Did you call the police? Did you drive to the train station to see if I was still there? Did you drive to the ATM to see if I had cleaned out the checking account? Only took what was belonged to me...50-50 that was the deal, right? Right. You're better off without me, Michael...I'm better off without you...I don't want to need anybody anymore...I don't want to need to be touched...I don't want to need to be needed...I don't want to need...

Caroline glanced at the phone on the stand next to the little refrigerator with the two-dollar oranges in it. And then she stared back up at the ceiling...the Jack Daniels turning the small chandelier into a carousel right before her eyes.

I don't need nobody, Michael...especially not you...

She closed her eyes and a carousel horse pulled free of its mooring and waited for her to mount him. They would ride out to the verdant edge of nowhere and live there alone and unencumbered...no husbands to wait up for six nights a week...no barren wombs to cry at night over... no time to waste on feeling sorry for herself...nothing...alone...just like I want to be...alone...just like I need to be...Nanci was right...I do feel like Garbo in this late night grande hotel...shit...

Caroline drifted off to sleep. In dreams, she found herself astride a powerful stallion that used to be moored to a carousel. She rode hard, breaking for the golden sunrise and the verdant pastures just over the hill...that's where my peace will be...that's where I can be alone and free...that's where my love lies...my love and our baby...that's where...

Sun broke harsh through the still open drapes...the din of the downtown streets reaching for its crescendo. Caroline grimaced and swore. She stumbled to her feet and closed the window resolutely. The drums in her head didn't fade away as the sound of the traffic did. She glanced at the bottle on the coffee table...quite a bit more than a fifth empty...thanks a lot, Jack...she stumbled into the bathroom in search of a commode and a bottle of aspirin.

Caroline stood in the shower for a long time...she thought she would wait until the hot water ran out but it seemed to be endless and so she gave up and shampooed her hair and then turned it off. She swaddled herself in a plush white terrycloth robe stamped in royal blue..."Central City Grande Hotel"...just over the left breast. She dried her hair in one of the plush white terrycloth towels and stared at the telephone on the little refrigerator.

She looked at the bottle of Jack Daniels and frowned. She reached over and pulled the phone over to the coffee table. Nanci, what do I do? I've got a plane to catch...I've got to get away from...from Michael...

Caroline laughed bitterly and shook her head. She picked up the phone and punched in a series of numbers.

"Hi, Michael..."

"...I'm fine...I just..."

"...in the city...I needed some...well, I'm not sure what I needed..."

"...I'm at the Grande..."

"...don't you have to go to work?...you don't have to...okay...yes, I'll wait for you..."

"...yes, Michael, I love you too..."

Caroline smiled wistfully and laid back on the couch. The chandelier was just a chandelier.

Late Night Grande Hotel (Part 1)

At 6,000 words, it seems too long to be a short story, too short to be anything else...I've tinkered with this piece off and on for a while. I've worked on it a bit more this past week in order to make it presentable for entry in a contest I became aware of last week...a contest where it, oddly enough, indeed fits at its unweildy size.

It was, like Seven Days, an experiment in non-linear storytelling. Not sure if it works completely but I'm fond of it just the same. It was inspired by listening to the Nanci Griffith song of the same name (though only the second part of the story references that directly.)

One not-quite seedy hotel...one not especially unusual night...fifteen disparate characters...

Late Night Grande Hotel, part 1 (of 9) :

* * * * *

Part I: Lobby (Red)

If Red O'Malley had a real first name it was damned if anybody knew what it was. Not that he was a particularly close-mouthed fellow. He was in fact affable, in his own quiet, respect-inspiring way...the subject of his Christian name just never came up.

Every night he sat behind the sturdy, ornate reception desk...oak stained and weathered to impersonate mahogany...of the Grande eating submarine sandwiches built with loving precision along with chocolate bars, apple turnovers, and ice cold classic Coke (Red hated coffee and tea but liked caffeine rushes.)

Red O'Malley was an immense bear‑like presence behind the desk of the Grande. He was 6 feet, 3 inches, 325 pounds yet he possessed surprising grace and agility. Red had deep-set blue-green eyes and copious amounts of Lucy-red hair almost everywhere on his body. He had a full, wavy beard that some people had to restrain themselves from reaching out and caressing.

