Change
CHANGE
The bartender finished tending to the customer at the end of the bar and ambled back, a dish towel draped over his left shoulder. He approached one of his regulars. “So, Andy, you out slumming tonight, or what? No hot date?”
Andrew winced. He didn’t like being called Andy, but since this was his frequent refuge, he made allowances for Sam. He looked down, concentrating on standing a quarter on its edge. Fortunately, the bar’s surface was somewhat level and the quarter new. It joined two upright companions. “Yeah, Sam, taking a break. Sort of recharging the ol’ batteries, so to speak.” Andrew attempted a smile at the affable, pot-bellied innkeeper.
The barkeep took his towel and wiped at the worn wooden surface. “I sure wish you’d bring your dates in here more often. It always classes up the place.”
Andrew glanced up and around the dimly lit area. The Riverbend Saloon was your typical shot-and-a-beer hangout. A few old Formica tables and beat-up chairs, a long bar with stools, a pool table in the rear, and the requisite neon beer signs on the wall pretty well defined the place. A small grill behind the counter at one end could provide a mean hamburger upon request and a few other friable items listed on a small chalkboard menu. Of course, there were the obligatory chips, peanuts, and pickled eggs to munch on. Andrew looked back at Sam, and they both laughed.
A few of Andrew’s dates occasionally expressed an interest in “slumming,” a vague feeling of excitement and need to visit the seamier sides of the city. The Riverbend was in a relatively safe area, but they didn’t need to know that. Its shabby, eyesore exterior and dingy, smoky interior was a novelty to most of them. The often loud and boisterous, lower-end clientele and the frequent visits by motorcycle gangs—usually innocuous—somehow heightened their sense of danger. And the sex afterward… well, it was never disappointing.
“Sam hit me with another shot of bourbon and a beer wash. Not any more of that well-whiskey crap you feed the locals, but some of that Johnny Walker Red you keep stashed under the counter.” Andrew wrinkled his nose before adding, “And you might want to tell Mickey to try using his mop a little more aggressively after closing. I think he’s getting sloppy tapping the kegs; the place is beginning to smell like sour beer. A smidgen of seedy dive ambiance is fine, but you don’t want to go overboard.”
Sam laughed again. He had no illusions about his “dive.” Sam left to retrieve the Johnny Walker.
Andrew returned to balancing his quarters. He lived a fair distance away on the shores of Lake Erie in a single-story condo on the beach. His job as an advertising exec at Montgomery and Fitch paid well. He liked coming here; nobody but the regulars knew him, only a few of whom were present this weeknight.
Andrew fancied himself the real-life version of Charlie Harper from the old sitcom Two and a Half Men. Like his idol, he adhered to the old adages of “love ‘em and leave ‘em” and “slam, bam, thank you, ma’am.” Personable, handsome and the consummate skirt-chaser, he was the envy of all his single friends. Still, he sometimes wondered… no… he just needed a break was all, nothing to wonder about. He returned to balancing his quarters. When he couldn’t keep them on edge, he’d call it a night.
The tinkling of the bell over the tavern’s front door, reminding Andrew of a quaint, old-fashioned gift shop, interrupted his reverie. He glanced over as a short, attractive brunette entered, took off her three-quarter-length belted coat, and sat down at the end of the bar near the door. As she settled in, she scanned the room, noticed him, and offered a tentative smile before looking away.
Andrew quickly evaluated. She was thirtyish, hair worn short, small-breasted in a pale lavender blouse, and nice legs below her dark skirt. The woman appeared out of place in the seedy bar. He sipped his drink, debating, weighing the pros and cons. As usual, the pros won.
Andrew aimed one of his balanced quarters in her direction and gave it a gentle flick. It rolled straight and true until it collided with a Styrofoam bowl of peanuts on the countertop near her. She looked at it, him, and smiled. He picked up his drink and walked over to her. He held out his hand. “Hello, my name is Andrew Copeland.”
She took his hand. “I’m Abigail Tyson, Abby for short. What’s with the quarter?”
“Well, I was going to ask a penny for your thoughts,’ but considering the rate of inflation since the idiom’s origins in the Middle Ages, I figured the price had to be up to at least a quarter.”
