When You're a Nail

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!”