~ Hunting for the Spirit ~ A Collection of Characters and Stories.
I love people and their stories. Every person I encounter helps me to understand a little bit more about what it is to be a human. I find myself coming home most days with a new story to tell. I decided to begin sharing them here.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Citizen of the Streets
There he sits at age 24. Hair grown long. Goodwill clothes. Body odor emanating. He wants to be a citizen of the streets. He strums his guitar that he never learned to play. In fact, it was one of the many Christmas gifts he was given so many years ago. He beat it up though. He wouldn't dare let the other people of the street see that he came from privilege.
How could he risk being rejected from the one place he ever really felt at home? "Does someone need to know your entire past and the nature of your roots for you to really belong?" He wonders. Is he just an actor on this stage that all the others experience as real life?
What is the difference between living and observing because there most certainly is one. Once he becomes a participant, he loses his entire sense of wisdom and control. Because to live, we must love. And as Bob Dylan once said, "There is no wisdom in falling in love." Did he really say that? He wonders.
That's what started his whole journey to begin with. He met her. The woman of his dreams. She was from the same kind of family. Their paths aligned perfectly. At least from his parents point of view. They were so proud. The future seemed so bright and so certain. Rich, smart, perfect babies. Luxury cars and fun vacations. And the only dark day would be one where he would have to work too late.
But something happened. Something so inexplicable, and yet so obvious at the same time. Things didn't work out. She ran off with a wealthier man and he realized all of his aspirations revolved around a future which was entirely contingent upon her existence in it.
He keeps a picture in his pocket of himself. A picture from not so long ago, and yet it feels like it feels like it is from another lifetime. He wonders if all the discussion of past lives really just refers to the phases of life we live on this planet. Not lives that require actual death. Maybe just a figurative one. After all, aren't all of our cells remade every 7 years? Isn't that one of those annoying facts everyone knows, but remains to actually be proven?
He looks at the picture and sees a different man. A man whose skin is perfectly smooth. Whose teeth aren't stained. Whose smile has no idea that there are no such things as happy endings. A palette that is made up of two flavors. Good and bad. Somehow he misses that man that he used to be. But in the same breath, he feels strong in the man he has become. Maybe he's not ready to to be called a man just yet. But he feels proud of the person who has dared to lose his sense of security and self and venture into the unknown. The place where nothing is safe, and the only thing anyone can judge him by are his actions.
He sits there strumming his guitar reciting the words that come into his head as he watches the passersby. He knows better than to be judgmental. Not wanting to create any pain for another being.
And stories flood through his mind, almost as if he can see the future and past in one blink of an eye for every face he views. The stories he sees though, remain in his mind. He is so afraid to put it all on paper. What if he offends someone? Words like Black and White. Mexican and Vietnamese. Gay and straight. Married and cheating. Bored and manic. Such labels that are so necessary, yet so constricting and imprisoning. How can one break free from what they are so they can become what they might be?
Maybe that's what imprisons him. So afraid to make a move for fear of how it will define him. That is why there is so much comfort in remaining the lonely observer. It's almost as if he can watch life like a movie, predicting every success and failure, without having to do either himself. No one to tell him, "I told you so." No one to point and laugh. Or worse, talk about him behind his back. Especially now that he is a citizen of the streets. No one knows him, and yet he knows everyone.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
In Spite of Perfume.
He stands in the wings of a California restaurant. A fine dining restaurant that bustles with diamond drenched, hair coiffed, middle aged women. Expensive perfume permeates the air. He leans up against the ice machine with one leg up, picking at his nails. Although his body is relaxed, if need be, he's ready to pounce. I could see him cage fighting. His pointy jaw and spiked hair, his trimmed beard and beady eyes. But somehow it has nothing to do with the way he looks, it's something in his energy, like he could backflip over me, steal my wallet, knock me out and escape without time for me to even notice.
He didn't like me when I first started. I could tell. I would try to make eye contact with him as we passed each other, parting through the perfumed air, carrying expensive salads, and he would look right through me. Like even though he knew I existed, he wasn't about to waste his energy on an acknowledgement or expression.
And then I'm not sure what happened. I'm not sure how I won him over. It was when I stopped trying, as generic as that sounds. But, I wonder from his perspective what the moment was that he decided to accept me.
