Uninvited Guest

The man standing at the end of the bar is making me uncomfortable; he has a smart-ass comment to say about nearly everyone who passes through the hotel lobby. If he's not making innovative remarks, he's demonstrating imaginative gestures, a professional roast master, never a day off.

A gust of wind brushes my bare arm prickling it with goosebumps and I turn my head to see a young couple entering through the automatic doors. Their laced fingers unlock: the man, handsome but disheveled, approaching the coffee counter while the woman sidles over to the vending machines, her kitten heels clacking rhythmically on the slate tile floor. The stranger refers to the neon orange club dress she is wearing, a road sign labeling her augmented figure a construction zone, and I can’t help stifling a giggle.

Through my peripheral vision, I can see Mr. Comedian snap his head my way, my reaction undoubtedly unexpected. His lingering glare gives me a feeling of unease and my smile fades to a grimace. Clearing my throat, I glance back down at the ice cubes melting in the glass in front of me.

With the skill of a well-practiced angler, I fish out the maraschino cherry, trapping the pulpy stone behind my clamped teeth to pluck it from its stem. The ruby gem provides a burst of sweetness as well as a welcome texture on my bored taste buds. After flipping the fruitless stalk into my mouth, working and manipulating it with the tip of my tongue, my vision begins to blur; I've had a long, eventful night, merely thinking about the energy that emanated from the mass of spectators at the stadium earlier is exhausting.

My concentration is broken when I hear the stranger panting and whining like a restless dog awaiting a treat. Sighing, placing the knotted stem on the napkin beside the paper coaster, I mumble the word, hound, under my breath.

“Did you just call me a hound, little lady,” he asks.

I look directly at him and roll my eyes.

“You did,” he says.

My gaze turns toward Ted, the bartender, “Thanks for the drinks.” I slap some cash on the bar.

“The Manhattans are compliments of the Summerdale Suites,” Ted says, and I put two of the bills in the tip jar before pocketing the third. “It's been a pleasure serving you.” He emphasizes the word ‘you,’ and points both index fingers at me, a white towel swinging from a partial fist as if he’s surrendering to supplying anymore.

A tidal wave of fatigue washes over my entire body as I teeter off the stool, bowing to collect my overnight bag from the footrest, thrown off balance by its bulk. With my free hand, I peel my trench coat from the backrest, hurling it over my shoulder in a dramatic hair flip. As I approach the elevator, I detect a trace of a bleach-like odor in the air, chlorine, from the pool area around the corner.

Bag in hand, my knuckle taps the button on the wall and the stainless-steel doors immediately part. After stepping over the threshold, I whirl around and notice that the man at the bar is still glaring at me. His expression is one of both surprise and expectation. Maybe he is wondering where he knows me from, a common occurrence in my profession. I smile and his lips stretch, curving into a canoe, parting to reveal crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. A feeling of trepidation surges through me, has he misconstrued my friendly gesture as an invitation? Without taking my eyes off him, I drop my bag and let my overcoat fall to the floor before groping blindly for one of the buttons on the panel to my right. The doors activate and the man thrusts his arm into the air. “Wait.”

The doors trigger and I duck to my right, kicking the bag and clutching the side rail. With the grace of a swing dancer, I propel myself backward until my spine is flat against the wall, exhaling my pent-up breath only when the sliding doors converge. The confined walls of this oversized dumb waiter make me feel safe enough to bow and collect my rumpled coat before taking a few steps forward. Standing alone in the quietude, I begin murmuring the lyrics to Michelle by the Beatles, my distaste for ambient music postponed for now.

The elevator dings, interrupting my one-woman performance. With my coat tied securely around my waist, I reach down to grasp the handle loop of my pack, slipping my arms through the shoulder straps and mounting it on my back. The doors part. An enormous number two modified to resemble a swan is painted on the far wall of the vestibule. The elevator is stalled on the second floor, but nobody is waiting to board. My suite is on the third floor; has the stranger climbed the stairs and now waits for me in the shadows?

Frantically, I reach out and press the correct button, willing the doors to close faster, flinching at the sight of my own reflection in the leisurely moving panel before me. Perhaps I would not be so paranoid if I weren't on my own tonight, the other members of the group making other lodging arrangements before we move on to our next destination in the morning.

When I arrive on the third floor and the doors glide open, I peer around the corner to ensure that the man from the bar isn’t waiting for me at the top of the staircase. Exiting the elevator, I scurry down the corridor like a mouse in a maze, following the arrows that are directing me to room three thirty-three.

Once I reach my destination, I pause and remove my pack then begin rifling through it in search of the key card. Panic manifests. “The Hell …?” I can't find it. The stranger is no doubt on the hunt for my whereabouts. Heading back downstairs to the front desk puts me at risk of being confronted by him before I even arrive. I take a breath, then calmly withdraw the magnetic card from my back pocket.