His body hair was a fiery expanse that could be seen to cover his shoulders and go down past his expansive belly underneath his neatly pressed white shirts. It cascaded along his brawny, tanned arms down to the back his evocatively tapered hands...everywhere on his body it seemed except on top of his massive head, its freckled dome smooth and always immaculate.

Red O'Malley spent every Wednesday through Sunday...5 PM to 2 AM...at his post. He never called in sick. He was never late. He never made or took personal calls. He never lingered when his shift was over.

No one knew exactly how old or young he was...but to most it seemed like he'd always been there. And to most, this was true. Red O'Malley had worked with a dozen managers and with God knows how many maids, bellboys, and custodians. Turnover was high at the Grande... but Red was eternal.

Like the Grande itself.

The Central City Grande Hotel had seen better days. She was vaguely shabby and shopworn despite the occasional paint job and wholesale changing of her rugs and drapes that her secession of absentee owners bestowed upon her. But there was, despite the fact that she now kept uneasy company with more saloons and tattoo parlors than swanky nightclubs, something eternally noble...bittersweet but still vaguely glorious... about the old girl.

And, like Red O'Malley, there were so many tales...some quite magical, some quite mundane...that she could tell.

This night was no different. Red looked over at Jerry, smirking humidly and skulking back to the kitchen after his second third-floor service run, and shook his head slightly. He knew that look all too well...315, who had come in before Red's shift, had to be a woman...a woman Jerry would never have except in the fertile realm of his imagination...

sometimes...

My friend’s mother died last week. My friend is a generation…more or less…younger than I am and his mother shouldn’t be dead…not all of a sudden…not now…no, not now. It’s not right…it’s not fair…it’s not the way it should be…it’s…

I know that the universe bends to no one’s will…accepts no definitions of “right” or “wrong”…I know that the world, the universe, life as we know it, is neither “bad” nor “good”, it simply is. (But still I look for reasons and answers and explanations to make it all make sense…it won’t make sense…not in ways of mortal comprehension…but I want it to anyway…)

Death always makes us think about life. About the life that breathes and thrives…sustaining and comforting us…in the intimate circles of our knowing.

My own parents are in their 70’s…from my point of view, they’ve always been there and, in my naïve child’s heart, I keep expecting that they always will be. I know that they won’t be…but logic is no proof against what the heart yearns for most fervently.

I want my parents…my wise, hardworking, beautiful mother and my searching, reverent, passionate father…to live forever. I want them to know that I want that even if I never say it out loud.

I want my friend’s mother to really be in a better place. I want my friend to believe that she is and take some little solace in that.

I want the universe to make sense to me even as I know it has no obligation to do so.

…listen to me now,
I need to let you know
you don’t have to go it alone…

and it’s you when I look in the mirror
and it’s you when I don’t pick up the phone…
sometimes you can’t make it on your own…

("Sometimes You Can't Make it On Your Own" words by Bono/music by U2)

- for MVT -

Blogs of Note: 63 Days

There is no order of preference to the blogs I choose to highlight for this irregular feature...sometimes whichever site is lingering in my mind when I sit down to write one of these "blogs of note" gets the nod...often it's the one that has grabbed me most powerfully in recent days and just won't let go.

63 Days, a relatively new blog as of this writing, certainly fits that bill to a tee.

I have a fondness for blogs that are engaging (one of my favorite words as you might have noticed if you've lingered here very long), frank (sometimes heartbreakingly so), vividly and beautifully written. Two of my absolute favorite blogs... the equally (and, of course, uniquely) powerful A Gag Reflex and No One's Child...move me by ably and wondrously meeting all of those criteria... and this one promises to be a journey of that same amazing, thought-provoking, undeniably involving quality.

The writer of the way cool Tof Renkin Day!!! (itself being colorful, freewheeling, sassy, salty, bittersweet, witty as hell, and highly recommended as well) turns to her memories of being kidnapped...with her parents' consent and blessing...to one of those places where "problem" children are supposed to be, I'm presuming, "scared straight".

63 days...give or take...that were supposed to...and, undoubtedly, indeed did...change her life.

