"Hey there bright eyes, haven't seen you in a while. Come on over, sit with me.
You got a cigarette?
No?
Want one of mine?
Suit yourself. I'm having one . . .
So how've you been? What have you been up to? Any dramatic change? Love interests? Jobs? Family? Friends?
You don't fuckin' say?
Me? Oh, nothing really. I mean, I have a strange job these days.
I'm working graveyard shifts at this old hotel in downtown Flagstaff.
Yeah, it's pretty cool. I get to listen to music and write all night. If I need to relax, I can go smoke weed in one of the rooms and watch the stars from the roof.
Yeah?
Yeah you can see the great orange sign lit over the streets from anywhere in town. It's got a few downsides, mainly being the long nights, but I can't complain. I'm planning on moving into a place of my own, just me, you know? And it pays well enough that I'll be able to cover that and save money too. . . yup, and it'll work great for school. Plenty of time for studying . . .
What's wierd about it? Where do I start? First there's my boss, this unkempt shag who wears the same punk-rock t-shirt for countless days in a row; who lives in the hotel, is a total coke-head, borderline sociopath and simulataneously a pretty nice, laid-back boss.
This other guy, Tom, he lives in the hotel, and supposedly he runs the bar, but he doesn't really. He used to before he bacame this grey, washed-up alchie who barks obscene orders during his moments of clarity. The bar itself is now run by all the tenders, who at the end of the night give all the money to Tom, who in turn sneaks a hunk of bills (unbeknownst to the owner) to binge on his private stash of medicines and sedatives.
Both the bar and the hotel draw characters of every color you could imagine. Countless people from all over the world get drunk, stay lonely, stumble into the lobby at 2:45 in the morning and blather their lonely stories to the only poor s.o.b. up at 2:45 in the morning in a hotel lobby: yours truly.
The hotel itself is ancient and frightening and beautiful. Chandeliers set gold light over gold walls and blood-red carpet. Huge, gold-framed mirrors hang at the end of every out-stretched hall. The place was built in the mid-twenties and became a real hot-spot for celebrities back when they were shooting Spaghetti Westerns in the neighboring desert. Clark Gable, Bob Hope, John Wayne, Debbie Reynolds and Anthony Hopkins are just a few of the guests who've had their favorite rooms named after them. There was even a scene of Casablanca shot in the Humphrey Bogart suite.
But all that, that's for the brochure. You want the last drag?
Yeah, the place is filled with secrets. There's all sorts of stories. Drug conspiracies, rumors of movie star affairs and tragedies, murders, suicides . . . you can see where this is going . . .
Ghosts . . .
Well, they do also promote it for it's "haunted" tendencies.
I haven't seen anything, yet. But, yeah, there's something different about the place. Every hour us night workers have to make a round through the whole hotel, make sure everything is in order. My very first night I was passing into the last hall on the fourth floor when my body suddenly slowed, then stopped. Every strand of my hair stood on end and my blood froze in my heart. I'd never felt anything like that before. Now it's to be expected.
I'm going to have another cigarette . . .
Since then had some very wierd shit happen to me. Things that have forced me to re-evaluate my skeptical beliefs. And of course, it's always and only when I'm alone on the night shift . . . Oh there are so many stories . . . don't worry, I'll save them for another time.
I've been there since like, early June? Pretty sure. . .
I know, it's been a while, I'm sorry.
No, nothing else is new. I'm alone as I've ever been, now that I sleep when the world is awake. I mean sure, I meet new people all the time, and there are the girls who flash me that look, and there are the boys, too, but I'm never interested.
I got sick of pretending, you know that.
Recently I managed to break a lot of the bonds that were really tying me down emotionally, though . . .
I know, bright eyes. I know. None of it helps, I know you know that.
It reminds me of that song by the Secret Stars, "I'd like to live away from the streets, have a room where I can smoke all day . . ."
Sometimes I'll remember that I am alone, sometimes I'll see the shadows I stand in, sometimes I stare at the shuddering stars so long I forget I'm alive at all. Nights like these everything is a virgin on the fingertips of a storm.
The rain is everywhere here, these days. And yeah, I try, I do. But it's not enough. Trying just doesn't cut it, and there's all this fucking rain.
Sometimes, nights like these, I'll scream until my throat goes out, until I'm huddled on the floor and the tears blur my clenched hands into pools.
Sometimes, nights like these, I'll sing with no reguard for my foolishness, I'll sing and dance on the empty side-walks, and I'll smoke too many cigarettes, and I'll believe that, just maybe, tomorrow will be what I was waiting for today.
You know, bright eyes, I can always tell you what's on my mind. You just have one of those faces, I guess.
Can you pass me that ash-tray?
Thanks.
I agree, we really should bump into one another again. I know, the rain is coming back and we both have to get going . . . but it was great playing catch-up.
Heh, yeah, you too.
No, I'm fine. I have to walk to work. Hey listen, I know I haven't been around much lately, but I might be here again soon.
I hope so, too.
Goodnight.