There
was a long stretch of brown hallway extending in both directions.
The
walls were part light-brown, part dark, and the carpet was half-way
in between.
About
every fifty or sixty feet, there was an unnecessary piece of
furniture the sole purpose of which seemed to be to hold up an
unnecessary vase of flowers.
I
don't remember flowers at any Hampton Inn, but I also had not made a
careful study, or visited their every location.
Left
or right?
Not
clear.
Like
picking the fastest lane at the grocery check-out, I was going to
pick the wrong one, so I started to my right and then, before I had
reached the first vase, I stopped, turned back, took a few steps,
stopped, looked at the room numbers, smacked myself on the head and
continued on, back the way I had come and on down that side of the
hall.
As
I was performing that elaborate pantomime for cameras that I knew
would be there, even if I had not yet spotted them, I was not sure
who I thought I was fooling. It was as though I could change my fate
by first seeming to commit to one choice and then switching to the
other. Kind of like trying to break a run of bad luck at the crap
table by throwing with the other hand.
This
was a big hotel: lots of halls and forks, point of decision.
I
could feel the items in the cart in front of me begin to multiply
with each turn and with every fork.
Periodically,
there would be fire doors. Solid, anonymous and only incorporated
into the studiously neutral design scheme as an after-thought, the
doors reminded me of my circumstances and the possibility of risk.
Every
one of the sets of doors was either propped partially or completely
open. Even a small fire would have plenty of room to grow in this
giant wind tunnel.
What
seemed like miles of corridors and no sign of an elevator.
Hundreds
of doors, lots of partially, or fully, open fire doors; an unknown
quantity of unnecessary flowers.
Unlimited
potential as far as they eye could see.
Until
there wasn't.
I
had reached a set of fire doors that was completely closed.
I
stopped.
To
this day, I swear, I felt a cold rush of air on the back of my neck.
This
was a real decision and I wasn't ready for it.
I
could have kept going. The crash bars that were designed to get the
door open quickly in case of an emergency were on my side of the
door. It would have been a simple matter to push on the bar and let
my momentum carry me forward.
It
would have been so simple.
I'm
not sure why, but this felt different, much more important. Too
important to be rushed.
My
circumstances were talking to me and I needed to be smart enough to
pay attention.
I
met a range officer years ago, when I was in Basic. He was one of
those guys who moved slow but with eyes that were always in motion.
You could tell he saw everything and had to have been in the real
deep shit back in his day. He was one of those guys who found out he
was no longer built for the real world.
He
went everywhere with a gnarled old sheleighlee that was as thick
around as my wrist. You could tell he needed it as his gait was
studied and his steps deliberate.
I
paid my dues as a range rat and figured I had earned enough of his
trust to ask him about his walking stick.
“It's
not a 'walking stick',” he said. “Only assholes and officers
have walking sticks: I work for a living.”
It
was direct and colorful and had all the trappings of a well-rehearsed
line.
“This
is a sheleighlee, straight from the old country.”
By
contrast, this line was delivered with honest reverence. I wasn't
sure which country he meant, but even at that age I was smart enough
to know I should not ask.
“This...is
not a stick—sticks break—this is a root.”
You
could tell from the way that he held it that it was an object to be
respected and appreciated, even if you were not exactly clear what it
was you were supposed to be appreciating.
“I
suppose you want to hear the story. Which one of them put you up to
it?”
I
froze.
I
had no idea what he was talking about.
“You're
not going to be in trouble.”
If
I knew anything for certain, it was that I was definitely going to be
in trouble.
My
face must have given me away. I could feel my ears get warm even as
I felt certain all the blood had drained from my head. I suddenly
felt dizzy.
“Och,
sit down before you fall down,” he said. “It's no fun playing
with your generation.... I'm just having a bit of fun. Seriously,
sit down.”
I
collapsed onto a nearby stool.
“We
were range testing a light artillery piece. Damn thing put me in the
hospital.”
“What
happened?” I'm not sure how I was able to come up with that.
“I
dropped my guard,” said the range master.
“I
knew something was wrong—blasted thing had been talking to me all
morning—and I didn't pay attention.
“Those
Oil Cans, you know them? Of course not, why would you? The Oil Can
has an open breach and when a round hangs up, it still goes off and
this one went everywhere. Lot of it into my leg.”
I
must have sworn because the sergeant had no patience for profanity.
I know it had to have been something like that because I felt the
breeze on my cheek as his not-a-stick crashed into the work table
behind me sending pieces, parts and me flying.
With
the same impact of root meeting work table, the idea of paying close
attention to instinct and experience was fused in me.
I
turned away from the closed fire doors and headed back the way I had
come.
I
had no way of knowing what was behind that door, but I knew enough to
know I'd be better off not knowing.
Back
down the hallways, turning right where I should have gone left and
left where I had turned right.
I
watched the room numbers climb even as I wondered which number had
been mine.