It is not an easy journey...but then it's not supposed to be (living it wasn't easy so it stands to reason that recounting it wouldn't be either.) But, again, it's a journey worth taking and one that rewards with wonderful attention to detail, strong narrative flow, and the total engagement of your heart, your soul, and your empathy...that is to say, your humanity.

words are silence

the heart of a whisper,
borne on the hint of a breeze,
echoes, dancing forever,
into the endless expanse of night...

you touch my heart
and I am moved to speak...
but a world blossoms in my throat
and sweet breath deserts me...

you touch my heart
and I am moved to speak...
but words are silence
and the moment is gone.

...it's my birthday, too--yeah!...

You say it's your birthday
It's my birthday too--yeah
They say it's your birthday
We're gonna have a good time
I'm glad it's your birthday
Happy birthday to you.
(John Lennon & Paul McCartney)

Okay, I freely admit that I love birthdays. Birthdays of people I know and care about. Birthdays of people I barely know but want to wish well just the same.

And yes, especially (the kid in me never having completely grown up, any evidence to the contrary notwithstanding :-) my own birthday (getting older is, as far as I'm concerned, not something to be afraid of...it's one of the goals in life to get as old as possible while staying as healthy and as lucid and as open to new knowledge and experiences as humanly possible.)

Sunday March 13th is my birthday...if you're cruising by the blog this weekend and feel sporting, leave some "happy happys" for the big guy :-)

Inspiration?

It's a question without a simple answer but I ask it anyway because I'm interested in the different ways people can answer it. For the writers passing through (and that's a large percentage of the blogging world), where do you find inspiration for your writing?

For me it often comes from people I know and care about and things I've felt and done. Sometimes it comes things I enjoy...a favorite Nanci Griffith song, for example, served as the inspiration for a writing experiment that ended up taking 6,000 words to complete...and sometimes it comes, quite seriously, from dreams...vivid nighttime wanderings through the subconscious as well as idle waking dreams that sometimes suggest scenarios, opening lines, or bits lines of dialogue that bloom into full fledged vignettes, poems, essays, or short stories.

For me, I guess inspiration comes from everywhere...and nowhere (I try not to overthink it :-)

How 'bout you?

My Brilliant Career as a High School Truant

I was a "good" child. Not a perfect one by any stretch of the imagination...I got into a fair share of mischief and other incidents borne out of the kind of faulty judgment that only a kid can indulge unabashedly (some of these even managed to escape my mother's seemingly-omniscient knowledge though, as is most often the case with mothers and other world-class psychics, my Mom managed to find out about the majority of my escapades.)

Still, despite my few and fleeting forays over to the dark side, I was by and large a well-behaved child during my formative years (this is not, by the by, something I'm all that proud of...there were many occasions when I'd have rather cut loose and been BAD but even then I kept a tight rein on my "baser" emotions and hid behind my carefully-erected, closely-held facades. My brother, on the other hand, indulged his every anti-social whim and kicked up more than enough fuss for both of us. These things balance out on a cosmic scale, I suppose.)

All of this is by way of introduction to the story of my great ditching adventure, which was (I was later told over and over) quite out of character for me.

It began in that (sometimes) most degrading of High School activities, gym class. It was the spring of my 10th grade year and I had been placed in the class of a sadistic septuagenarian who had very little good to say about sports, kids, or life in general (his name escapes me now...post-traumatic shock no doubt.) He was on his last legs and was bound and determined to go out sharing as much bile and acrimony as he possibly could.

The assignment to his class didn't thrill me. (It did, in fact, almost send me back to ROTC, which I had toiled in during the previous semester in lieu of P.E.)

My school...good ol' Alexander Hamilton High...was a multi-cultural mix of mostly middle (“lower-middle” to “middle-middle”) class students (more or less) peacefully coexisting the hallowed halls for three mostly benign years (this was the early 70's...a transition period between the revolutionary-breeding that schools had found themselves doing during the late 60's and the yuppie-breeding that they specialized in during the 80's. We were blissfully non-dogmatic.)

Now it happened that the one thing that wasn't taken into account during the pre-school shopping spree that was the bane of every child's summer was the acquisition of a regulation gym outfit: green trunks and a reversible green-and-white short sleeve sweatshirt, each emblazoned with the name of the school and highlighted with a space upon which our names were supposed to be written in indelible ink (as if there was really somebody who really wanted to steal gym clothes drenched in the vilest substance known to man: the combination of the sweat and the pre-Right Guard odor of pubescent boys.)

