Vital Signs

Part 11

With one hand securing the towel closed around my waist, I continue to pace.

"Calm down... Take a deep breath. Think, Phil. Think about what you want to say. You're a professional communicator."

Finding some hotel stationery in the desk drawer, I drop into the wobbly chair. As I write, I mumble, "Carl, you murderous bastard."

I crumple the paper and toss it to the floor and begin again. "Think about what you're doing, Carl. Just think about it. What are you doing?... What am I doing?"

Another ball of crinkled paper is added to the herd. 

"C'mon, Philip. Focus."

It isn't long before the floor is littered with balled-up drafts and I'm out of paper. Searching through each drawer, I realize that I've exhausted my supply.

The digital clock flips from 11:49 to 11:50.

Like a mongoose stalking a cobra, I approach my briefcase, which stands like a soldier beside the bed. The thought of confronting work-related artifacts makes my stomach burn.

I toss my briefcase onto the plaid bedspread and snap open the latches, turning my head away from the interior. I don't want to see anything that is remotely connected with Trollamex. Blindly, I reach for the inside pocket and retrieve a folder containing sheets of Dunning and Brannigan stationery. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice something tumble to the floor. It's a familiar folded piece of paper.

I'm struck by a thunderous blow as though an arrow has hit me between the shoulder blades, its tip lodged in my heart. The folder drops from my grasp, paper spilling onto the cheap, carpeted floor. For a moment, my lungs refuse to inflate. Without moving my head, my eyes go to the digital clock.

The numbers flip in slow motion from 11:52 to 11:53.

As the blood once again courses through my veins, I retrieve the paper from the floor and unfold it as I sink onto the bed. Through my tear-filled eyes, I see the monkey with its leashed pet dog looking back at me.

                                                                             #######

In the morning, I stand at the counter watching the woman with the two-tone bangs typing, using only her index fingers on the keyboard of an ancient computer. 

"Breakfast bar is open," she says. "Help yourself."

There's not another living soul in the lobby. Arranged on the counter across the room are stacks of styrofoam cups and bowls. An old coffeemaker with a blinking orange light emits an odor more akin to soup than coffee. Beside a toaster is a package of off-brand bagels. An open container of margarine lies on its side on the floor beside a scattering of plastic knives. A few feet away is a man's slip-on shoe. Not a pair of shoes, one, singular shoe. I don't even want to speculate how that got there.

"Not very hungry," I reply.

Tap. Tap. She continues typing.

"How many nights?" she asks.

"Just one." I don't know why I spent the night. I got zero sleep. 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"How was your stay?" she says, her eyes glued to the computer screen.

"I couldn't get any hot water. And the water pressure is..." It's pointless for me to finish the sentence. She isn't listening. 

Tap. Tap.

"The kids use the pool?"

"What kids? I'm here by myself."

Tap.