LJ Idol 10: Where I Am Now
I've been living in a a local hotel while my kitchen floor, victim of a longstanding undetected leak, is being replaced. If I remain here into next week, it will be just shy of a month since I slept in my own bed, watched Netflix, cooked from scratch. The dogs are with my husband, whose job is in a neighboring state 4 hours away. My work schedule seldom allows visitation; his ancient car, liable to conk out on I-95.
The first thing I notice after the kitchenette are the door handles: Push up to open, not down. Insert the key card and it gives you five seconds to enter. There are two room phones. One is for show. The one on the nightstand is a direct line to the front desk.
It's off season so I'm not expecting to share my wing, but there are a few people, mostly women. They look cheap but not cheap, poor but not poor. Burly men pick them up in rattling dented cars and return them laden with overstuffed bags from the dollar store. Sometimes there are children. They are silent and disappear as soon as the door handles flip open.
I notice these women in the laundry room where the machines are free to use. They seem to acknowledge each other but there are no lingering conversations. A couple of them notice me and scatter.
They have flip phones and, if one has a long conversation, she's more apt to go out to the parking lot, talk, chain smoke.
I run into a woman I'll call Pam one afternoon in the smoking area. She too has that poor-not-poor-cheap-not-cheap look, a look I've seen on both former coworkers and customers. I tell her about my kitchen floor woes and not seeing my husband nor dogs. She tells me she walked away from a 20-year marriage, new house, new SUV, because it finally clicked in her to perhaps do something before her husband killed her.
Before I can say anything, her voice, tight and fast, flashes past me: Thank god no kids, I stayed with friends, had to stop because I didn't want them getting into trouble, too scared to go to the police - he was my HUSBAND - see this scar? He bashed me one night. Somebody told me about the agency. I didn't want to go, but I did and I'm glad I did. I'm safe now. This is the best place to stay because it's clean and you can cook something and best of all the staff doesn't look at you like you're scum.
I start to say something but Pam continues , drawing on her cigarette. “I've been here two years now. Saving up for my own place. I'll probably will have to move out of state because if he finds me, he's gonna kill me. Craig can't stay with me, he can only take me on errands. Can't get a job . If he finds out I'm working he'll find out where and kill me. I can't do that to other people. I just can't.”
“I didn't know that about this place,” I ventured.
“You picked it because of its price, right?” Pam laughed. “No restaurant, no pool. People stay here on an overnight on their way somewhere or they're like you or like me. The other places like the Hyatt over there? Forget it. We've got basic cable and the housekeeping staff's really nice.”
“Craig's that big blonde guy I see you with?”
“Yeah. I call him my boyfriend but he really isn't. It's good for him, being in AA and no job, you know? He goes around to all the hotels and takes everybody on their errands.”
“That's nice of him.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
I can tell she wants to talk more, but I suddenly remember, and tell her, I need to run an errand, nice meeting you, see you around. Her smile fades into a straight line.
I push my key card into the slot and push up the door handle. I can see her through the hallway window. I make a dash to my room, fling open the door, jump on the bed, staring at nothing in particular.
The first thing I notice after the kitchenette are the door handles: Push up to open, not down. Insert the key card and it gives you five seconds to enter. There are two room phones. One is for show. The one on the nightstand is a direct line to the front desk.
It's off season so I'm not expecting to share my wing, but there are a few people, mostly women. They look cheap but not cheap, poor but not poor. Burly men pick them up in rattling dented cars and return them laden with overstuffed bags from the dollar store. Sometimes there are children. They are silent and disappear as soon as the door handles flip open.
I notice these women in the laundry room where the machines are free to use. They seem to acknowledge each other but there are no lingering conversations. A couple of them notice me and scatter.
They have flip phones and, if one has a long conversation, she's more apt to go out to the parking lot, talk, chain smoke.
I run into a woman I'll call Pam one afternoon in the smoking area. She too has that poor-not-poor-cheap-not-cheap look, a look I've seen on both former coworkers and customers. I tell her about my kitchen floor woes and not seeing my husband nor dogs. She tells me she walked away from a 20-year marriage, new house, new SUV, because it finally clicked in her to perhaps do something before her husband killed her.
Before I can say anything, her voice, tight and fast, flashes past me: Thank god no kids, I stayed with friends, had to stop because I didn't want them getting into trouble, too scared to go to the police - he was my HUSBAND - see this scar? He bashed me one night. Somebody told me about the agency. I didn't want to go, but I did and I'm glad I did. I'm safe now. This is the best place to stay because it's clean and you can cook something and best of all the staff doesn't look at you like you're scum.
I start to say something but Pam continues , drawing on her cigarette. “I've been here two years now. Saving up for my own place. I'll probably will have to move out of state because if he finds me, he's gonna kill me. Craig can't stay with me, he can only take me on errands. Can't get a job . If he finds out I'm working he'll find out where and kill me. I can't do that to other people. I just can't.”
“I didn't know that about this place,” I ventured.
“You picked it because of its price, right?” Pam laughed. “No restaurant, no pool. People stay here on an overnight on their way somewhere or they're like you or like me. The other places like the Hyatt over there? Forget it. We've got basic cable and the housekeeping staff's really nice.”
“Craig's that big blonde guy I see you with?”
“Yeah. I call him my boyfriend but he really isn't. It's good for him, being in AA and no job, you know? He goes around to all the hotels and takes everybody on their errands.”
“That's nice of him.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
I can tell she wants to talk more, but I suddenly remember, and tell her, I need to run an errand, nice meeting you, see you around. Her smile fades into a straight line.
I push my key card into the slot and push up the door handle. I can see her through the hallway window. I make a dash to my room, fling open the door, jump on the bed, staring at nothing in particular.