No sweat (no pun intended), thought I, come my mother's next payday, the regulation togs would be acquired and things would be...um...groovy.

The old man had other ideas.

On the third day of the semester (two days before the aforementioned payday), he issued an ultimatum that scared me to my very sensitive, hormone-ravaged soul: anyone not wearing the regulation gym suit on the next day would have to strip down to their underwear in the middle of the gym and then be made to participate in that day's activities thusly clothed.

A palpable chill rocketed through the 5 of us who were waiting for out parents' next paycheck to acquire the green shorts and reversible sweatshirt.

To this day, I have no idea if he was serious but at the time he seemed quite earnest and quite capable of carrying out the threat.

Being "blessed" with an abundance of both imagination and shyness, my mind reeled feverishly spinning out the most humiliating scenarios possible.

I spent the rest of the day in a daze.

The next morning, panic set in.

I hadn't mentioned any of this to my mother (I didn't want her to feel bad because we couldn't get the gym clothes until the end of the week), so I got up and got dressed as usual. I took my lunch and my notebook and started walking towards school.

And then I made a left turn and kept walking west until I hit the Pacific Ocean (Venice Beach to be exact…it took about 2 hours.) Not having thought anything out, I decided the public humiliation of playing basketball in my BVD's was more than I could bear.

I also realized that I had added another problem to the mix (to wit: I couldn't get back into school without a note from my mother) but I had committed myself to a course of action and I was stuck with it at that point.

I wandered around Venice for hours and then, about 2 hours before I was supposed to be home from school, I went home.

I jumped out of my skin every time the phone rang that night...but the school never called. My attendance record was such that if I missed a day they just KNEW that I must be sick.

Being a "good" child kept me safe...for a while.

During the next two weeks I got up every day and left the house like I was going to school. Most days I went to the L.A. County Museum of Art (too many weird people at the beach I had decided...I was a semi-fugitive but I didn't want to become a statistic) which I explored...unmolested (though I thought every other person was a truant officer with my photo in his or her pocket)...from top to bottom (in the process, I gained an untutored appreciation for the High Renaissance as well as the boyish conviction that much of what passed for "modern art" was really a scam [as evidenced by the seemingly-Xeroxed Campbell Soup Can "painting" and the 12' x 12' white canvas with only three blobs of paint on it].)

I began to feel invulnerable...like this situation could go on forever. And so, of course, reality slammed me down to Earth. Hard.

I came home one day...going in through the kitchen door, for reasons I'm still unsure of, instead of through the front door as was my usual habit. I could hear my mother talking in the next room...the school had become concerned (worried, perhaps, that I had died) and had finally called.

The jig was up. My goose was cooked. The fat was in the fire. The clichés were flying fast and furious. My only options were to confess or flee.

Using the always-infallible wisdom of youth, I decided to flee. I slipped back out the kitchen door and ran into the day with absolutely no idea of where I was going.

I spent what remains to this day the worst night of my life wandering the west side of Los Angeles...first at the beach, which was far too blustery and cold at night for my tender sensibilities and eventually in an all-night laundry wherein I could get warm by turning on all the dryers in the place at once ("free dry" is one the great bygone treasures of our times.)

That night convinced me that I was too soft and too spoiled for life on the streets. I wandered back into my neighborhood and allowed myself to be "caught" by my Uncle.

Everybody...my relatives, my teachers, my principal...was so "disappointed" in me that it was almost unbearable (I honestly would have preferred them to have been angry at me...anger was something I could have managed...disappointment is far too daunting a burden for a teenager to bear) that I almost wished that I had taken my chances on the street rather than having to face the awful burden of adults’ dashed expectations.

My mother was disappointed, too...but she kept her counsel. She was extremely happy that I was home alive and safe...and she kept her counsel.

She waited patiently until I was ready to tell my story (which, of course, sounded perfectly ridiculous even to me when I repeated it out loud...all the perfectly good rationalizations I had used to justify my actions to myself deserted me in the cool light of reason.)

