10

It was ugly, grey, soviet-style architecture.  They entered cautiously.

"This is such a weird hotel," whispered Myra uneasily.  

    The place had a garish goth theme-- the imposing chandelier was hung

with faded neon streamers, a bright and broken merry-go-round covered in

synthetic spiderwebs sat in the corner, intermittently emitting scratched,

off-key tinkling noises, and everything was covered with a theatrical layer

of dust.

    Emmet approached as Myra hung back by the entrance.  The woman

behind the counter had white powder plastered over her wrinkles and

clown makeup over that.   She blew a bubble, popped it with a snap!

yawned lazily, and asked, "Name?"

    Emmet had no doubt she knew who he was-- the place didn't look like it

got many customers.  

    "Emmet and Myra Phemus."

    She nodded, pretended to be typing on some pc or other fake relic of the

dinosaurs, leaned back in her chair and resumed texting.  Two robotic

bellboys-- their makeup was black and peeling off the bare metal-- came

in, limbs squeaking and jerking.

    "We will take your bags," they said in unison with cheesy android

voices.  

    In the jittery elevator, he explained to Myra how hotel ratings worked.  

    "1-stars don't really exist," he explained, "but if they did, they would be

diseased holes with no furniture.  2-stars have serious sanitation

problems-- they’re diseased holes with furniture.  3-star hotels are decent,

and generally clean.  5-stars of course are the very best and hottest.  And

4-stars are 3-stars that are trying to be 5-stars.  There were two hotels in

this area; a 4-star and a 2-star."

    "And this is the 4-star," she finished.  “So they’re all like this?”

He nodded as the elevator dinged, echoing, and they stepped out into a

blatantly gloomy hallway.  

    Their room was 613.  Emmet noticed that every room on the floor was

some variation of 13; 13, 113, 213, 313.  The doors had whimsical pictures

on them; a seal with a ball on its nose, women with powdered faces and

tight dresses, a man with two heads, a trapeze artist in midflight.  Theirs

was a large clown with a big red nose and a mass of curly candy-colored

wig.

    Myra grabbed his arm so hard it hurt and ducked behind him with a

muffled squeak.  

    "I'm so scared of clowns, " she finally confessed-- in a whisper, as

though the picture might hear and turn on her.  "You have no idea."

    He opened the door, staying between the victim and her unwitting

perpetrator.  She checked to see it was really gone and twirled in, trilling at

him her thoughts on clowns, on the room, on life, as though by banishing

the phantasmic portrait he really had saved her life.

    "--but I think it's really the makeup more than-- ouch!-- anything-- be

careful, don't stub your toe on the lintel of the kitchen here-- it's a nice

place, this is, I think-- LOTS better than my flat, anyway, much bigger

too--" She ran in and out, flushed like a tipsy child.

******************************************************************************

    He came in and looked around, and Myra fell silent.

   

She'd forgotten for a moment who she was talking to.  With the back of his

head turned towards her, she'd imagined a wry smile as he brushed the

apparition aside.  Stupid, over-dramatized symbolism!  He still stood

looking stiffly through her.

She laughed for no reason and continued, heedlessly throwing

words like pearls, like buttons.  He may have been listening.  He may not

have been.

    *************************************

   She made herself a nest on the armchair out of pillows and the extra

blanket out of the end of the bed.  He watched and did not intrude.  She

curled up into it and dozed, and thought.