The day he did, it was like a flower bloomed. All of a sudden, the cage fighter became and indescribable spirit. No longer just a stereotype. No longer a 30 something white male who probably grew up in foster care, and spent time drug dealing, stealing and abusing. Suddenly, his smile shed the scars of 30 years and a child like innocence bloomed through.
He spotted a Bixie on my bracelet. A Chinese winged lion that wards off evil spirits. "That's my favorite animal too." He told me without an ounce of agenda or flirtation. Simply for the sake of relating. He has one that faces his front door. To keep the evil spirits out.
He plays in a recovery flag football league. Alcohol and drug free since 2005. And this is his first job. Waiting tables. His first "real job", that is. We talk as the perfume dissipates and the lunch rush dies down. He tells me he got this job by the Grace of Gd. He's done a lot of bad things, but he's a good person. He decided he was going to change his life for the better.
Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who finds that decision to be nothing short of miraculous. That switch that goes off in people. The one that makes them want to change their ways and take responsibility.
So often stories like this fall on deaf ears.
People proclaim: People don't change. You never really KNOW someone. If someone has the capacity to commit evil once, what's to say they won't do it again? How do you know he's not just pulling the wool over your eyes?
He tells me he wishes he hadn't wasted so much of his life and missed out on so much. He's 35. He has the rest of his life. Contrary to what some might believe, there can be value in the darkness. Especially once one makes the choice to turn towards the light.
Maybe it was all of his tumultuous, irresponsible choices that gave him the well of strength to change his ways and attack life with such power and dedication. To commit to the light. To never go back to the darkness, because he knows it too well.
Only someone who has had the courage to see the darkness could understand this about my new friend though. Someone who fears the darkness, but has never truly seen it, may fear him instead of understand him and embrace him as nothing short of human. Because in the end, we really have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. We are all dark, we are all light. We are each other.
Maybe I am getting a little existential, but the point is, my friend is beautiful. He is always trying. Abiding by rules he used to break. Serving old, perfumed ladies from whom he used to steal. Selling food instead of drugs. Paying child support for a child he used to pretend was not his. Committing to a woman on whom in the past he would have cheated.
Who's to say that isn't magic? Who's to say that miracles don't happen? Who's to say he isn't worthy of trust and love?
Stories. We all have them. Some of the most interesting, victorious ones remain untold out of fear of misunderstanding, abnormality or disrespect. Some of the world's greatest heroes work in restaurants, gas stations and dry cleaning shops. Their magical powers and strengths- a mystery to most who cross their paths. Except those of course who dare to stop, look a person in the eye, and care. Not even ask, but just have a moment of human connection.
Sometimes it requires offering a personal piece of information first. Other times, it's merely a compliment or just existing silently next to someone. Or maybe even noticing a Bixie on someone's bracelet and sharing, "That's my favorite animal too."
Thursday, February 9, 2012
The Art of Companionship.
Two gray haired, 70 year old companions wander through an abstract art museum. I can tell they have spent their lives together. They aren't holding hands. I watch them. One trails behind the other. And then they sit and discuss the art. Side by side. Like two friends. Barely touching, but connected. It's The Clyfford Still art museum to be exact. An artist who spent his life finding beauty in the bleak tundras of the Western United States and Canada.
Although Denver isn't considered the 'tundra', it is considered 'bleak' at least by my definition at this time of year. Snow drifts the size of small buildings encase the roads, uneven, dirty ice cakes the streets, and the brown ground peaks out for a breath of fresh air as the snow melts. The excitement of the terrain lies in the mountains that jut out from the horizon in the distance and the occasional blue sky that peaks through the heavy clouds.
I miss LA. The city life. The colorful people. The loud traffic. The sirens. The helicopters. The palm trees. The 70 degree winter days. The random encounters that make everything seem meant to be. The beauty that lies directly on the surface. The kind you don’t have to dig at all to see.
I find myself in this museum contemplating commitment as I watch the elderly companions. Is companionship like the tundra? Does it appear bleak on the surface, but does it reveal it's beauty with time and deeper understanding. A view that is anything but surface based?
I think about what these two must have experienced together. A first date. A first fight. A first time. Marriage. Birth. Adventure. Excitement. Change. Aging. Struggle. Success. Romance. Depression. Loss. Hope. Death. And probably an infinite amount of other concepts a 27 year old like me can’t even begin to imagine, let alone express.
