Photo by Matthew Smith on Unsplash
Hotel Mortimer always has space. Whomever comes, there is always room. That is the special magic of this place. When one occupant leaves another just happens to show up. Everyone who arrives is meant to be here and will leave at their own time. Which for some might be never. Like Mr. Gerald who repairs the AC units and TVs while humming tunes that haven't been heard since he was a boy so many years ago. It's impressive how he's adapted to electricity.
I run the front desk, which is why I'm the first person you see. A fake customer service smile as I ask if you have a reservation. You don't, no one does. No one plans on being here. Still I hand you a key and you take it in a dazed hand and nod along as I tell you where the ice maker is, when the breakfast buffet gets put out.
You walk down to your unit not quite feeling like this reality. It seems like it's too far. Aches and exhaustion make each step seem like the finals of a marathon. The key, number 19, opens a small, clean room. The kind of clean that comes with bleach and lysol. It's not a comforting smell, it reminds you of a hospital. On the bed is a stuffy from your childhood, one you lost somewhere between puberty and now. Sleep comes fast, the dreams faster. Your life flashes, first heartbreak, first home, first time on a bike, first perfect crunch of a fall apple, first time you managed to bake a cake from scratch.
I hear you laugh and cry in your sleep. Over in 34 Joanne dreams of her cats so intensely I can hear purring as I walk past. A spectral cat gamboles along in the night. She's been here for years and I think she and Mr. Gerald might be getting close. I wouldn't mind if she stayed. Her cats add to the ambiance. John in number 26 screams, and then sobs. But you wouldn't hear it. No one wakes up during their first night. I do hope John moves on soon. The kind of pain he has can be dangerous.
It's morning and I listen at your door. You aren't crying, or if you are it's silent, so I knock and say there's a breakfast buffet. I slide a brochure under the door. It's poorly folded and some of the ink is smeared. But even with the that and the misaligned text you can make out the lists of food and that the buffet ends at 11. There's also a combo for a shed that has tennis and bocce ball equipment in it. No one uses it. But it's there so maybe your the person it's for.
You brave the outside world and sneak through the common rooms like a mouse scared of a world class hunting cat. The room isn't much, just an open space with threadbare carpet that's faded to grey, some folding chairs and tables and a view of the barren dusty world outside.
A few more days pass and you start asking questions. Where is this place? How did I get here? Why isn't there any phones? Was I kidnapped? No gives you helpful answers, just tell you what danishes are good, and to check out channel 12 on the tv. No one tells you to ask me. That's something you have to figure out you can do on your own time. It never ends well when the process is rushed. Everything happens at it's own time.
You don't know why but you don't turn on the tv. Instead you rest and sleep, and dream of the best parts of your life. The joy, and community, the moments you wish you could live in forever. When those run out pain and regret start creating nightmares. Every time you wished you'd said something, or said something you wish you hadn't plays on repeat. Every failure. A week of this, or maybe more, or maybe just a day. I've been here so long, such small units of time don't matter to me. And right now, time doesn't matter to you at all.
Eventually you storm my office and start asking questions. Each louder and angrier than the last. You demand to know how you get here. Why aren't you hungry? Why are you scared of the tv? What is this place and why can the cats walk through walls? Why don't I feel alive? Why don't I have a pulse?
I listen, and with as much kindness as possible inform you that you are dead. But you already figured that out by the time the last question was shouted. My lack of knowledge of how you got here, or why you died, or even how you died, or what was happening to anyone you cared about enraged you. You try a haymaker and it's like hitting concrete. The echo of it goes all the way up your arm. It doesn't upset me when you flee without apologizing. You have a lot to process.
At night you dream of your death. Every terrible detail of life slipping away. You don't scream like John, which is nice. But you also don't leave your room for three days. You don't sleep either. During day four one of Joanne's cats comes to you, and either brings you the peace you needed or harass you until you come see me in reception.
This time you see me for what I am. The receptions of Limbo. This is where the spirits not ready to move on, but without the primal hate or rage that it takes to haunt the living. John might get there someday. And Joanne, I haven't heard her story. Maybe she's here becuase other people need her, and she's not done being needed.
As I expected you refuse to accept that this is the end. You try to bargain. You promise wealth from the land of the living, promise to make my life painful if I don't help you go back. It's rude but I laughed. What would I do with mortal wealth? Last time I was in your world there was just some promising goo and fascinating bugs. You threw the stapler at me and it bounces back and it's you in your face. Ounce again you flee without apologizing.
Days, maybe weeks, or maybe months go by. It's not like this place has a calendar. The clock barely has hours. You stay in your room and watch your life. Reply the moments, watch the faces of those you love again and again. The cats visit and Mr.Gerald even makes an excuse to come in now and then. Your life, the one you lived, and only got so few years of, plays again and again on the tv. A show that ends before it really got going you think. And you'll never know if you got justice. If it was an accident or intentional. You try to bargain again, saying you'll move on if you can just know this one thing. But there is no knowing. I only know this realm, and everyone only knows their own life.
You spend years in the room re-watching your entire life minute by minute. It's fine, you have all the time you need. You consider another re-watch but one of the cats breaks the tv. I really do like those cats.
Heavy with the knowledge you can't change anything, with the regrets of words you did or didn't say, or choices you wish you could change. You come to me again. You enter with an apology which is nice. There is No anger, no bargaining, just acceptance. You ask what now? I shrug, but say you can find out.
Out in the wasteland is a yellow cab. You take it and Mr.Gerald goes about fixing the tv. Someone new will fix the vacancy soon.
Thank you for reading. This was a super experimental piece and I would love to know if messing around with the point of view of the story like I did worked.
And also love to know how you felt as you read it.
