Sideways At The St. Regis

Cesar watches the last van roll away. For the next month, the St. Regis is his. Warmer seasons don’t warrant ski lifts and Aspen is a luxury ski town. Cesar drives forty minutes to a place where the median house price is eleven million dollars.

His wage is $18.62/hour. Above the $13.24 ten years ago. He pulls out his wallet: his wife and daughter stare back. His reasons why he volunteers to be the only one here during the off-season. His wage bumps to $19.92 for the next month. A nod to the year Mohamed Hadid built the St. Regis. It always made Cesar feel connected to someone who made his daughter’s ballet classes possible.

His mind falls to her last recital, last week. Here, in the ballroom downstairs. He laughs. It was modern ballet, not the classical ballet luxury guests expected. It took two years of Cesar groveling to the CEO to book her troupe. Cesar had to promise not to snitch on the CEO's infidelity.

But his daughter was so happy. That day, his wife tilted her head the way she always did, shaking it at him. He kept her guessing; the booking was something he surprised both his daughter and wife with. He'd winked at her, their usual unspoken banter.

He kisses the photo and it finds a home in his breast pocket. Their heartbeats are his. They’re why he picks up the mop, rings it out, and sloshes it on the lobby floor.

No one stepping through. No hollow apologies. We're human, but how hard is it to see the sign? ‘So sorry, didn’t see it.’ “It’s not like I do this the same time every fucking day,” his words bounce around the empty lobby, startling him.

Cesar blinks. That went sideways. He shakes it off. Continues to mop.

The phone rings. His skin bristles. It never rings after they leave. Should I? He edges toward it. No. He keeps mopping. The shrill continues. Reception would never let it ring seven times. Cesar remembers a new hire let it ring twice. She was swiftly escorted off the property.

So...

As their janitor, if he answers, does he lose his paycheck for his overstepping? No more surprises for his wife, bedazzled tutus for his daughter. Is voicemail not set up? If he doesn’t answer...? It’s too much. Something’s wrong. His hand hovers over the receiver.

No one serious calls during this time, Cesar convinces himself. Only telemarketers.

“Joe’s Cracker Box, which crumb do you want?” Cesar imitates a game show host.

“…excuse me?” A voice on the other line says.

“By golly, a live one! This is Brian’s Brickyard, we lay anything!” Cesar guffaws.

“Wha-who is this? No one should be there but the janitor,” the other voice whines. A hidden Jersey accent clips his ear. One Cesar learned was unmasked only after several drinks. One person is from Jersey. The receptionist Krissa. She just left? “Oh my god, is this the janitor?!” She screeches.

Cesar stiffens. He hears ruffling and her updating the people she’s with. No one remembers his name. He blanches. She comes back, “Chevy, what’re you doin’ answering the phone like that! This is rich! I always knew there was something off about you. And your daughters dance? Weird to the max…” She wails.

He slams the phone down enough to feel it in his teeth. Talk about him, fine. Do not talk about his daughter.

He stews.

His mind replays what he did. Adrenaline drains; fear cascades in. Why did I do that? Krissa will tell Antonny. He'll be fired. That’d be it. All these years gone with a simple burst of fun. What had he done?

No. Other memories fight their way through.

What had Antonny done?

No one notices Cesar, he’s always background, but it’s okay. He observes. Cesar caught Antonny cheating on his wife by simply doing his job. Not with Krissa, so straying from the cliché, Cesar respects that and only that aspect. Cesar knows Antonny finds Krissa annoying. Antonny will always clock where she is and promptly put many barriers in between. Cesar gambles nothing'll happen from his silly indulgence. His shoulders come down from his ears. Antonny will “listen” to her. At best. These people are supposed to be luxury.

Infidelity.

Drunk on the job (snap judgement based on the Jersey coming through).

Luxury is sloppier than the Holiday Inn it claims to be above.

Oh, c'mon, Cesar, we’re all human. He scolds himself with a smile and finishes mopping the lobby, smiling because no one'll ruin it. Cesar also finishes mopping the laundry rooms, kitchen, and restaurant area. In record time.

It’s an easy rhythm. It reminds him of his grandma teaching him to churn butter. Then her watching him fail spectacularly at trying to teach his daughter. His wife was a natural, of course. He feels the generational grit in each swoop of the mop. Each tedious bucket is a new story from his past, spurring him on. If he can give everything to his daughter and wife, it'd be one tenth of one percent of what they deserve.

He smiles. Time for trash. This means headphones. Mopping on autopilot only carries him so far. Smooth (ft. Rob Thomas) by Santana begins his night. He dances with each trash can gathered by the other housekeepers. They're not as tidy as he likes, but they're mostly filled with papers. Frustrating, but it's the last time for a month he has to deal with it.

And he’s been that person before, forgetting about who does the magic cleaning in off-season.

Comeuppance, he grimaces.