I watch them on the bench together. Side by side looking at a mish mash of shapes painted in layers on a canvas worth several million dollars. They discuss it, almost as if they are speaking their own language that only the two of them can understand. They are making sense of life from this painting, solving the puzzle together. They understand the beauty of the tundra. It epitomizes the beauty of their commitment. Maybe a mystery to the observer and possibly even a little boring on the surface, but the layers of paint underneath and the purpose behind each stroke make perfect sense to the painter, never lacking an ounce of meaning
I look at the couple in their Easy Spirit shoes and their flannel button-downs layered beneath their fleece jackets and I realize that it is never where we are that matters. It’s the work we do while we’re there that counts.
How is it that sometimes we know certain concepts, but those same concepts can be difficult to understand? Why is it that although I know the beauty and the depth of the tundra, do I still sometimes crave the immediate satisfaction of the city? Does wisdom require restraint, and in turn does a deeper sense of beauty arise?
It must. Because how else would this couple have remained together all of these years. And how else would they be able to find so much meaning in something that could appear so bleak and simple on the surface?
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
The crazy cat lady.
She stands in line at the grocery store. Her hair newly done. Blond and in a rich lady poof. Her nails shining with a recent shellac. An expensive, orange leather wallet delicately held in her hands. It is the only dash of color to be found amongst her attire. The rest of her covered from head to toe in expensive black fabrics of some kind or another. Maybe wool. The expensive kind. Or mink. Or maybe even mountain lion, but probably not judging from the entire cart of cat food that she wheels closer to the cash register in front of her.
Her eyes dodge and dash from side to side, almost as if she doesn't want to be seen buying so much food for so many cats. Nobody wants to be tagged as the crazy cat lady. She is angry that the maid called in sick today due to the snow storm and now here she is, stuck at the grocery store, in her small mountain town, with the truth. She is the lonely cat lady.
How did cat ladies get such a bad wrap anyway? What is so wrong with caring for a collection of helpless sentient beings who need warm roofs over their heads. It's a spiritual practice for her, relating to her animals. They don't judge, she cares for them almost better than she cares for herself. And she feels as if she is giving back in some way. But how could she ever explain that to her fellow widows and divorces when they ask what the most meaningful part of her day is? Is she really supposed to say, "Well, what really means the most to me is having the ability to open up a fresh can of Fancy Feast for my each of my 12 cats and have the knowledge that I am contributing to the lives of less fortunate beings."
Luckily for her secret identity, the conversations with her fellow widows and divorces never broach meaning. Instead her Chardonnay filled luncheons with her "friends" never grow past empty gossip. Maybe that's why she's so lonely. Oh that word. Lonely. A word she's always felt, but never spoken. Rich women don't get lonely. They have everything. They talk about the poor lonely souls that have to work during the Christmas season, and can't even afford a tree. The lonely people like the waitress she shifted her eyes away from at the grocery store today when she was over come with shame, another word she refuses to admit that she feels, at the contents of her grocery cart. The overflowing Fancy Feast, Kitty Litter, and Cat Nip.
Oh that waitress. She's the one at the restaurant that always asks all those questions. Those meaningful questions that are so socially inappropriate. Like, "Have you had a nice day today?" "What have you been up to?" "Is your family coming into town for Christmas?" So intrusive, really.
And then, there she stands, that damned waitress-- at the grocery store, like a goon, trying to make eye contact and say hello, waving like a maniac, drawing more and more attention as the seconds pass! As if the two of them have some kind of friendship. The audacity.
All of a sudden, hit with a tornado of catastrophic thoughts, the cat lady has to get out of there, she considers leaving the cart and letting the cats go hungry for the night. Thoughts of immediately firing her maid for negligence of household responsibilities turn into a panicked realization that her beloved afternoon Chardonnay binge at the only upscale restaurant in her small mountain town will have to come to an end because small town gossip is inevitable. Her identity wil be leaked within a matter of moments. You know cell phone these days. She wouldn't be surprised if this waitress has already snapped a photo of the cat paraphernalia filled shopping cart on her smart phone (Gd knows how she pays for it with a job like that) and posted it to the world wide web. She might as well rename herself Cat Lady.
In a nervous fit, and sure that the waitress is stationed in the same place she was a few minutes ago, still frantically waiving, she yanks her cart out of line and in an attempt to abandon ship and make a run for her Bentley in the parking lot, she shoves it to the side as she begins to run. "No one de-friends someone who drives a Bentley," she tells her self, as horrific images of flyer's filled with images of her behind a cat food filled grocery cart stapled to trees flash through her mind. Only to run smack dab into the person she is desperately trying to avoid.
