Greetings From
The Airport
byThomas Sullivan
Driving into
your $150-a-night hotel near the airport, you
look up at the sign and wonder just what exactly
an “Executel” is. A place where an
executive tells his secretary that he's not
leaving his wife? In the lobby you watch a
man in a full length arm-cast shrug off the
unhappy family that just plodded up the stairs,
shaking their heads in unison. You fight
off the urge to ask the man if his injury is
guest related, and check in for the night. The
man alerts you that the penalty for smoking in
your room is $500. He looks at you blankly when
you say that if your neighbor keeps you awake
tonight, you’ll just blow cigarette smoke
under his door and let him take the fall.
It’s time
for a little exercise, so you head down to the
hotel gym. Inside a small room with faded yellow
paint and dirty carpeting you consider your
workout choices – a broken stair stepper or
a love seat facing the TV hanging from the roof. You
sink into the weathered chair and do leg lifts
while watching Fox News.
The workout
wipes you out, so you head for the hottub. If you
blink too quickly the greyish water seems to not
be moving at all. You sink into the tub and
pitch to the side as you butt cheek comes to rest
in a missing chunk of concrete on the seat ledge.
You head out
to the conference and return a few hours later. You
slip into your room and ponder your choices for
the evening. Breathing in the retirement-home air,
you realize that television doesn’t sound
all that appealing. You turn on the TV anyway.
America’s Most Outrageous Videos shows a kid
on a BMX bike doing a faceplant. You snap the set
off and consider reading, but this
won’t work with your tired eyes. The
lounge is an option, but you don’t really
want to get swept up in a prostitution sting.
But the hint
of danger is irresistible and you head for the
lounge. On the door to the bar you see a sign
that says: “Due to safety and health
concerns, shirt and shoes are required on the
premises.” You head back to your room for a
shirt. You return to the empty lounge and wait
for the tender, who is in the dining room next
door serving meals. When she enters the bar
you order a beer and watch the episode of Cops on
the television.
A few minutes
later two guys drop into the table nearest you
and order four Budweisers. Looking at the beefy
pair, you realize that there’s a bud moon on
the rise. You finish up, stroll past the
near-empty dining room with a plaque out front
reading “Maximum Occupancy 106,” and
head for your room.
As a jet roars
directly over you room, you lie on the lumpy bed
and realize that being alone is sometimes your
best option.
|
