Ep. 2
It was 6:45 in the morning. Other than a very uncomfortable nap in my pickup, I had been up for the last 36 hours. The event list was brutal this time of year. Christmas parties, holiday parties, office parties, and other excuses for people to drink and try to hook up with whatever they can convince to believe that they are just looking for friendship.
People puking in the fake plants in the lobbies, girls trying to get them to get back to the party they stumbled away from. That is how it goes, I guess.
I am trying to get some food to eat before I return to The Hotel, where I have been staying for the last two years. Walking the aisles of the supermarket, shopping next to the old retirees, another set that either doesn’t sleep much, or just enough to still be up by dawn like they have for the last 60-odd years. I walk over to the coffee section, and root around the grinder that they installed to allow the patrons to grind their own coffee. Picking up a few beans of what I hoped was strongly caffeinated coffee, I chew on them to stay awake. It is gritty work, but much faster than buying a cup, and cheaper as well. The overhead speakers leak out the tunes by Sister Sledge, ‘We are Family’. My soul cries in the memory of all the parties that use that song during the dances. Grabbing a few things that I can cook in the kitchenette in my suite, I hurry and pay before any more emotional damage done by the musical torture track.
It was a short drive from the market to The Hotel. Then again, it is always a short drive to The Hotel, if you are a long-term client. I walk into the lobby, nodding to the Night Manager. He looks up with his good eye. The other one resolutely stays looking at his book. It never wants to move in the direction that he is looking, and he has no intention of getting it fixed. He lost the other eye at some point in his past, but he never talks much about it. It doesn’t bother him. Besides, it adds to the mystique that is the Night Manager. I chuckle to myself about the humor of a man that can’t talk.
The Night Manager raises an eyebrow quizzically, but doesn’t make any other sign that he wants to know more. The Hotel has a strict privacy policy. If you didn’t do it, you don’t talk about it. If you did it, you don’t talk about it. Nothing ever happens here. At least, nothing that anyone speaks of.
Pushing my key into the call button for the elevator, I hear the ‘click’ that tells me the passkey was read, and the elevator had been called. As the doors open, I instinctively step to the side to allow the passengers to depart. Then, I remember that there are never any passengers. No matter how many people get on the elevator, you are always alone. I once tried to find the Theoretical Multiverse for Dummies™ book to try to wrap my mind around the actions of The Hotel. That was an epic fail. All I got from the book was questions about my life choices, and how to get my hands on the ‘me’ that came out right, and kick his ass.
Stepping onto the elevator, I push the button to my floor. As always, it is the only one lit. The key only unlocks what it is meant to unlock. The ride to the 7th floor was uneventful, and I exited out to the long hallway leading to my suite. Pushing my key into the lock on Room 726 and twisting granted access to the sanctum of my home away from… well, away from nothing. I try to remember where I lived before I came here, but I can’t remember. No matter, the past is best left there.
I put away the groceries that I bought for the next few days, toss a premade dinner into the microwave for 5 minutes. The directions always say something different, but it is easier to just nuke the crap for 5 minutes. It is either hot enough to melt the plastic, meaning it is cooked, or just warm enough to eat before I change my mind on whether it was a good purchase.
I walk to the chair in the sitting area. The benefit of being a long-term resident is that you get a proper suite. I have a sitting area with the kitchenette. Behind a set of double doors is the bedroom. Nothing to rave about. But it has a comfy bed, and black out curtains. When I work the hours I usually do, I need to be able to sleep whenever I want.
I ignore the mail that was placed next to the new bottle of Screaming Eagle Whiskey. A local concoction from down RT 281. The Hotel has a standing order for my room. When the empty bottle is outside the door, the new one is replaced on my table. With the right question and for the right money, anything is available here. That’s what I have heard, or not heard. I really can’t say.
I think back to the last shift at work. It was an odd one. The group that rented the Marquis room was not the usual type of clientele that he saw there. They looked off…
They only wanted the prime rib and shrimp combo, and insisted that they only want those two items. None of the potatoes au gratin, or the rainbow asparagus, another specialty to the area. They were willing to pay extra, just like they were willing to pay extra for the room to be closed off once the food was delivered. They didn’t want company either. That pissed off the entertainment director, but money talks.
I was tasked with keeping the steaks and shrimp coming. I didn’t have any other responsibilities for the night, which was good, I had never had to cook as much food for only 25 people in my entire career.
The only trouble for the night was a customer for the public area that thought the food I was preparing looked good, and kept trying to take some as the staff carried it to the party. His companion kept pulling him back and tried to get him to stay away. Sharon was good at her job, but even she was not superhuman. The drunken curiosity got the best of him, and he pushed her off his lap, attracting the attention of the entertainment director. No one is allowed to be rough with their companion unless previously agreed upon.
He managed to get to the door of the Marquis room before security could get to him. Just as he opened the door, an arm reached out and took hold of his shirt. It was bony and there were many rings on the fingers. With a tug, the man was pulled into the room, and the door closed. The Security staff approached the door and politely knocked. The door opened a crack and one of the guests who organized the party stuck his head out. They talked for a bit, and a credit card was exchanged. The men walked away, and one returned a few moments later, with a receipt and the card. The last guard walked back to his spot in the room. A rather large pile of bills was given to Sharon for her troubles. Nothing else was said about the event, and I went back to cooking.
Anything can happen at The Gilded Unicorn.
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