The waitress. "Oh! I didn't see you here!" She says. "You've come into the restaurant a few times, haven't you? I always enjoy serving you so much. I always notice what beautiful clothes you wear, and your orange wallet. It's always your only burst of color. So chic."
Stunned. And still trying to maintain her composure from her anxiety attack, she manages to muster a smile.
The waitress continues.
"Isn't this snow storm horrible? I could barely get out to restock my hamster food. I have 12 of them at home. I know it sounds silly, but they bring me so much joy. Oh forgive me, I'm so rude. I didn't even introduce you. This is my best friend from high school Jenny, she's been away studying to be a veterinarian and just came back into town. I was so excited to see her, I was waiving like a fool for what felt like 5 straight minutes, trying to get her attention in this crowded store. Anyway, sorry to talk your ear off, I'd love to say I'll see you soon at the restaurant, but I can't stand the social schmoozing that goes on there, so I quit, but Merry Christmas!"
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Destiny= Beer bellies + Basketball.
Sitting in a tennis bubble at age 27 on top of a downtown Denver athletic club. Is this what life amounts to at this age for behind the desk businessmen? A competitive basketball league where their attempts to run of their beer bellies and cubical cellulite with some healthy competition makes them feel like men again. What there they like when they were little boys? What are their dreams? How did they get here? And what is this basketball league reviving inside of them?
Two other women sit on benches of the other side of the gym from me snapping pictures, making their beloved look like superstars. The short, soon to be middle aged desk men glare at the scorekeeper and the refs as if they are the reason for all of their life frustrations. And the whistle blows and it's game time, once again.
The referee. Something about him catches my eye. His number 32 on his shorts. Something tells me this is his art and he watches as these 9 to 5 buffoons butcher his passion. What must that feel like? To know so much more about something than someone ever will and to 90% of the time have to keep it a secret? Maybe all of us have something like that. Some area of natural born expertise that we are given. And whether or not we choose to enhance that gift is up to us.
The ref at the other end of the court splits the black and white stripes of his jersey with his rotund tummy and sports red dreadlocks. His gray facial hair is braided with black and white beads to match his whistle-blowing attire. I wonder how he arrived at this location. Was this once his passion? Is he retired and looking for a hobby? Why is his hair that way? He looks like an artist. Trying to stay in shape.
Funny how all these men from all different walks of life have convened in this very gym for all different reasons, but at the same time, one reason. To play. To forget all else and be in the moment.
The guy to my right wears a pink polo, designer jeans, a conservative, short haircut and some beat up Jordans. Maybe he played basketball in college and now wears a suit, and this is his one time a week to remember his glories past. When does one surrender the grandeur of their dreams and accept reality? That question sounds depressing. Why do priorities change?
Mortality?
Do we realize we are going to die and when that really sets in, does the loftiness of our one envisioned golden destination disappear and do we accept the truth of infinite possibility in the reality we are given?
I look at the ref with the number 32 and he seems different. He doesn't look like the middle aged approaching, 9 to 5, tummy protruding, awkward sneaker wearing, random frustration bursting other men. He looks otherworldly, like his destination is somewhere unique. How is it that he is being forced to exist in this world that seems to be so beneath where he belongs? Not to say that this isn't an integral part of his journey, but he is special.
All of these men will procreate. Or at least most of them will. Soon if not already. How is it that we have arrived at this chapter of life?
These men make me feel sad and I don't know why. I'm sure if I were interacting with them on the street or behind one of their desks, I would feel differently. I would admire their dedication to their wives or dogs or babies. I would envy their homeowner status or upcoming paid vacation and health insurance. But somehow in the midst of the animalistic, passionate basketball floor, I am disappointed. When did these men become old and lame? Is that what's happening to me?
Now, a reader might respond. This is when the real beauty of life begins. The journey becomes internal and wisdom is cultivated and the glitz and the glamour no longer matter. Attempts at showiness become transparent and people are forced to put their money where their mouth is.
A plane flies overhead this tennis bubble with a basketball court inside, on top of this Denver building and I think about the passengers flying to some other destination. All with some purpose. I envy them. Not because I don't want to be here, but because I want to be everywhere at once.
