Post by Alice Wilde on Jun 2, 2007 14:20:20 GMT -5
He awoke on the asphalt. It was dark, the air dry. Glass doors swam before his eyes. She looked at him, lying like roadkill at her feet, and smiled. The stars overhead disappeared as her men dragged him inside.
“Where’m I?” he called, his voice wavering.
She twisted her shoulders. “This could be heaven or this could be hell.”
But he was gone.
-
“Betsy,” J the concierge adjusted the bedsheets over him. The room was dark, carpet a deep green, wallpaper painted over black. The smell of incense hung in the air and everything was rough to the touch. “You realize people are looking for him.”
She folded the covers down, pointing to his arm band. Black. The color of a protestor, an outlaw. Betsy, clad in scarlet, eyes caked in liner and shadow, hands full of jewels, usually uncaring Betsy cradled his unconscious face.
“No one is looking now.”
J shivered, reached into her pocket, and pulled out a vial. “Shall I wake him?”
Betsy nodded. J uncorked the vial and held it to his nose. His eyes twitched. He curled in the bed and moaned. She took his hand, her fingers traveling to his wrist, searching for a pulse.
“Good evening, sweetheart.” Betsy breathed.
He turned toward her, eyes wide. “I’m not your sweetheart.”
J snorted. “Not yet.”
Betsy ignored her. “Then who are you, baby?”
He sat up, moving Betsy’s hands to his elbow. She didn’t let go. For a moment, he considered the women, J, professional, Betsy, luxurious, and decided he wasn’t in danger any longer. His head ached.
“A man of mystery.” Betsy pursed her lips. “How intriguing.”
He placed his hand above hers, on his arm band. He stared at Betsy, eyes shining, passion and pain. “My intrigue has gotten me into a bit of trouble lately. Do you know what happened to me?”
“I’m not allowed the privilege of knowing your name. How would I know what happened to you?” She pouted and climbed into the bed with him. He jumped, scurried into the headboard, though she sat on top of his legs. She still clutched his elbow and used it to support herself as she leaned in.
“I’d say,” She was close, her lips inches from his. Her scent was something exotic. He blinked and nearly fainted again as she traced his skull, her fingers scuttling over his eyebrows. “It was a bit of head trauma. Nothing that J darling can’t fix.”
Betsy hopped out of the bed, leaving him bewildered. He glanced at J, then at the curve of Betsy’s back, then at J again, and stuttered. “I...I’m Sam.”
J dabbed his forehead with her handkerchief. “Betsy, you got him sweating. What have I told you about jumping into bed with sick people?”
“‘Only if they’re not contagious.’” Betsy sighed, put her hands on her hips.
“So...you’re... Betsy?” Sam asked. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
J laughed. “Trust me, the pleasure’s all hers.”
“The pleasure is everyone’s, here. Any time of year.” Betsy said this as though it had been said many times before, a slogan. She walked to the door. “I hope I’ll be seeing you again, Sam.” She looked over her shoulder, batted her lashes.
The door closed.
-
The next day, he rested. The window was open, allowing light into the dark room. The highway from the previous night had vanished...Had there been a highway? And where was his plane? Where was he? His room now looked upon a courtyard.
Betsy was down there. Her laughter pealed like mission bells, male voices joining her in a strange chorus. The sounds of water splashing...a fountain. Low piano keys and an ethnic voice. Perhaps this was a club.
J knocked on his door. “Sam?”
“Hi, come in.” He kicked the covers off, brushing at his clothes. His shirt was drenched in grease. So he had been in the plane. J entered and gave him a fresh robe, then began to tidy up the room.
“You don’t have to do that.” Sam said.
J ran a finger across the window sill, glazing down at Betsy and her friends. She turned to Sam, showed him a flawless finger. “You’re right. I don’t. Where are you from?”
“Does it matter?” Sam sat up, removed his shirt. J averted her eyes, moving the lamp on his bedside table. He pulled his arm band off with it, flung it to the floor. She picked it up still not looking as he tied the robe.
“You’re against the war, I see.”
Sam nodded. “I flew the resistance planes. I think I might have gotten gunned down. Friendly fire.”
“Sam!”
It was Betsy, courtesan calling from the courtyard. Sam pulled himself out of bed, side-stepped J, and rushed to the window. Betsy sat beside the fountain, swimwear almost nonexistent. Her men frolicked in the water, names tattooed on their bare backs, ROBERT, EDWIN, KYLE. A musician, a sun-glassed young woman with a nametag reading Pandora, played a ballad.
Betsy beckoned him. “Come down, I need someone to dance with.”
“With whom to dance,” J said under her breath.
Sam swallowed and moved from the window. “I told you something about me.” He said to J. “Will you tell me something about this place?”
Pandora stopped her ballad as Betsy asked for something dance-able. The piano tinkled and the water splashed.
“Where am I?”
J licked her lips and looked up. “You’re living it up at 667 Dark Avenue. The Hotel California.”
-
Sam went to the courtyard and Betsy welcomed him. Together they watched her men dance. She pointed to a garage and explained that many of the guests had expensive cars. Mirrors reflected every inch of the building.
It was made of marble, a swirl of white and grey against red desert clay. Mosaics of jewels, sapphires, rubies, topaz, took up entire walls. A wrought-iron gate surrounded the almost church-like architecture.
“It’s lovely.” He said. “Almost as lovely as you.”
Betsy smiled. “Oh, Sam, you can’t possibly mean that.”
“I can so!” He took a glass of pink champagne from a waiter named PJ. “You...you must be the most lovely woman I’ve ever met, Betsy. I know we haven’t know each other very long, but I think I can tell you that.”
“No, Sam. You can’t possibly mean that. You haven’t tried anything with me,” Betsy sighed, her eyes downcast. “Most men who loved me would be showering me with kisses by now. Or jewelry.”
“I...love you?” Sam stuttered.
“Well, you wouldn’t be calling me lovely, if you didn’t love me, right?” Betsy bit her lip. “Of course, you don’t really mean it, so...”
“I love you.” Sam said, an epiphany. “I do love you, Betsy.”
Betsy winked to one of her friends before giving her attention to Sam. “Prove it.”
Sam put a hand behind her head and drew her mouth to his.
Sirens began to blare. The sounds of helicopters and machine guns added to it. Suddenly, Betsy was gone, the fountain was gone, Pandora and the men...Bullets ricocheted around him. The screams of what seemed to be a thousand people echoed, terror, death. Rooms collapsed on each other, gas began to leak from pipes.
All that was left of the Hotel California was a bombed marble shell. Sam ran for the glass doors, knowing that once again he was running from his former comrades. J waited for him in the doorway, eyes filled with tears.
“J!” Sam cried. “What’s going on? Why are you just standing there? Let me out!”
“You’re dead...Betsy wanted to distract you...This entire place was one enormous distraction...”
“What?” Sam asked. “What?”
“This the Hotel California. You can check out any time you want,” J said. “But you can never leave.”
Sam’s hands flew to his head and touched blood.
He fainted on the asphalt. It was dark, the air dry. And those glass doors swam before his eyes for the last time.
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