While
there may have been some comfort to be found in the relentless
sameness of these mid-price hotels, it was all too easy to lose your
way, forget what city you were in and whatever had been the goal of
your original mission.
Keep
the Subject Disoriented: the prime directive of interrogation and I
had done it to myself.
I
would have to watch that.
We
had done exactly this to marks we had played over the years. Stuff
them in a black box and feed them only enough clues so that they
think they know what's going on.
More
twists and turns, more unnecessary flowers.
I
must have passed my starting point because I became aware of things I
did not recall seeing before.
Perhaps
this was the occupied end of the hall because there were newspapers
on the floor in front of some of the doors and discarded room service
trays in front of others.
Room
service.... At a Hampton Inn...? Every time I saw that, I wondered
about the size of the Fuck You that had to represent.
Nobody
is going to be impressed by that, I don't care who they are. The
food itself, is going to be disappointing and if you're such a prick
to think that you can impress a third party by ordering room service,
then I guess you deserve that.
More
unnecessary everything.
More
fire doors and again, all of them open.
A
T-intersection.
Left
or right?
I
chose right.
A
little more hallway and then a set of double doors.
This
was different.
The
doors had windows in them and what looked like an elevator lobby on
the other side.
I
pushed through.
This
could be a good sign: an elevator would definitely change my
circumstances....
I
touched the recessed circle inside what looked like a glass life
preserver.
It
lit up and, almost immediately, the doors parted.
I
admit it, I had to think about it for a second. We had done a lot of
shit to people inside of elevators.
But
then I thought I wasn't really in a position to over-think the test.
The
doors closed behind me as I studied the button board.
Up
or down?
Up
to survey the whole board, or down to meet the pieces.
Decisions...,
decisions....
And
then elevator chose for me.
The
doors opened on the bright yellow lobby.
There
was a surprising number of people milling about. Usually, nobody
spends time in the lobby of places like this. No reason to, nothing
to see. Not like the old-line hotels with barber shops, newsstands
and cigarette girls.
Nothing
like that.
And
then I knew what they were there for: breakfast.
It
was an amenity..., of sorts, and one way for the chain to claim its
affiliation with its corporate masters at Hilton.
It
was the usual mix of carbs and proteins: eggs, of a kind, waffles,
of a type, sausage of uncertain provenance.
But
it was free-ish and all-you-can-eat and judging by the glassy eyes of
the people milling around, they were there to make sure that no one
told them how much they could eat.
It
wasn't until that moment, right then, that I realized how hungry I
was. The power of group-think, I suppose, but I could not remember the last time I
had fed myself.
I
joined in the slow shuffle past the chafing dishes and made myself a
plate.
Plate
filled, the next question was where to sit.
All
the tables were occupied, or mostly occupied. There were traveling
salesmen in their ill-fitting suits and families in their matching
track suits. Seniors and juniors, screaming babies and kids jacked
up on sugar tearing around the lobby while their parents lingered
over coffee.
I
found an older couple sharing a four-top and asked if I could borrow
the unused end while I ate my food.
The
question seemed to completely throw the man. He's wasn't angered so
much as he had no place to put the question. Completely focused on
his coffee, toast and traveling companion, my question, my intrusion
on his world, had no context: like watching a foreign language film
with no subtitles. He looked at me, because I had made a noise, and
then he looked at his wife for a translation.
She
returned his gaze before looking at me.
All
the lines in her face led either to her eyes, or her mouth, as though
she were a born communicator.
She
smiled at me and then it seemed as though those same lines were
radiating from her eyes and from her mouth.
“No
trouble at all,” she said. “We were just finishing up.”
That
was not true, unless they had filled their plates before deciding they
were not hungry.
“Finish
your coffee, dear,” she said to her husband. “I'll pay the bill
and then we can get on the road.”
“What...?”
He had been lost in his own thoughts and her instructions brought him
back to an unfamiliar world.
“Oh...,
yes dear.” He shot me a quick sly look.
“Are
you on vacation?”
The
question seemed to come out of nowhere and, for a moment, I felt like
the man sitting to my left. Where was I?
“Traveling
for work?”
Oh,
right.
“No,”
I said. “I'm retired.” At least, I thought I was retired.
“So
are we,” the woman said. “We were thinking that once we did it,
we'd be able to relax and now it seems we're busier than ever.”
“I
know what you mean,” I said. “Go, go, go.” I toasted them
with my coffee.
The
woman turned to her husband. “I'm just going to pay the bill. You
be okay?”
There
was a pause while the question wicked its way into his consciousness.
“What...?
Oh, yes.”
The
woman pushed herself to her feet and began to waddle off. She didn't
so much lift her feet as pull them off the floor with her hips, the
net effect of which was her movement resembled one of those wind-up
walking toys.
My
table mate seemed to be completely absorbed by his toast.
That
was, until, the woman vanished behind a column.
“Willy.”
I
didn't hear it at first.
“Willy!”