Settling. Sitting still. It's important. Building for growth. Helping someone. Making a difference. It's all so important.
After all this basketball game is going to get these men through their week at work. Maybe some of them will meet a friend here that will introduce them to their future wife. Or maybe one of them will get promoted because they befriended a boss. Or maybe one will be injured and be forced to realize how much he was taking his good health for granted.
Sometimes it all feels so scripted. Like life is one big equation. Like we are all born with a certain recipe and life is one giant baking process. How did I get so existential watching basketball?
Maybe it's that I see how much this means to all of these men. How they envision themselves as the Kobe Bryants on the floor and how much their masculinity seems stoked when they score a basket or push another man down on the floor.
They all have different recipes though, these men. Some are short. Some are tall. Some have spectators. Some don't. One looks like he spends hours in front of the mirror looking at himself. Another I can see up all night with his baby girl, working two jobs and still finding time to exercise. Another, seems a ghost. Maybe he's a woodworker or a craftsman. Why do some of these men evoke stories in my imagination, while others seem unworthy of a mere memory?
After all the questioning, I look at these men and although their bald heads and beer bellies make me feel fearful of death and age, I still wonder where the miracles lie in their lives. And I have no doubt that they are there. In fact, I'm sure within a year, all of their lives will have changed in ways they never could have expected, and this little experience will have served some kind of an integral part of their story in some way.
Maybe they will see the special referee with the number 32 on his shorts one day on the side lines coaching a professional team and they will recollect how he reffed a game of theirs once upon a time.
Friday, July 15, 2011
A Recital in the name of the moment.
She is a supermodel, or at least people always ask her if she is one. No, she just hangs out with her model friend, who happens to be tall too. What is it about being a tall woman? People always assume you're either an athlete or a model, or just corn-fed. She wonders.
She doesn't look corn-fed though. Maybe a little heartbroken, or just sick of carrying the weight of the truth. Beautiful brown skin. A short black dress, with the sides cut out. And high heels. Her very presence is powerful, impossible to ignore. Her best friend, tall too, struts around the lobby of this 5 star hotel like a catwalk, on the arm of the boyfriend she has come into town to visit. Little does she know, she is one of many.
Maybe she knows and maybe she doesn't care. How are people supposed to have one and only these days with all the travel, the technology and the time flying by in the fashion that it does, anyway? Doesn't the strongest connection between two people always prevail? So, what's the point of monogamy? That's what the model friend tells herself.
The tall girl with the black dress with the sides cut out feels differently though as she spots the piano, her saving grace tonight, silently sitting in the middle of this dimly lit, moody lobby. As the model friend and the rich boyfriend glide outside to smoke cigarettes and stare into each other's eyes, she requests that the concierge print off a copy of a piece of music she mastered in the sixth grade, hoping that playing it now, in a swanky Beverly Hills hotel will bring her the same joy it did when she played it for a cafeteria full of proud parents at age 12.
The concierge, a young, handsome, shy, and overworked man seems to gladly fulfill her request and immediately appears from around the corner with the requested Requiem in hand.
She begins to play. The lobby is full of snobby socialites, ordering their bottles of wine and slurping their gourmet pastas, reminiscing about dinners past at other fancy establishments. The bartender madly shakes, stirs and pours drinks. And the concierge examines light fixtures and furniture to make sure everything stays exactly in it's place. The lounge music blares behind her, and her fingers are nowhere near as nimble as they were 10 years ago. But she remembers the feeling, the freedom and the fearlessness of that time, the time when she was young, careless, and full of endlessly motivating, unfulfilled dreams and she continues to play.
Maybe she's playing for the death of the past. The death of a romance. The death of childhood. The death of naivete, and the birth of acceptance. Acceptance of what is. Maybe she's a few steps ahead of her model friend who sits outside, unaware of the piano performance, staring into the eternity of her lover's eyes.
All of a sudden, the bartender can not shake another drink. He politely excuses himself from his thirsty patrons and carries a half full tray of drinks into the kitchen. "Does anyone know what is with this wench who has been attempting to teach herself piano for the past two hours?? She clearly finds it necessary to express her heartbreak to the entire world!!!"
She continues to play. Although her song isn't as melodious as an audience might hope, her sentiments are actively projected throughout the lobby and maybe the discord is disquieting not because of the lack of quality of her performance, but because she actually has a truth to share. A truth that we all share. As humans. The power of the moment.