Abigail gave a small laugh, “My, my, aren’t you the urbane gentleman. Idiom, Middle Ages, inflation? A little unexpected vernacular for this type of place.”
Andrew gave her his sheepish, boyish expression. “Well, you’ve discovered my secret. This college grad likes to hang out on the seamier, dark side, my haven from the more sophisticated and complicated corridors of life.”
Abby’s eyes skittered around the dingy establishment nervously before refocusing on him. “Well, your secret is safe with me, Andrew. And a quarter will do the trick. I was just wondering what I was doing here and if I should order a drink.”
“My treat, what’ll you have?” he asked.
Abby hesitated a second. “A margarita, I guess.”
Andrew waved the barkeep over and gave Sam her drink order, including another Johnny Walker for himself. Sam gave him a wink, a knowing look and departed.
The woman was older than his first estimate. Even with makeup and the soft glow of the ambient light, delicate lines etched the corners of her eyes and mouth. Andrew now figured her age as somewhere in the early forties, about the same as his. Abby had a few miles on her and a few hard laps around the track under her belt. Past disappointments tempered the hopeful expression in her eyes. There was a faint hint of desperation in the furtive glances she gave him.
“So, Abby, what brings you to this quaint tavern?” he asked.
“A friend of mine is having a bachelorette party not far from here,” she said. “It became somewhat boring, depressing actually, and I needed a drink. I’m from Grand Rapids and don’t know my way around here very well. I stopped at the first place I came to, which was here. I’ll be in town for the next three days for the wedding….” Abigail prattled on in an obvious attempt to keep his attention.
Pasting on his most attentive look, Andrew nodded and added comments where he deemed appropriate, but allowed the woman to run on until she slowed, which was well into her third margarita and his fourth whiskey.
Abby filled in Andrew with a short bio on her recent history. Nervous at first, the margaritas oiled her tongue, and the words flowed a little more freely. It seemed she was a secretary at a small firm in Kentwood, divorced, and had no children—one reason her husband had left her for a younger woman. Abby’s inability to have a child had been a crushing blow to her maternal ego and her husband abandoning her had been a double whammy, a devastating finishing touch to what had once been a tranquil life. Now, she was back on the single’s scene playing field, unsure what to do, where to look, or how to act.
Andrew didn’t like this. He might be a male chauvinist pig, but he tried to set moral guidelines—albeit debatable ones—whenever possible. Andrew preferred good-time party girls and the professional, sophisticated not-interested-in-a-long-term-relationship type female, even the occasional high-priced bombshell hooker. Still, he tried to avoid the vulnerable, “injured doe” sort of woman.
But Abby was attractive, intelligent and had a body she obviously took good care of. He found her desirable. Her conversation had dwindled to a halt. She was looking at him expectantly, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.
Andrew took another long sip of his drink, followed by his most charming smile. “Where are you staying?”
“At the Marriott downtown.” There was not only a shadow of longing in her eyes but a trace of sadness as well. “I probably should go while I’m still a little sober. Would you… ah… like to stop in for a drink? I know it’s not near here, but I’m enjoying our conversation… and I don’t know many people around here… and… ah—”
He bailed her out, “Sure, I’d love to. I’ll follow you.”
Andrew hoped her room was on the ground floor. It would be easier to slip away later. He helped her with her coat and headed for the door, giving Sam a wink and a thumbs-up sign as he headed out.
Andrew walked her to her car, a conservative black, late-model Honda Civic. As she folded herself in, he admired the flash of thigh that the hiked skirt revealed. He closed her door and headed for his BMW. Andrew had her pegged. The woman had passed into the big Four-O’s alone, with no children, husband, or prospects. And now it was panic time. Abby was desperately trying to find someone to hold onto, someone who would be there the day after to save her from being alone. A lot like him in many ways when you thought about it. Andrew decided not to think about it.
Andrew fell back on the bed, breathing hard, Abigail collapsing next to him. Their sex had been frantic, almost desperate, their second go-round nearly as frenetic as the first. It was as if they were using sex to fill a vague, ethereal need just beyond their reach.
Abby was lying with her head on his shoulder, her body molded to his. She was talking, murmuring now. “Maybe we could order room service in the morning, just relax and have breakfast in bed?”