Maybe his time here shows more scars than he realizes. He isn’t a bitch like Krissa, but he is catty... like the bitch Krissa. See? Sideways again. Lemme switch gears, I'm going to dance it out. He clicks forward through five songs. His daughter's method of "starting afresh."

…Baby One More Time by Britney Spears. He uses the trash bags like pompoms, as if he were in the gym with Britney.

Say You'll Be There by Spice Girls drops next. "Perfect backbeat" his daughter would say right now. He dances and sways with the trash bags as if he's in the desert with them, joy bubbling up in his chest.

The 90s. Iconic. Hadid designed this in '92, the same decade, the same unhinged energy. Cesar laughs at the thought of Spice Girls blasting in the background of every blueprint meeting. The energy pulsing through Cesar makes him feel he could easily draft an innovative, cutting-edge luxury hotel, cruise line… Spice Girls were their own drug. Correction: are. They fade as he finishes gathering most of the trash. The Sign by Ace of Base continues his 90s nostalgia grip.

He envisions teenage him, the 90s him, listening and grooving to the lyrics. Terrible hair, terrible acne, no life purpose. But present Cesar feels the weight of the life he's lived. He slows his dance moves and hears the lyrics, almost for the first time. Sad messages on top of nice backbeats. Prophetic. He looks down at a ripped trash bag in his hand. Is this my sign? Damn Krissa. It’s not even her trash bag, but his wife encouraged to have a mental scapegoat, make frustration a little easier. She also warned him not to let it go sideways, her label for his dark side. She's the one who saw and loved all of his flaws.

Tears prick his eyes... happy vignettes roll into each other: movie nights, dance rehearsals, road trips, home arts and crafts. Moments that weren't far behind but seem like a lifetime away the longer he stayed here.

Well, it may not be that much longer. The front lobby phone pushes his girls out of his mind. He checks his cellphone. No missed phone calls. No scathing texts. He tosses the garbage bags into the dumpster in a forgotten corner in the delivery bay area that is only visited by him and truck drivers. He's not sure if the likes of Antonny or Krissa knew where their trash ends up.

Cesar can't help but still look behind it. A few years ago, a pregnant raccoon was confused and trapped back here. He gained her trust and set items out she may want for her nest. One of the few genuine connections he'd made here.

He stares at the empty nest, full of his and her memories. Cesar pauses his music. His breath hitches. In his mind, Cesar sees his daughter, grown, cap and gown swaying in the breeze. She’d graduate and flourish as a ballerina, a doctor, anything she wants. His wife's also there, silver touching her auburn hair.

Cesar’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down thinking how time will slip away; the nest reminds him his daughter won’t want to be picked up one day, or be seen with him in public, or irrationally rebel as only teenagers can. Tears kaleidoscope his vision, turning the empty nest into a shifting watercolor. He crouches behind the dumpster and lets it come, years of thankless work spilling out in quiet sobs.

Over raccoons!

He laughs; spittle flies out. He laughs at the glaring juxtaposition of heartache and silliness in the scope of this cold luxury. No wonder why the raccoons moved: luxury doesn’t care what struggles to survive behind its dumpster.

The last of his tears dry. Something inside feels scraped clean, like a space he didn't know he was carrying. He presses play and heads for the double door. At the threshold, he stops. It feels different. He’s walked through this door countless times, as indifferent as the cold luxury towering above him.

He feels lit from the inside, like someone cracked open a door in his chest and finally let the light spill out. He looks at his hands, callused as ever. He used to be embarrassed by them, but his daughter showed him her feet after pointe class. His stomach drops, thinking of her gnarled pointe-torn feet. The price of beautiful dancing, daddy. And the price of love. He closes his fists; he’d lose his hands, full limbs if it meant he’d get to experience his daughter growing into the beautiful life she deserves all while his wife is by his side.

The warmth grips his ribs, rattling them like something caged too long, ready to break out. What is he doing here? This hotel? Ten years? And for what? Callused hands? To be called the wrong name?

Ignored.

Well, now, we’re all human, we forget. Besides, my time here means something. He felt the sideways coming, welling up worse this time. He loses grip of reason. Of course his hard work meant something. It meant they didn’t have to get their hands dirty. They didn’t have to decide between attending their daughter’s recital or overtime to pay for it. Even the other custodial staff act superior to him, though by tenure he’s the most knowledgeable, the most reliable, the best worker they’ve ever had.

His feet move him forward in one direction, then again in another. His hands reach toward his future parading and slipping away before him. He fights new tears and shakes his head. Focus, he presses for the next song on his music. Time Marches On by Tracy Lawrence plays. Fitting.

Cesar flexes his hands a few times before closing the back door. His neck feels like someone is holding a soldering iron to it. His legs feel like lead, but he moves with purpose. His own. His daughter’s. His wife’s.

Not Antonny’s. Not Karissa’s. Not everyone’s secrets.