The concierge rolls his eyes into the back of his head and makes a disgusted face as he cranks the volume of the lounge music in an attempt to drown out her crescendo that matches the crescendo of the thoughts racing through his head. His desire to be anywhere, but here. The song has brought his feelings of frustration and angst right where they belong. To the moment. Right where he can deal with them.
The socialites begin to rustle like uncomfortable fallen autumn leaves, and the comparisons of the sophistication of their food palettes turn to nothing but silent swirling wine glasses and wandering, avoiding eyes. Glances at watches and searching for room keys. Anything to escape the uncomfortable thoughts that arise as the tall girl with the black dress with the sides cut out fearlessly wanders her way through the completion of the story of this song.
And the bartender exhales as he exclaims, "Last call!" and promises himself that he will no longer avoid the inner demons that are keeping him from being everything in life he can be.
The only two that can't hear the music are the model and her rich boyfriend. The man of many women. They sit outside, solidifying one another in each other's souls for eternity. Maybe only to meet again in another lifetime, but ensuring that they will carry the thought of one another with each other forever and always. Especially at the sound of a Requiem, in a hotel lobby, somewhere down the line.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
It's a whole different scene in Texas.
A hotel. Mahogany glossed walls. Red leather furniture. Halogen Lamps. Marble Floors. Candle Light. A pianist. Maserati's. BMW's. And Mercedes. One after the other. Espresso. Cappuccinos. Freshly Squeezed Orange juice. Prosecco. Bartenders in tuxedos and Waitresses in short blue dresses. Beverly Hills.
Sounds classy right?
Nothing ever is as it seems. Let me assure you of that.
2 girls enter the lobby. They are no older than 22 and their bodies are so emaciated that they have not developed past the age of 14, but at first glance, one might overlook their prepubescent appeal due to their double- D sized silicone breasts. Louis Vuitton bags hanging in the creases of their elbows (the only creases to be found anywhere on their bodies, mind you), sequined platforms weighing down their feathery, over tanned and probably unnaturally flexible little legs, and hair sprayed and curled stripper hair for days.
"We're from Texas." The blond one says condescendingly to the bartender. She is lost in her cell phone and is too busy to make eye contact as she establishes her position of power and financial prowess. "We used to bar tend, but now we work for our dad's. It's a really different scene in Texas." The brunette says punishingly as she peels a five dollar bill out of her Prada wallet and places it on the bar, smiling and insinuating just how much better her life is than his.
I am the server, thankful that these two didn't sit at one of my tables, I stand and watch out of the corner of my eye. They have secrets. I can tell. My arms are crossed behind my back and I have a smile on my face, but I am watching everything. I wonder if they know. I wonder how they really feel. What do their houses really look like? Do their father's know what their daughters are doing this 4th of July weekend? Why did these two prepubescent "heiresses" travel all the way to Beverly HIlls for the 4th of July weekend? It's not exactly what one would call a Mecca of patriotic celebration.
They shoot back their complementary Bellini's (a champagne and peach juice cocktail courtesy of the hotel for all guests who have just checked in) and I am surprised they don't ask for salt and a lime, but then again, they're from Texas, it's a really different scene out there.
And just like that out the doors they go, squealing as they greet Mr. Wong. I recognize Mr. Wong. He's a guest that has been staying at the hotel since it opened 3 weeks ago. I first became acquainted with him the day that I interviewed to work at this $750 a night hotel.
I waited at the front desk that day and spoke with the girl behind the counter who was not much younger than me and not much older than our prepubescent friends. It was while we were sharing our desire to make a difference in the world and how neither of us knew how we would eventually achieve that goal, that Mr. Wong strutted out of the elevator wearing yellow Ray Bans, a yellow cashmere cardigan and perfectly pressed white linen shorts. The matching yellow rosary he wears prominently around his neck assures him that God has his back. His own attitude is something he never worries about.
Before I could even thank my new friend behind the desk for her time, he pushed me out of the way. Housekeeping had been instructed to pick up ALL the dirty clothes OFF the floor in his room, but he found some socks under his bed! He was under the impression this was a five star hotel! It was in mid-sentence that his complaint came to a screeching halt. More important matters called. He noticed a mirror behind him and the reflection of his bulging calf muscle was enough to completely deter his focus just until the elevator doors opened and a blond and a brunette, wearing their club attire from the night before, greeted him giving him the Italian kind of hello. A kiss on each cheek with an ass grab, and all three went on the their marry way.