Andrew could imagine the hopeful, anxious look in her eyes. “Sure, that sounds like a great idea.” The pang of guilt that suddenly stabbed him when he told the lie surprised him. Something else below that feeling… something else…
They talked a while longer before Abby fell asleep. Her head was still on his shoulder, her arm on his chest, her leg draped across his groin. Her breathing became deep and regular. Getting out of bed without waking her would be difficult for him. Soon, she changed position with an unconscious sigh, rolling onto her side away from him. Andrew waited a little longer, rose and quietly dressed in the dark, his only aid a sliver of light from the hotel’s parking lot that had forced itself into the room through a slight opening in the curtains.
Andrew tiptoed to the door, eased it open, and readied to slip out into the discreetly lit hotel hallway. He froze when he heard something, a muffled sound, much like a sob. Then another. He hesitated, turned and looked back at Abigail’s still form lying on the bed. She was facing away from him, softly illuminated by the glow from the hallway. Standing immobile in the silence, he listened. At first, he thought it was his imagination, but then another barely audible sniffle.
A lump rose in Andrew’s throat. His hand tightened on the doorknob. He glanced out into the silent, bleak and empty corridor—an apt metaphor for his life, he thought. He looked back at the warm silhouette on the bed. He steeled his mind; no time for such thoughts. He stepped out, inched the door closed quietly behind him, and walked down the desolate hallway.
The rooms on either side were hushed, almost as if they were holding their breath in anticipation or disapproval, or maybe they were empty or their occupants asleep. It was nearly 4 a.m., after all.
He made the last turn and headed for the exit. His route took him near the front desk, and as he approached, the night clerk rose from a chair behind the counter. He was white-haired, late sixties and slightly stooped. He smiled at Andrew with moist, faded blue eyes. “Everything okay, sir?” he asked.
Andrew paused. “Everything’s fine. I couldn’t sleep; too much partying, I guess, thought I’d take a walk.” It wasn’t a lie exactly, but he didn’t know why he hedged on his reply. It just seemed wrong to admit to the old man that he was visiting one of Marriot’s guests for a one-night stand.
The clerk, Benjamin, according to his name tag, smiled at him benignly. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” he added.
Andrew was thirsty but had left all his loose change on the bar at the Riverbend. That was unlike him; he liked to keep the newer coins in case he wanted to use them for the coins-on-edge opening gambit for a female conquest. He pulled out his wallet and rifled through it before pulling out a twenty. “Could I get change for this? I want to get something to drink out of the vending machine in the alcove.” He looked at the clerk expectantly.
“Sorry, all the cash is in the safe on the night shift, but I have complimentary bottled water here at the desk,” Benjamin answered.
“That will work.”
With a sigh, the old clerk began rummaging beneath the counter for the water, his knees audibly popping as he knelt. Surprisingly, Andrew decided to keep the conversation going. “What time does the graveyard shift start around here? We… I… didn’t come in until almost one, and a young black girl was working the desk then.”
“That would be Louisa. She hung over from the swing shift for a bit while I visited a friend in the hospital.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“I’m afraid so. I don’t think he’s going to last much longer. I fear that a dissolute lifestyle and a major heart attack will close the book on his life.”
Andrew suppressed a smile. The old clerk’s choice of words seemed incongruous. “Dissolute?” he asked.
“That’s the sad part,” Benjamin said, a faraway look in his eyes. “There’s no one to visit him in the hospital except me. He’s never married, has no children, and has avoided significant relationships during his self-indulgent, happy-go-lucky life. His parents passed some time ago. He’s never allowed himself to love nor allowed anyone to love him. Dysfunctional childhood, I guess. Now as the end nears, he is alone.” The old man lifted his faded blue eyes to meet Andrew’s and slid the bottled water across the desktop.
Suddenly confused and flustered, Andrew looked away. The similarities between the clerk’s friend and himself were a little disconcerting. His eyes traveled over the dimly lit, deserted and very silent lobby. The old oxymoron of “a deafening silence” came to mind.
“Pretty bleak when it’s devoid of people, isn’t it, Benjamin commented, his voice soft.