My knees quiver as I hoist my bag onto one shoulder, crouching down to get a better view of the room key insertion slot, squeezing one eye shut to help me focus. My hand trembles and I try to hold it steady with the other. The cocktails I downed must be affecting my coordination as well as my vision.

In the distance, I hear the elevator announce its arrival to the third floor and I jolt upright. The key card slips from my butterfingers. Rotating on the balls of my feet, my hand glides over the worn carpeting. The flat, red placard blends in with the colorful geometric pattern making it difficult for me to spot. A pair of legs in khaki trousers quickly advances and I recoil my probing arm.

“Here it is.” A man stoops and snatches up the card.

“What?”

“I think you dropped this.” He thrusts it in front of me.

“Oh — thanks.”

As if we are two people caught in a flirtationship, our ears perk when we hear a click and a rustle nearby, eyes darting toward a woman adjusting her skirt two doors down. The man helps me to my feet before jaunting over to her. She waves at me, and I wave back, neighborhood besties, then I refocus on disengaging the bolt.

As soon as the signal buzzes, I shove the solid door open with my shoulder and stumble into the room, then watch it swing shut on its spring hinges at an unnervingly slow pace. I secure the catch, shaking my head, reflecting on this uncomfortable situation. I can't resist the urge to peek through the spy hole for one last reassuring all clear.

Startled and wide-eyed, I stumble backward. The man from the bar is looming outside my door. “He's a harmless traveler — he’s a harmless, lonely traveler — he’s a stalker — he followed me back to the hotel.” I toy with the idea of calling the hotel security. “One — two — three — four — five.” Vigilantly, I advance for a second glimpse. The man isn't there. Whipping around and leaning against the door, I begin to question my sanity.

A mini fridge, a small sink and a microwave make up the kitchenette. Slinking passed it, I sag on the edge of the bed. To my left, a heating unit is positioned flush against the wall, and to the left of that stands a round, pedestal table flanked by two upholstered dining chairs. A jacuzzi is nestled in the far corner.

Shrugging off my bag and wrestling back onto my feet, I stroll over to the nearest chair, dragging it toward the door like a protesting child, jamming it under the lever handle in a time out. I untangle the sleeves of my trench coat, remove it from around my waist, and drape it across the seat. The temperature in the room needs a bit of adjustment and I cross my arms over my chest before marching over to the heater to turn it up.

Striding passed the table to the jacuzzi, I commence preparing a warm bath. A bottle of Jasmine fragrance oil is on the corner ledge, it makes my nose tingle, and I sneeze. Not the sandal wood scent that I love but beggars can't be choosers. Turning on the faucet, I drizzle some of the oil in the rushing flow of water, grateful that the floral and fruitiness of the jasmine overpowers the sickly-sweet odor of burning dust from the heating unit.

Rounding the corner to the bathroom, I kick off my clogs and strip off my sweaty clothes. The cold, textured tile flooring is abrasive, and after emptying my full bladder, I waddle to the shelves over the trash can on my calloused heels, grabbing one of the thick, white towels before heading for the private tub.

The warm vapors rising from the water, along with the soft floral scent of the jasmine, begin to melt away tension before my big toe penetrates the liquid surface of the bath. I inhale the soothing aroma, sinking into the comforting warmth. My eyes close, my back sliding along the steam-slicked porcelain until I'm fully immerged beneath the silky water.

After a few seconds, my eyes open. Through the undulating water I can see a form splayed above me, a humongous spider waiting to drop. Images of the stranger run through my mind and I spring into a sitting position, coughing uncontrollably. Smoothing back my hair and ringing out the excess water, I glance upward and observe an unmoving, five-blade ceiling fan. “I just need this night to be over.”

Standing, letting the water stream over my curves, I wrap the towel around myself and step onto the absorbent runner surrounding the base of the tub. Ambling over to the bed, I unzip my overnight bag and remove my night dress, letting the towel drop to my ankles before slipping it over my head. The linens have already been turned down by the hotel staff upon my check-in more than an hour earlier, and I snuggle beneath the crisp sheets.

I hear laughter in the hallway. It must be my neighbors. It sounds like it’s their turn to fumble with the lock. Or is that my door? “Who’s there?” The TV mounted on the wall straight ahead flickers on. A rerun of a familiar true crime show is playing. The photo displayed on the screen is the spitting image of the man that's stalking me. Yanking the bedding taught and stiff under my chin, my ears perk to what the correspondent is saying.

[Reporter] “…at Summerdale Suites. Mr. Angeloni requested not to have any maid service during his 5-day stay. An autopsy showed that he had been deceased for approximately 2 days prior to the discovery of his body…his killer remains a mystery.”

There is movement to my left. Prudently and with reluctance I turn my head. The man is sitting in one of the dining room chairs. “Hi, name’s Anthony Angeloni.” he says. “And you see dead people.”

END