Mr. Wong clearly has a thing for the blond-brunette combo I think to myself 3 weeks later, after I am hired to work at this 5 star hotel and I watch the prepubescent duo limp out of the lobby due to the excessive weight of their Louis Vuitton purses and fall over into his Maserati.
I wonder how they know each other, but then my thoughts are distracted when a group of loud Spanish speaking men with unbuttoned neon shirts, loafers and Cartier watches strut through the doors. They go straight to the elevators and pose against their reflections as they wait to go up to their rooms. Mirrors are everywhere in this hotel. The people that stay here love to look at themselves, but surely only from a surface perspective.
My friend at the front desk calls me over and tells me that they would like me to bring a tray of Bellini's to their room. I collect the drinks from the bartender and stand in the elevator with blue velvet carpet as I wait to arrive at their floor. Mirrors surround me in the elevator. I can not escape the image of myself in uniform, holding a tray full of drinks.
I think to myself how strange hotels are. They are whatever you want them to be. A place to take vacations. A place to do business. A place to escape. A place to arrive. A place to make money. A place to lose money. A place to fulfill a fantasy. A place to tell a lie.
As I move upwards in this elevator I realize that today I am here to make money. I am a servant. But there was a time I rode upwards in an elevator towards a different destiny. Several different destinies in fact. Once a vacation with my family. Once a rendezvous with a man I thought I loved. Once to get ready for the wedding of my sister. How strange to realize the different roles we play in life and how our perspective shifts as a result.
I arrive at the door of the neon shirt wearing, boisterous Spanish men, I shake off my existential mind trip and I collect myself as I knock, wondering what I am about to see. I have never knocked on the door of strangers in a hotel before, knowing that I will be welcomed into their room. But, I know that when the door opens, I have my soul, and all I am doing is dropping off their drinks, what is there to fear?
I knock, the door opens, and the two men tell me to leave the tray of drinks. They don't tip me and they lay together, sharing a king sized bed. I leave the room and assume to me what seems to be the obvious. They are a couple and are on vacation. I leave hoping they enjoy their afternoon. I'm annoyed they didn't tip me, but clearly their not from the US and life goes on. I hope they're in love, I think to myself. That would make me feel better about life.
Now it is Sunday night, a few days later. The night before the 4th of July. The sun has not yet set, and the screeching wheels of a Masaratti catch my attention. In through the doors smack the Spaniards with the prepubescents in arms, like babies. Legs wrapped around the men's waste, they should have been sucking their thumbs, but then again, maybe they are saving that for later.
How did they meet I wonder? And I thought these men aren't into the female variety? The men look at me like I know something nobody else does. A quick look. A guilty glance, followed by an entitled order. "We want six of your best shots outside right now!" They stumble outside, giggling uncontrollably, pounding the keys of the grand lobby piano as they pass by, as if to let the world know they had arrived, and there is nothing anybody can do about it.
I rest my head against the wall as I wait for the bartender to make me their shots, wondering what the lesson I am supposed to learn from all of this is. The bartender places the 20 dollar shots down in front of me, I plaster a smile on my face as I carry the drinks outside. The girls are now draped across the laps of their dates, legs spread, with their 4g Iphones on the table, blasting Britney Spears latest hit. I place the drinks down, on fancy, Italian coasters, following the premium protocol, that somehow saves me from showing them how I truly feel.
"Are you married?" The brunette squeals out. Before I have a chance to answer, the blond knocks over her shot, just like a child spills their milk, and all of a sudden I feel like I work in a daycare. "No." I respond as I clean up her drink.
Then a neon Spaniard chimes in. "Well do you like guys with big teeth, because I have..." I cut him off. "No, I like guys with a big soul." Somehow feeling like I have triumphed.
Their laughter gets louder, but I feel better. The mere act of standing up for something is all one needs sometimes, regardless of whether or not the message appears to be received.
As I round the corner back to the bar, my friend from the front desk calls me over. "Hey, you know the deal with those two girls right?" She asks me.
"No." I reply.
"They're hookers."
"What?" I ask.
"Yeah, they're hookers. They've been here for three nights and different men have payed for their rooms every night. I'm pretty sure Mr. Wong is their pimp."
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