Something Is Always Happening Somewhere, page 9
She scanned the lobby, not looking for anything or anyone in particular, just taking it all in, and then headed for the elevator that would take her back to her room. She might come back down later for a cocktail in the lobby, if she was feeling social, but when is that ever the case?
At that moment, Anne’s face flashed in her mind. She blinked it away, feeling guilty, but also tempted. She knew that it would only take one text message to bring her to her room. And she knew what would happen once she got there. But she couldn’t do that. She was still married. If only in her heart.
Dale left the lights off in the room and opened all the curtains instead, letting the early evening roll out its display. Twinkling on and off in a slow wave in the distance, like strands on a Christmas tree.
She poured herself a glass of wine, and tried to keep her spirits up.
* * *
After polishing off almost half of the box wine (she knew she should have gotten two) and indulging in all the milk chocolate the mini bar had to offer, Dale had made a point to turn off the alarm on her phone so she could sleep it off, but woke up at the crack of dawn anyway. Laying in the middle of her room’s large, plush bed, she stretched out her arms and legs, feeling her joints crack, and stared up at the ceiling for a while. She didn’t have anything particularly time sensitive to do that day, but she should probably make moves to get the process of listing her house started. Dale threw her legs over the side of the bed, did one more big stretch, feeling her back crack this time, and went into the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face.
The only bad thing about the Ace is that they don’t have a coffee maker in the room. You have to either get it via room service, or go down and order one from the little Stumptown store they have near the lobby. She’d go down and get a coffee. A large one. And something small for breakfast that wasn’t a Snickers bar.
On her way out, realizing that housekeeping would probably be making the rounds soon, she used a handful of toilet paper to conceal the clump of candy wrappers in the trash can by the bed. The ladies in charge of cleaning these rooms have seen a lot worse, to be sure, but still, she didn’t want them to think of her as gluttonous. Especially since she’d be staying there for a while. Whatever, she shrugged at herself in the mirror, wetting her curls a bit to get them back into shape. You only live once. Right?
At that moment, like so many before, and so many yet to come, she thought of Gina. Gina loved chocolate. Dark chocolate. Dale’s preference was milk chocolate, the creamier the better, but Gina would call it “gooky,” teasing that eating milk chocolate just filled you with phlegm, like drinking a big glass of Eggnog … which Dale also liked. Strange how small memories like this hit the hardest and sent her mind tumbling deeper and deeper into dark thoughts. All the candy that Gina had enjoyed as a child. All the preferences she’d grown to have. The little bites, done in haste, not given a second thought. Things savored. She’d never have any of it ever again.
Dale shook her head, breaking the line of thought. Coffee. She needed coffee.
She briefly considered going down to the lobby in her sweats, but decided she hadn’t given up that much yet. After putting on jeans and slipping into her shoes, sans socks, she rode the elevator down alone, the noise of the lobby getting louder and louder with each floor.
When the doors dinged opened she was hit with a symphony of smells. Coffee, and the combined scent of about fifty different varieties of perfume and cologne, freshly applied by people headed out to start their days. Dale was a part of this mix too. A person. Like any other person. going about their business, getting a coffee. She could tell herself that and almost believe it.
* * *
Back in the room, she sipped her coffee and stared out the window, watching the cars go by.
She’d gotten a peach scone as well, but once she took it out of the bag, and set it on a makeshift magazine plate, she found she no longer wanted it. There were certain things that felt reserved for people who were not in the midst of turmoil. Peach scones, apparently, were among them. She stuffed the pastry back into the bag and put it on top of the room’s mini fridge. Maybe she’d want it later. Maybe tomorrow she’d wake up and feel okay. Feel better. Better enough for a peach scone.
She sat back down on the bed and noticed that there were now sticky crumbs on the magazine. She got back up to shake it over the trash can. She was procrastinating. Other people in other rooms were showering, or watching TV, or masturbating. She was dicking around with crumbs to put off what she had on her to-do list that day. Other people had “buy ranch dressing” on their to-do lists. Or, “pay phone bill.” She had only one pressing thing to do, start the process of selling the house where her wife last felt safe. Last smiled. Last rested. Last lived.
Dale gave herself a deadline. She’d watch the cars go by until the light changed and they stopped moving.
Red Volvo.
Yellow sports car with a business man inside, blaring Bon Jovi.
City bus.
Now.
She arranged herself at the small desk and opened her laptop to begin drafting an email to Stephanie, the realtor she and Gina had used to purchase their house. Stephanie had been referred to them by a friend of Gina’s who’d had a good experience with her in the past. Her website listed “seamless relocation purchases” as being one of her specialties. She had definitely delivered on that, showing her and Gina listings all throughout California, many of which looked great to them.
It had taken a while to narrow down the listings to the one they eventually picked in Long Beach. They’d liked that area from the get-go because of its affordability, at least compared to Los Angeles, and its eclectic arts community and fairly large LGBT scene. But they couldn’t decide on the house.
Gina wanted something simple with clean lines and new fixtures. While Dale wanted vintage, with lots of character. The one they eventually purchased had none of those things. It was just run of the mill ranch style. But when they flew out for viewings, and walked in for the first time, it just felt like home.