“Yes, it is.”
Benjamin continued his narrative. “In the past, I tried to convince my friend that the good memories you create during your life need sharing with people, people that are close to you. That way, you can bring them out later, dust them off, and fondly re-share and reminisce. You can’t do that by yourself.” Benjamin paused, shaking his head. “My misguided friend just poo-poohed it, said he didn’t need anyone to share his life with.” The old man looked a little embarrassed. “Sorry for bending your ear about all this, sir; sometimes it can get a bit lonely around here.”
It sounded way too familiar. Andrew was a bit light-headed, and breathing in the oppressive silence seemed difficult. “I think… I think it’s time for that walk; I need to clear my head.” He headed for the door.
The old clerk stared after him, a smile tweaking the corners of his mouth. “Enjoy your walk Mr. Copeland, and don’t forget our breakfast buffet is between six and nine,” he called after the fast-walking figure. As Andrew reached the door, Benjamin raised his voice, adding, “And remember, we also have complimentary room service.”
An hour later, Andrew had returned from his walk and was sitting on a bench near the entrance to the Marriot. He had recovered somewhat from his previous agitation and was rehashing his conversation with the night clerk when something, which should have been obvious, occurred to him—how did Benjamin know his name? He wasn’t a guest at the hotel and had never seen the clerk before that night. And the clerk’s personal philosophy, his friend’s story, and the looming breakfast, Andrew wanted to talk to the old guy again.
The automatic doors whooshed open as Andrew re-entered the hotel. It was now after five in the morning, and the hustle and bustle of an awaking hotel would soon begin. The young black woman was behind the desk when Andrew approached.
He glanced at her name tag to reconfirm her name; his mind seemed jumbled recently. “Good morning, Louisa. Is Benjamin still around?” he asked.
The woman looked at him quizzically. “Benjamin?”
“Yes, the older clerk you covered for while he went to the hospital,” he clarified.
The young woman still looked baffled. “I’m sorry, I started the graveyard shift at eleven, I get off at seven, and I’ve been the only one here.”
Andrew’s jaw muscles tensed as he clenched his teeth. “Listen, I was down here a little after four and talked with him for several minutes. His name tag identified him as Benjamin. He was in his sixties, soft-spoken, grey-haired, pale blue eyes. He was here, I know it!”
There was fear now evident in Louisa’s eyes. “Okay, maybe I was back in the office for a few minutes about that time, but I’m telling you I was alone, and nobody works here by the name of Benjamin…” she paused, the fear in her eyes now diluted with a memory, “When I started working at the Marriot a couple of years ago there was an old guy here by the name of Ben Bidwell. I was only here a couple of months when he died of a heart attack. Some of the older employees said he was a loner and had been a ‘player’ in his youth if you know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“And he does fit your description, but obviously, it couldn’t be him… you don’t believe that, do you?” The fear was back in her eyes as she stared wide-eyed at Andrew, awaiting his answer.
Andrew had unconsciously jammed his hands into his pockets. In the right, his hand clenched his car keys painfully. In his left, an equal death grip held the room key to Room 125, the plastic edges cutting into his palm. Earlier, Abby had given it to him to get ice from the machine at the end of the hallway. He had forgotten to return the key.
Andrew managed an apologetic smile and backtracked. “I’m sorry, I’ve been up all night, and I’m confused and rambling. I’ve mixed up my clerks, dates, and locales, I’m afraid. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He released his car keys. “Can I order room service now?”
“Of course,” Louisa said, sliding a form across the counter. “Fill in the room number and time of service, and make your selections. I’ll give the order to the cook when you finish.” The young woman seemed more at ease now.
As Andrew filled out the form, he asked her, “Do you know what an epiphany is?
“I’m not sure,” she replied.
Andrew slid the form back to Louisa and smiled, now charming and sincere. “There are several definitions, but the one I like is ‘an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure.’”
“Have a great day, Louisa,” he said as he strode towards the hallway.
His pace quickened. “And thank you, Ben, for the epiphany.”
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Impressum
Texte: John C. Laird
Bildmaterialien: istockphoto/Alexandra Laird
Lektorat: Valerie Fee, Alexandra Laird
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 18.01.2013
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