I: Down for the Night

        Just south of Birmingham, I stopped for the night. As I pulled in the drive, a neon blue vacancy sign stood out bright, even against the blinding interstate lights. Lugging the essentials in the bag on my back, I walked in. The night-man smiled and greeted me.
“Hello ma’am, what can I do you for tonight?” No older than twenty-one, he had a thick accent and a sweet southern charm about him, which was common in these parts. Even so, he would have fit in perfectly in my neck of the woods, quite a bit farther south, and he seemed to me a bit out of place near a city. Even if it was an Alabama city.
“Just need a room for the night,” I said, a grin on my face. I couldn’t help but smile. He was the first human contact I’d had in nearly five hours, and I was just happy to be using my voice again. It also didn’t hurt that he was quite good-looking.
“Smoking or non?” he asked.
“Non.” The quick automatic response left my mouth before I even realized what I said. Truth is, when given the choice, I always go for non-smoking. Because of my chain-smoking habits, which worsen when I drive, I figured my lungs had earned the break.
“Well,” he looked up at me and paused, “the only non-smoking rooms left are king suites. Will that be alright?”
I nodded, my teeth still bared in a half moon. I hope he didn’t see the corners of my lips sag slightly. Having just quit my job, to be an on-call chauffer it seemed, every cent counted. And the extra $20.00 the suite cost would have been better off in my wallet. But I am a firm believer in the old adage ‘once you make your bed, you have to lie in it.’ I had told the man I wanted the room and that’s the room I was going to take. I would lie in the bed I made, or paid to be made anyway, even if I had to eat a little crow in doing so. Hell, that was something I was already used to.
       It only took a couple of minutes to get the paperwork squared away. My Drivers License. My debit card. And then a few swipes and a signature later, he handed both back, plus a little blue card on top. On one side was a grey strip, the opposite side was the name of the hotel in large embossed lettering. He also slipped me a sliver of paper with what looked like a jumble of numbers and letters. He must have seen a quizzical look on my face, as he started up quickly, “For the WiFi. I see you have a laptop case. You might not need the password, but take it just in case. There might not be anything good on T.V.”
He winked at me playfully. I couldn’t help but smile again.
“Hmph, 500 channels and there usually never is,” I retorted. We both settled into a quiet laughter, becoming a little more comfortable. I decided it was time to head off and turned on my heels.
“Have a nice night, ma’am. Let me know if you need anything,” he called after me. I threw my head over my shoulder and nodded, “you too.”

      According to its number, 308, my room rested on the third floor of the building. It probably would have been faster to take the stairs to reach it, but I didn’t have it in me to climb even one flight. It had been about thirteen hours since I left home and arrived here, the majority of it spent behind the wheel, and the drive had all but atrophied the muscles and tendons in my legs. I refused to any more walking than was absolutely necessary. It was nine-thirty on a Thursday night, the corridor was empty, save for an abandoned luggage rack, and the elevator was waiting for me. I stepped in, feeling the cabin dip slightly and adjust to my weight, then pressed the button marked 3. I was in luck; the places where the 1 and 4 were supposed to be were worn away, revealing tiny black nubs. I’m sure they work just fine, I thought, but I’m still glad I don’t have to press them.
      Elevators make me uneasy, as I’m sure they do most people. The claustrophobia. The fear that it might lose power and the doors will jam. The thought of oxygen running out and the imminent death by asphyxiation. Those same fears that horror films have been playing off of for as long as I can remember. Scenes of men arguing, thrusting their fists in vain against the walls, praying the compartment will open or move. And then a woman, having pried the doors open, her body half in half out when it finally decides to ascend to the next floor. This particularly gruesome scenario floods my mind. But in truth, it’s not so much those things as it is everything else. It’s the eerie music that gurgles through the speakers, muted by a build-up of dust bunnies in the system. And the bad interior; Stained carpet and peeling wallpaper, the color faded in haphazard order, the way molded cheese is speckled with poisonous spots. Then there’s the smell. Especially in cheap lower scale places like this. There’s a thickness in the air of dirt and unuse. And always something else that you can never quite put your finger on. Loneliness. Despair. Unfulfillment. It’s an aroma that stays with you, no matter how many times you’ve tried to wash it off. It lingers underneath your nails and in your hair. And then I think about the people who have been in here before I came along. Were they on their way home to be with their children? Or maybe running away from something? Were they drinking? Or praying? Or on their way to their room to masturbate, and then slit their wrists? How many ghosts are right beside you at this very moment, whispering in your ear, caressing your lower back?
       The hair on the back of my neck was standing stiff, my arm covered in gooseflesh. But as always, as fast as the thoughts came, they went. While pressing the button for my floor, I took a deep breath and held it, testing the capacity of my lungs. I felt as if I was in a gas chamber (Don’t breathe the air! It’s poisonous! It’s diseased! Infested! You’ll catch something!) and counted to eighteen when the doors finally opened, signaled by a distorted ‘DING’ of the elevator. I stepped out quickly, clean air flooding my lungs as well as airing out my tiny metal cubicle. I started on my way to my room.
      The room was nothing special. If you’ve ever been in a street-side motel, you’ll know exactly what I mean. Mediocre décor, unremarkable furniture and tacky stiff bedding, all meant to mimic homeliness, but never getting it right. But the bed was huge and I was exhausted and laying across the sheets felt like an oasis in a distant desert. I thought about taking a quick shower. My clothes reeked of fast food and cigarettes. But I decided against it. I forgot to bring along my soap and shampoo, and that cut-rate stuff always dries out my skin and hair. In one fluid motion, I slid out of my clothes and into my pajamas. Then subsequently into the massive bed in the center of my paid-for room. With heavy eyelids, I leaned back and settled in nicely.

                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    The nightmare, which is a name given of my own choice, would last approximately thirty-seven minutes. That is, if the times prior and after the incident, my mind was as clear as I perceived it to be. What follows is my account of what happened to me on a Thursday night away from home, in a tiny hotel room of no significance. During this short time, the boundaries of my sanity would be tested. I would straddle the line between Heaven and Hell, fight forgotten demons and cry for Angels to rescue me. All of which, I will later be told, occurred within the confines of my mind. My psychiatrist would try to convince me that it was nothing more than a fantasy, a bad dream of sorts brought on by a mild panic attack. (Your blood pressure is through the roof! So much stress, it’s a wonder you didn’t have a heart attack!) It was, he would say, the Scrooge Syndrome. In A Christmas Carol, when Ebenezer Scrooge saw the ghost of his former business partner Marley, he didn’t believe it was anything but a hallucination, brought on by a bit of undigested potato and mustard. And I, with my vivid artists imagination and seasonal depression, was apt to experience a little upset, especially with a stomach of half-digested Taco Bell.