In her email, Dale kept it as vague as possible, with the understanding that Stephanie most likely already knew all the gory details. The agent had a lot of other clients, sure, but seeing the familiar looking home on the news and in the papers for days … hard to miss. Especially when the front hedges, heavily featured in crime scene photos draped with yellow police tape like it was Halloween, had a sign with your face and phone number planted in them at one time.
Dale explained that she’d lost her wife, and would like to sell the house as she no longer needed all that space. Simple. Short. Cold. Done.
It’s pretty likely that Stephanie would call back within the day to give her condolences, and also warn, gently, of the hit in price that Dale would be taking on the house considering what took place inside. She was prepared for both. Dale knew from watching years and years of Dick Wolf shows that sellers in most states have to inform potential buyers of any deaths that occurred in the house within a three year period prior to its sale. She wondered if, in this case, she’d have to disclose one, or two. Technically Gina died in the hospital, but … she’d leave that up to Stephanie.
Given the popularity uptick in anything and everything true crime related over the past few years, it’s possible she’ll end up getting even more than she paid. She briefly imagined the house ending up on some grisly bus tour of murder sites marketed to tourists and podcast nerds, and felt sick. Why though? That’s exactly the type of thing that Gina herself would have flipped over. Gina, the woman who once bragged about being among the first to subscribe to the “Fan Cult” for her favorite true crime podcast, My Favorite Murder, the members of which were referred to as Murderinos. Dale should send them an email, maybe get her upgraded to VIP status. Shouldn’t that be a perk for a member who goes on to actually be murdered herself?
Crossing that terrible chore off of her to-do list for the day, Dale called Officer Bethel’s cell phone to double check that it was okay to sell the house. Yes, she’d technically already put that plan into motion, but she was a do first, ask forgiveness later type of woman. She got his voicemail. Probably out helping old ladies cross the street, she thought, chuckling at his expense.
She should probably ease up on the guy. She didn’t know why she was so hard on him. He’d just become her emotional punching bag somewhere along the line during all of this ugliness. He was a pretty good sport about it though. That should be worth some points. She left a message for him to call back when he had a chance.
Suddenly finding herself with nothing left to do for the day, Dale decided to go down to the lobby for another coffee (why not?) and a change of scenery. As much as she loved hotels, probably more than most, they still had the tendency to close in on her after a while. Like with most rooms, they fill quickly with the mood and temperament of the person or people within them. Dale was not good company for herself these days, which was a new sadness for her, to add to all the others. She used to, if nothing else, enjoy her own company. She was once confident and comfortable, maybe overly so, in her ability to be happily alone. Not anymore.
Her hotel room, as beautiful as it was, and as much as she’d needed the escape of it, was wasted on her. She could open the drapes, she could turn on the TV. She could snack. Get drunk. It wouldn’t matter. She was powerless over the heaviness that leaked out from deep inside her, and its ability, almost urgency, to fill any space she occupied.
Those podcasts that Gina loved, they’d often bring up details of corpses and how they’d terrify newbie morticians by letting out trapped air, making it seem as though they had come to life, and were breathing undead breath. Gas. Ghost farts. Just another disgusting, pointless way in which life, in which our own bodies, tell us over and over again that most everything narrows down to one big ghost fart. That’s what Dale was now. A ghost fart. Spooky. Morbid. Disgusting. And really good, apparently, at fucking up the temporary sanctuary that a hotel can offer. Damn.
* * *
Exiting the elevator Dale couldn’t help but view the men in the lobby, working on their laptops, or otherwise occupied on their phones, in a tainted light. She had never had any particular issue with men, aside from not wanting to sleep with them, but her eyes, her thoughts, were now tinted with new association. It was like Gina’s attack had cracked the seal to a portal, hidden in plain sight, unleashing a vapor that melted away all of the well worn masks of society’s otherwise harmless males. Any one of these guys could have a killer inside of them and not even know.
Dale got her coffee, and put the butter speckled brown paper bag containing a croissant in her purse. She’d add that to the collection of pastries absentmindedly collecting in her room.
Of all the places she’d traveled, and the different cities she’d lived, she’d been exposed to a wide variety of foods and yet, still, would take common pastries over almost anything else.
It felt good to be out of her hotel room, and looking out the glass doors of the hotel’s lobby she could see what appeared to be another beautiful day in Los Angeles. She took her coffee outside and situated herself on a window ledge, sipping and watching people walk by. In times like these, sitting still and letting her mind float to wherever it wanted to go, there was no telling what thoughts would come to the surface.
For the past few months, when given the chance, her mind would automatically play a never-ending reel of the highs and terrible lows of her time with Gina. Or she’d see some woman out of the corner of her eye and know, just know, that it was her. Back from the dead somehow. Having traveled through literal heaven and hell to return to her. Today, surprising mostly to her, she thought of her dad. A man she’d never met. Never seen. Had no frame of reference for in terms of looks or walk or ways. Any of these men moving past her, at any time, could be him.