And somehow she understood it in her own way. She even accepted a portion of the blame. (That didn't make me feel any better about myself...but, through the guilt and embarrassment...I appreciated her understanding in ways I could never explain.

We spent the next day together, my mother and I. We bought gym clothes and a Roberta Flack album...she in reflective quiet, me in guilty silence.

The day after, I went back to school, faced the disappointment of the Boy's Vice Principal and my favorite English teacher. I got a new gym class (with a sane teacher) and life went on.

But I've never forgotten my “adventure". I wonder if my mother has.

Blogs of Note: My Neighbours Are Hoors!

I love this site. It's bawdy (but not salaciously so), charming, poignant and a bit profane (but not terribly so), and, most importantly, it's filled with warm, engaging, delightfully wry good humor.

A Scottish woman with a keen eye for detail, a wonderful way with words, and (one imagines anyway) a twinkle in her eyes and a warm glow in her heart relates her adventures with her neighbors somewhere in the UK. Her neighbors, in the downstairs flat, are (as the title states with wonderful directness) ladies of negotiable affection.

The writer of My Neighbours Are Hoors! welcomes us into her world with colorful episodes and tart asides...she has respect and abiding affection for the working girls working in the brothel downstairs in her apartment building...and she even includes helpful glossary (helpful for clueless Americans like yours truly who, for example, thinks of football when hearing someone referred to as a "punter") and FAQ sections (links to both on the opening page of the blog.)

Take an open mind (a good sense of humor and an open heart) whenver you go to this site and you will be charmed (maybe mildly shocked from time to time...but mostly charmed)...I know I am.

good morning

The old man stirred lazily, he’d slept the deep, yet still vaguely fitful, sleep one did when they were in a bed not their own. Through his haze he was, suddenly and softly, aware of the other presence in the warmly upholstered guest room. And, of course, he knew exactly who that presence was (at whatever hellishly early hour of the new morning it was it could only be her.)

Reluctantly, the old man allowed his eyes to slide halfway open and, sure enough, he met the eyes he was expecting. She was staring at him with the kind of intense focus that only cats, serial killers, and determined four-year-old girls could pull off so effortlessly.

The little girl, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, was wearing a bright (too bright by half for old eyes suddenly trying to cope with the crack of dawn, the old man thought fleetingly) sleeper covered with images of cartoon characters the old man couldn’t identify if his life depended on it. She was waiting, holding a stuffed cow (her boon companion for most of her life), and waiting, impatiently patient.

“Papa?” the little girl, knowing that the old man was…finally!...awake, said in a stage whisper that seemed (to the old man anyway) to thunder through the stillness of the morning.

The old man allowed his eyes to slide closed and grunted sleepy man-sounds hoping to throw her off the scent.

“You need to get up,” the little girl, not fooled for an instant, said resolutely.

The old man stifled an affectionate laugh and opened his eyes again. “But it’s Saturday morning…” he said, not trying to stifle a sincere yawn.

The little girl frowned. She wasn’t sure how to respond to that since the fact that it was Saturday morning was exactly the point…exactly the reason why she wanted him to get up. She shrugged. “You need to get up,” she repeated, undaunted, sure that this time would be the charm.

The old man knew that this was not a battle he was going to win but he tried one more feint just the same. “Where are Mommy and Daddy?” he asked, hoping to redirect her attention to her parents sleeping down the hall in the master bedroom.

The little girl sighed, patiently impatient. “They’re still sleeping,” she said. “We need to get up.”

The old man yawned and stretched and, as he’d known that he would, he surrendered. Through his haze he somehow found himself transported…his favorite ratty old robe over his pajamas, coffee cup in hand…from his warm bed to the cozy comfort on the family room. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, the couch to his back and his granddaughter on the floor next to him with a cup of milk in hand, watching television. The old man didn’t completely understand what was on television…it seemed to be about loudly colored locomotives that talked…but the little girl, snuggled close against his arm, obligingly was explaining the goings-on.

“See, Papa?” the little girl said, smiling up at him as the program finished, “you needed to get up or you would have missed it.”

The old man smiled, stifling yet another yawn, and bent down and kissed the top of the little girl’s head. “Yeah,” he agreed, “I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to miss it.”

- for Shelby Elise -