A sideways idea stops him. A vindictive verve traces a slow smile across Cesar’s face. His heart races. His breath shudders. Oooooh. It will not be messy. Oh, no. Cesar wouldn’t dare stoop to their level. He’ll handle this blossoming idea cleanly. For proof of their misdeeds? He’s sure he saw IT use the same five passwords to login. The warmth in his ribs doesn’t fade. It sharpens. By the time he reaches the top floor hallway, it’s guiding him more than his feet are.

He takes out his headphones, having ignored much of the playlist getting here. Now he stands outside Antonny’s office. He puts his weight behind the door and…

The view is breathtaking. Cliché, sure, but nothing else fits. The sun sinks behind the mountains, its light ricochets off the apex, creating an ephemeral sensation, playing with Cesar's eyes and equilibrium. A postcard for the ages.

He examines Antonny’s mahogany desk, thick, filigreed to borderline distasteful. Cesar only associates annoyance and waste with this desk. Difficult to clean every single crevice. After Cesar witnessed the affair, complaining about the dust on the desk was Antonny’s only power move.

What a coward, Cesar thinks, dropping in the rich leathery chair, dropping into power. He pauses. Wasn’t sure if he expected something to happen. Do you… activate CEO powers? He laughs at himself and dabbles with the computer. A few guesses at a password leads Cesar to the home screen of the man who controls his paycheck, his livelihood. Or did.

Cesar is behind the keys now. He searches for ‘Cesar Grove’ in the files; one file. Two sub-folders: his onboarding papers and his daughter’s dance recital. For a moment, he lets himself believe the best. Someone did notice. Regret reverberates through his body. Maybe Antonny wasn’t so bad, even if Cesar was essentially nonexistent on paper.

The movie plays; the cameras pov is in the back of the ballroom. Don’t Speak by No Doubt starts and his daughter leads her troupe on the floor. His heart swells with pride.

Wait.

What was just said?

He rewinds it and hears Antonny mumble, “…pathetic. This is total crock…” and others cackle around him.

Cesar's pride broils into anger, then anger, then white hot calmness. He rewinds again, each comment another knife in his back. The words don’t fade with each replay, they carve deeper. By the fifth rewind, the hurt has shape, direction, and teeth. He's in a depth of the sideways he's never been before. He sits there, breathing through the sideways, letting it settle into something cold and precise.

He puts his headphones back in and listens to Don't Speak twice. It revs his nerves and whips his confidence to charge forward for his daughter’s honor.

His hands hover over the keyboard, and his wife’s words rise from the depths. “Remember I’ll be here when you return from the sideways, but please return from the sideways.” I will, baby, just this one thing...

Cesar writes an e-mail to Antonny’s wife, urging her to ask some pertinent questions. Exhilarating. Irreversible. A Shareholder File catches his eye. Personal life is one thing. Career is another. But if they're built on secrets...

He pulls away from temptation, swiveling to look at the view, to think. Crisp dusk, the sun just peeks over the mountain; night inks the sky with its purple and blue swirls. Beautiful. For a moment, Cesar allows himself to enjoy the idea of luxury he’d romanced for the last ten years.

Gwen belting out her last chorus brings him back to focus.

He inhales and turns around. In the sideways just a bit longer… he thinks, composing an e-mail from the inbox of a Mr. Antonny Brusel, proud CEO of the St. Regis of Aspen. Cesar attaches some critical and sensitive documents to the shareholder e-mail. He knew where Antonny was vacationing, so he offers that information because “as CEO, I want to come clean.” He CC’d and BCC’d everyone in the address book.

He scoots back again, hands trembling. I have to come back from the sideways. Maybe not the shareholders… “Let the wolves eat themselves,” he smiles to himself. Someone will be jilted and greedy enough to pursue the inevitable end he set in motion. He presses send and swivels back to the window. The last crest of the sun shies away and the computer goes black behind him. The stars remind him of the possibilities he has before him now. He takes the elevator. He kicks the Wet Floor sign on his way to the door. He stops, turns around and says,

“This is the part of the movie where I say something poignant about how this was a wonderful decade, great place to work…” He flips the bird to the cameras and strides into the parking lot.

During his time on Antonny’s computer, he found payroll. He adjusted his salary to… what a fair ten-year raise would be. 80% of his 401(k) was in a holding account that would be pocketed by Antonny because of legal jargon. All his interactions for the past ten years had new color. This is right. He may not understand everything he read, but he understood an irreversible “Pay Full to Employee” option. A few clicks sent two checks to his house; his salary paid in arrears and hefty 401(k) cashout, even after early withdrawal penalties. Worth it.

Each click lifted a weight off his shoulders. Not gone, but shifted, moved somewhere else. Like the raccoons, he now moves on from the St. Regis, his own confusing trap for so long. He moves quiet in the night, unseen, sideways as hell, but free. The air feels different to Cesar. Not colder, not warmer. Electric. His. He adjusts the rearview mirror to pay last respects to the St. Regis.

Cesar drives the forty minutes home, belting 90s classics.

As promised, his wife and daughter are waiting for him after the sideways.