She wondered if she’d ever come to meet him in her, or his, lifetime. She was curious. But not enough to ever actively seek him out. Pieces of shit were out there being pieces of shit. Why get your hands dirty by reaching into the bowl for one. For all she knew, her dad was already dead, but something deep inside told her no. He was out there somewhere. Circulating the cesspool with all the rest of the assholes, idiots, and absentee fathers.
Taking her time with her coffee, enjoying the sun on her arms and face, her daydreaming was cut short by the feeling of her cell phone buzzing in her purse. She reached in to find it, and saw that her realtor Stephanie was calling. She’d let it go to voicemail and call her back in a few minutes, up in the room.
Dale fished a cigarette out of her bag to enjoy with the rest of her coffee. This would serve as her timer. Once it was burned down to the filter, she’d head back to the room to return Stephanie’s call. Maybe she’d have two. But no more. No more than two.
The first few puffs of a cigarette were always Dale’s favorite. Something about those initial drags reminded her of being a teenager and sneaking cigs on the football field of her high school in New York. She’d go back to trying to permanently quit soon but for now these occasional indulgences helped her more than hurt her.
Lost in thought, and psyching herself up for the call, she suddenly lurched forward, dropping her lit cigarette into her lap.
“AH!” She called out in shock and pain, standing up to brush the cigarette off, which left her with a smear of ashes, and a small burn mark on her favorite jeans.
Looking to her left she saw a businessman, face glued to his phone, who’d just exited the hotel’s lobby unaware, and uncaring, that she’d been sitting there on the ledge. She could smell his dry cleaning. His cheap soap layered with expensive cologne. Dale would have bet a million dollars that, if asked, he couldn’t tell you the name of the cologne, because he hadn’t bought it himself. Men like that rarely buy anything for themselves, and when they do, it’s shitty. People with money are very often terrible at spending it on quality things. Why is that?
“Watch out,” the guy spit out of the side of his mouth as he continued down the sidewalk, not even bothering to turn to see who it was he’d just bumped.
Before it registered to her what she was doing, Dale followed after him at a quickened pace and, in one impulsive motion, punched the guy in the back of the head.
“OW! What the FUCK, lady?” he yelled, rubbing his head and stopping to look back at her in utter shock.
“YOU watch out,” Dale said, jabbing a finger at his face, so close that the tip of it connected with his nose. “YOU watch out.”
She turned and speedily walked back to the hotel, hoping to make it to her room before the guy decided to escalate things. He looked like the type of guy who’d call the police on someone for much less than what Dale had just done. Guys like that love to call the police. Although, he may be too prickish to admit to anyone that it had been a woman who’d assaulted him.
“You’re fucking crazy!” He yelled at her back as she opened the lobby doors and hustled inside.
She laughed all the way to her room. Her skin was flushed and her heart was beating in the delicate cup of her neck. She felt fantastic.
Using her key card to enter, Dale hovered momentarily behind the shut door waiting. For what? She didn’t know. Consequence? There were no jostling keys, clinking together against the meaty thighs of men in authority running towards her door. There was no charged air, holding, just prior to a series of loud knocks. There was nothing at all out of the ordinary. Just her in her room, and other people walking to and from theirs.
She pressed both of her palms flat against the door, as though checking for heat from a potential fire. Her pinkie brushed the cold metal of the security latch and she moved her hand over to flip it over, but left it where it was. Nothing was going to happen. She sat on the bed, took her greasy bottomed croissant bag out of her purse, and ate.
* * *
Before she had a chance to remember that she needed to return her realtor’s call, Dale’s cell phone buzzed at the bottom of her purse. She fished it out and saw that Stephanie was trying her again. She caught her right before it went to voicemail.
“Stephanie, hi, sorry I missed you before. I was actually just about to call you back.”
“No problem at all, Dale. I know you have a lot going on right now.” Stephanie paused for a beat too long, and she knew what was coming next … “I was so sorry to learn about what happened to Gina … in your email.”
The add-on of “in your email” told Dale that she had been right in her earlier assumption that Stephanie already knew all about it. If that was in fact the case, she couldn’t help but feel a bit hurt that she hadn’t reached out sooner. Sure, she was just her realtor, it’s not like they were friends or anything, but wouldn’t that have been the kind thing to do? Dale would have done it, had the shoe been on the other foot. There was just no figuring people out, best not to think about it. Doing the whole “well I would have, they should have” thing is a good way to upset yourself, and Dale had enough to be upset about without obsessing over the inner thoughts and feelings of the woman who sold her the house she was about to try and unload.
“Thanks,” Dale said. Nothing much else to say than that.
“I got your email about selling the house and wanted to talk to you more about it,” Stephanie said. “There are a lot of details to go over, so I was thinking it might be better to meet in person to discuss. Is there a day and time early next week that would be good for you to meet at the house? I can take some new pictures and …”
“I’m not at the house,” Dale cut her off. “I’m staying at a hotel for a little while.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. I understand. In that case, how about we meet at my office? Maybe Thursday after you get off work?”
“I was fired.” Dale was taking enjoyment in being cryptic and rude. She liked to do that sometimes. It was, in most cases, her best defense against people who’d hurt her feelings, and were likely to do it again.
