had made a place for my customers to let their minds travel beyond their difficult circumstances. They could enjoy happiness, no oppression, for a short time, and it did not cost so much. There was great freedom in the value of my fantasy rooms. They might not be for everyone, but those who came kept returning. I took great pride in this, and it was here I found happiness I had never known. I thought the Liberty Motel was a place of beauty for the soul.
I walked with the vodka bottle in my hand over to the linen room, where Mara was asleep. I hoped she had brought the ice to the Roller Coaster Room couple. The pink door to the linen room stuck like all the other doors.
“Mara,” I said as the door whined.
The light was out.
“Mara!”
“Huh,” she responded, sounding dazed. “I was having such a bad dream.”
“Did you bring the ice to room two?”
“I knocked, but no one came to the door. There was something about a vacuum in my dream. I was outside vacuuming, and one of those crows that lives in the pine trees got sucked into the tube. The vacuum took over and was pulling up everything in sight, including the clouds and the stoplights on Windsor Avenue. I couldn’t let go, and the whole time the crow was screeching CAW! CAW! from inside the vacuum.”
“I think it reflects your conflicts about work.”
“Please, don’t analyze me. Isn’t your shift over?”
“Never mind,” I said, closing the door.
“Stalina, what are you going to do with that bottle of vodka?” she said as I closed the door.
“It is to help a difficult situation,” I replied.
The door to room two looked like all the others, painted pink with a hammered copper number nailed to the front. I could smell cigarette smoke, menthol mixed with our pine disinfectant. A nice smell, I thought.
Chapter Eleven: Vodka
Knock. Knock.
No answer.
Knock. Knock .
I hear a bit of scuffling.
“Who’s there?” a raspy woman’s voice asked from behind the door.
“It’s the front desk receptionist. We spoke on the phone.”
Still from behind the door she said, “I thought someone was going to bring me ice for Harry’s head.”
“I have the ice.”
“Door’s unlocked.”
The door scraped against the wood frame and concrete entrance as it opened and was tilted to one side like an old person stiff and pitched at an angle by arthritis.
“Hello, I’m Stalina. I thought you might need some assistance.”
“I’m Joanie. I don’t think Harry is getting up anytime soon. Maybe I should throw a bucket of water on him,” she said, leaning on the door.
“How about we get him off the floor? Sometimes if you put the feet up it can help.”
“He’s too big for me to lift.”
She was very thin, and like many women in America she had her hair dyed bleach blond. I myself find black hair has more mystery and drama. Claudette Colbert and Greta Garbo were my role models. Dark and sultry women.
“I can help you.”
I put down the ice bucket in which I had placed the vodka.
“Vodka? Good going, I could use a drink. You must be Russian; I like your accent.”
“I thought the situation might call for vodka. It is like smelling salts, and yes, I am Russian.”
“I had a Russian boss once. Harry looks pretty peaceful like this, don’t you think? He was having such a good time on the bed, or roller coaster, whatever it is. He got carried away, landed on his head.”
“I’m glad he was having a good time. The ‘bed-coaster’ is of my own design.”
“I was cheering him on,” she said as she touched his forehead with her hand. Her nails were long and painted with elaborate designs. She had dressed Harry in his boxer shorts and an undershirt.
“I gave him these.” She waved her hands, indicating the shorts with red hearts. “He likes to wear them when we’re together,” she said coyly.
“And the shirt?” I asked. It was blue with the word “Waikiki” spelled across it in letters that looked like bamboo.
“His
I walked with the vodka bottle in my hand over to the linen room, where Mara was asleep. I hoped she had brought the ice to the Roller Coaster Room couple. The pink door to the linen room stuck like all the other doors.
“Mara,” I said as the door whined.
The light was out.
“Mara!”
“Huh,” she responded, sounding dazed. “I was having such a bad dream.”
“Did you bring the ice to room two?”
“I knocked, but no one came to the door. There was something about a vacuum in my dream. I was outside vacuuming, and one of those crows that lives in the pine trees got sucked into the tube. The vacuum took over and was pulling up everything in sight, including the clouds and the stoplights on Windsor Avenue. I couldn’t let go, and the whole time the crow was screeching CAW! CAW! from inside the vacuum.”
“I think it reflects your conflicts about work.”
“Please, don’t analyze me. Isn’t your shift over?”
“Never mind,” I said, closing the door.
“Stalina, what are you going to do with that bottle of vodka?” she said as I closed the door.
“It is to help a difficult situation,” I replied.
The door to room two looked like all the others, painted pink with a hammered copper number nailed to the front. I could smell cigarette smoke, menthol mixed with our pine disinfectant. A nice smell, I thought.
Chapter Eleven: Vodka
Knock. Knock.
No answer.
Knock. Knock .
I hear a bit of scuffling.
“Who’s there?” a raspy woman’s voice asked from behind the door.
“It’s the front desk receptionist. We spoke on the phone.”
Still from behind the door she said, “I thought someone was going to bring me ice for Harry’s head.”
“I have the ice.”
“Door’s unlocked.”
The door scraped against the wood frame and concrete entrance as it opened and was tilted to one side like an old person stiff and pitched at an angle by arthritis.
“Hello, I’m Stalina. I thought you might need some assistance.”
“I’m Joanie. I don’t think Harry is getting up anytime soon. Maybe I should throw a bucket of water on him,” she said, leaning on the door.
“How about we get him off the floor? Sometimes if you put the feet up it can help.”
“He’s too big for me to lift.”
She was very thin, and like many women in America she had her hair dyed bleach blond. I myself find black hair has more mystery and drama. Claudette Colbert and Greta Garbo were my role models. Dark and sultry women.
“I can help you.”
I put down the ice bucket in which I had placed the vodka.
“Vodka? Good going, I could use a drink. You must be Russian; I like your accent.”
“I thought the situation might call for vodka. It is like smelling salts, and yes, I am Russian.”
“I had a Russian boss once. Harry looks pretty peaceful like this, don’t you think? He was having such a good time on the bed, or roller coaster, whatever it is. He got carried away, landed on his head.”
“I’m glad he was having a good time. The ‘bed-coaster’ is of my own design.”
“I was cheering him on,” she said as she touched his forehead with her hand. Her nails were long and painted with elaborate designs. She had dressed Harry in his boxer shorts and an undershirt.
“I gave him these.” She waved her hands, indicating the shorts with red hearts. “He likes to wear them when we’re together,” she said coyly.
“And the shirt?” I asked. It was blue with the word “Waikiki” spelled across it in letters that looked like bamboo.
“His
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