The man in Dolfin shorts with fists of crumpled up money. "I need a room. Just got off the train. My father-in-law stole my wife. Came and got her. Doesn't want her married to a black man." The change clattering on the battered 1902 marble counter. Bicentennial quarters and rumpled Jefferson dollars. Does he have the money for a room in this dive? Thirty-four bucks gets you a room, no questions asked about where the thirty-four bucks came from or what you're doing in the room. Is he on drugs? Am I on drugs? Oh, most definitely. I am on drugs. For sure. That I have recently finished, so I am sniffing and tipping my head back, trying to get the last little bit of the last little bit into my brain. I think that's where coke goes, right? We put it in our nose so it gets to our brain quicker. I'm not a doctor, but I think that's sound science.
Not a doctor. But I am a graveyard desk clerk at a hotel next to the Greyhound Bus Station. The one this naked black guy came from. Wait. Bus? No, train. Yes. Train. Naked? No. Running shorts. Train. Running shorts. What are we doing? Counting. Did I already count? Or have I not even started counting? Maybe he knows. I look at him. He smiles. Nervous. He's nervous? No. I'm nervous. It's entirely possible we are both nervous. I wish I had more coke. Okay. He looks at the counter. His money is in a couple of small piles now. Coins and bills. Rumpled Jefferson and his pals have been smoothed out. "22!" Did he speak? "22. How much is a room?" There's a tear in his eye. Or gunk. When did this evening take this turn? "Tell you what. Rooms are thirty-four. I am going to give you the key to 242. It's haunted. (aren't we all?) And no one wants it. I usually rent it out last. It's 2AM. Sleep ON TOP of the bedspread. Don't fuck anything up. I clock out at 7AM. You can get five hours sleep. You leave when I leave. We cool?" He says we are cool. He looks at the key on the counter and then starts to scrape the money piles into his hands. "We're not that cool." I take his money. That tear is definitely mucus. He thanks me in a way that makes me feel uncomfortable. Like I'm ripping him off because I'm taking his money and won't let him sleep for free in the ghost room. I wish he'd shut up and stop thanking me over and over. I give him a Snickers bar from the candy display, hoping to make us both feel better about this whole transaction. He better not fuck up 242. He asks if I can call the police to help him get his wife from his father-in-law.
I am so much further down a road I did not want to turn down. Not just this guy. Or this job. I'm supposed to be a famous playwright by now in the vein of Sam Shepard with some Tom Waits and Joe Strummer tossed in. Some mornings I drive home from this job and I'm so tired I don't know how my white piece of shit Toyota even got to my carport when I wake up at noon and see it there.
Was gonna pocket the twenty-two bucks, see if Russ was still up and could give me a discount on a quarter gram. And this guy wants me to call the Police? That will definitely eat into the idea of getting more coke. Plus, I am not sure at all that the dispatch people can't tell from your voice if you're high. And the best way NOT to be paranoid is to not find out if that's true. Plus I don't believe this guy's story. I direct walking my 22 dollars to the antique phone booth next to the desk and tell him to call 911. I hear him muffle and meander inside the booth. I call Russ from the switchboard. He doesn't pick up. Damn.
I was starting to be able to taste the coke in the back of my throat already. A police car pulls up. No lights on it. I do that thing you do with cops. Where first you think of all the crimes you've done. And wonder if they're coming for you. Then you think, "Be cool." And you try to "act regular." Then you think, "But not too regular. There's an appropriate amount of regular called for here. They are cops. They expect a certain amount of sweaty when they approach. They have guns for fuck's sake. Key off that. Act like they have guns. Because they do." I'm in the middle of this when I notice they've ignored me totally and walked past to my 22 dollar gift who starts telling them his father-in-law kidnapping story. He is VERY VERY much not being cool. Arms flapping, gunk in his eye not going anywhere. You'd think the arm flapping would dislodge it. But nope. OH, now I get it. I thought he was nude because the running shorts are a dark blue. So when you first look, you're like, naked guy. But where's the penis? Then you see the logo on the bottom of the short. So no penis. Shorts. You get your bearings. Glad I figured that out.
He's walking out with the cops now, still talking wild. And I have most definitely seen this before. Keep them talking and walking. Get them nice and situated in the car without even having to bring out the handcuffs. Then it's off to wherever you take an obviously crazy out of control person. I guess I don't have to worry about him fucking up 242 and having my boss ask me questions tomorrow night. A clean 22 bucks. I try Russ again. He doesn't pick up. Damn. I mop the floor. Try Russ again. Wish he had an answering machine. Or a beeper. What kind of drug dealer doesn't have a beeper or an answering machine? (one that's also a drug USER and sold them, turns out). Restock the cigarette machine. Call Russ. Go into the bar. Unlock the fridge and have a Dos Equis. Call Russ. Have one more Dos Equis, so it's a dos Dos situation.
6AM now. Getting tired. A taxi cab pulls up. Is that my 22 dollar guy? Yup. He BOLTS through the door so excited. "THEY FOUND HER! THEY GOT HER. They got my BABY! MY BABY!" He's floating on something. And behind me, I see her. Blonde. Ponytail. In a dress t-shirt thing like something you'd sleep in. And four feet tall. And beaming. "I can't believe you came all that way for me. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!" She hugs him. He bends down to kiss her. "This is the man I told you about, sweetie. He gave me a room and dinner and he's a nice man." What the hell is happening here? She's real? And I'm not a nice man. I wanted to scam this money to buy coke. I thought for sure this guy was as fucked up crazy and high like me. But he's in love. With someone whose father could easily have been happy that his daughter was in love with someone. But instead he was angry, kidnapped her. If there's nice here, it ain't me. Russ wasn't gonna answer the phone anyway at this point, right? It's 6AM. I give 22 Dollars his 22 dollars. And the key to 242.
I know I'll get yelled at tomorrow night. I'll say I lost the money or my drawer didn't count out. They'll take it out of my check. I'm used to shit like that. I'm expected to be a fuck up like that. Maybe when I get home, there's some coke left in my black jeans (there wasn't). I think there was something in them.
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Also, this would be, by far, the best Snickers commercial ever aired!