Hotel [excerpt]
Shallow mineral mines line the shores of San Francisco Bay in every shade of red mud. In awkward square shapes, from the brightest to darkest they reflect the dimming sun behind the silhouette of the jagged skyline. His plane descends for landing. The summer sunset dominates late hours of the evening over Oakland International Airport. It’s dark by the time he’s out at the curb near arrivals.
She has circled the loop six times until she spots him on the edge of the sidewalk by the smokers. She recognizes his chiseled-stone face and long legs in the usual jeans when she reaches the first terminal.
Before he can notice she looks from the corner of her eye at the rearview mirror. She tried a little mascara tonight, hair tied back under a khaki sport cap with knock-off lettering that says GAP. Tight brown curls peak out of the loose tie in back of the cap. Her long Roman nose won’t bother her so much if she ignores how it is always pointing downward, tapping her squiggly upper lip. She is halfway done coming up with the money for the surgery.
The tires of her 1998 faded gold metallic Camry pull up to his white sneakers. Screeching slightly they rub against the sidewalk, releasing a black puff.
***
Crossing the Bay Bridge on an oddly fog-free night he can almost see the horizon behind the Golden Gate. Two commuter fairies lit for the night cross the bay in opposite directions. Sail boats return to harbor.
She tells him how booking the hotel on-line was really easy, and she got a deal because of the last minute plans. It’s downtown and real nice. He asks about the film. What he could write or add and where they could shoot. He knows who will see it.
She pulls the car into the underground parking garage of the Marriot off of Market St., driving past the entrance with the doormen dressed like old fashioned guards.
A royal entrance more fancy than he is comfortable with. He waits in the bar for her until she checks in at the counter.
He insists on buying her a beer, after-all, she flew him in. He orders two beers from the bartender dressed in a black tuxedo shirt. She places the card key on a table near some large plants and sits. He joins her.
He doesn’t like talking about the stories behind his stories, and he hasn’t told her that there’s already one about her. But she knows, and she hopes that the other women he knows in San Francisco will not appear in it.
The waitress, also dressed in a black tuxedo shirt, brings two brown bottles to the table: Carnival Fun House Amber Ale. Red, blue and yellow striped tent surrounded by cartoons of exotic parakeets, tigers and bulls wrap around each bottle.
The waitress has hair like her but longer; curly and just as tight. Her eyes are large with arches drawn to replace her eyebrows and an unusually wide forehead. She pours the beers into long glasses one at a time while she looks at each of them from above her nose.
He wonders if the waitress will be there still when he comes back for another drink, later. She leaves without leaving any clues. He will wait for now.
Instead,
“When will you finish the film?” He asks.
She thinks for a second about what she had told him before, she says.
“As soon as they get the money, a few weeks later we’ll begin to shoot.”
“I write scripts in Los Angeles.” He tells her “Sometimes for commercials. Who’s writing the movie?”
“We don’t know yet. I could call them so you can all meet while you’re here.”
“Sure. You’re playing a documentary film director?” He asks.
“Yes.” She says, “I think it will be like when I played an airline executive in another movie back home. And maybe I can use things from when I was playing college student roles. The history major, comparative literature grad student, and then there was the linguist.”
“Those are all the same, it should be easy to seem real.” He says.
“I can play anything.” She says looking in his eyes this time.
He understands what she meant.
The two bottles on the table have already started sweating, moistening the labels, making the paper swell and loosen.
She watches him carefully grab her bottle, run his thumb down along one side, wiping the sweat. Drops fall on the table adding a shine to the dull black surface. He doesn’t look at her, puts the bottle back down. Her eyes open wide, watching his fuzzy eyebrows and curly lashes for meaning.
Most of the time, she talks and they empty two more glasses and bottles. She tells him about all the roles she has played and all the places she has lived. How all the artists in ....San Francisco.... love her, and everybody knows her. The church people, the school people, the non-profit organizations people, radio hosts, and the regular people too. She is very popular.
No matter the prompts, probes and inappropriate questions, he doesn’t give more than vague answers. She can’t get him to talk about his stories. She knows he writes short stories, usually about women, sometimes young men. Though, his leading ladies in the stories always have conflict with a recurring character inspired by the likes of Bob Dylan. This character is a folk singer, a cross between a contemporary troubadour and Casanova seducing lonely housewives who try to help him in his singing career.
Everything she knows about him she has read on his website and blog, except for the few minutes she has spent questioning him after readings. She has on every occasion possible invited him over to wherever she was living. He has on every occasion turned her down, until now.
She wonders what the room looks like, for the deal they got, she imagines how nice it could be. He offers to pay the tab, but finds his wallet empty. He looks up at her like a mouse caught in the kitchen light.
She leaves the bar to find some money in the car. As she unlocks the door he walks up behind her. He forgot his journal and wants to take it up to the room. He looks at her and looks away quickly.
They ask the waitress to charge the bill to room 6002, and that’s where they go.
She slips in the card certain it won’t open the door. The tiny light above the handle stays red. She tries again, still red. He takes the card, turns it over and tries. His arm in a smooth seemingly choreographed sweep reaches around her and leaves no room. The light is green.
Inside they open every closet door, drawer, and search behind the window curtains like children discovering a castle. Nothing to complain about, to criticize, he puts down his backpack on the dresser, turns on the television to no particular channel.
***