I feel each rap on the door booming through my splitting skull. Jack hammering my booze soaked brain. I already know who it is, and what they want. It’s 10:30 AM and check out time was a half hour ago. It’s the fat little hotel manager. He’s come to roust me from my roost. No rest for the wicked.
Why am I living like this again? Oh yeah, the money. It’s all about the money. I’m beginning to think the money isn’t worth it. At least I do every morning around 10. When some hotel manager is smashing on my door, screaming “Get the fuck up because it’s check out time! “
I roll over and reach for the pack of cigarettes lying on the sticky spilt booze, cocaine residue, and ash covered night stand next to the bed. It’s the same routine every morning. Nothing ever changes. From here I’ll sit up on the edge of the bed. Inhale deeply on my tasty tobacco treat. The hotel manager is pounding so hard on the door by now he’s causing the paint to chip from around the door frame. The sound of the chain lock bouncing against the metal door fills my ears more than the pounding for some reason. You know it’s time to go when you hear that sound in some no tell motel early in the morning. That god forsaken rattling chain. I’ll stand up now–naked. Scratch my nuts, and stagger to the bathroom. I don’t even bother to acknowledge the manager. He’ll still be there, by the time I’m done taking a piss. After I’ve relieved myself, I’ll make my way to the door. Now I brace myself for the icepick of sunlight that’s about to stab me in the retina. No matter how many times it happens, it always hurts. Today it’s going to hurt twice as much. Why did I drink all that vodka? From here I open the door. I’m still naked. The chain catches, and I put my face in the space. The icepick of light stabs my eyes. Fuck that hurts! The manger starts bitching at me that I was supposed to be out of here a half hour ago. Then I barter with him for more time and another room. Today I’m in luck he does have one room left. I tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes to pay and get the key. He tells me to hurry up, before he changes his mind. This is my routine every day. The only thing that differs is some days they don’t have another vacant room. Those days suck.
Now it’s time to do the coke dealer pre housekeeping clean up job. It’s a fairly simple process. Soak a towel in the shower. Take it and wipe every table, counter, nightstand, or any other surface that may be covered in cocaine residue, including the inside of drawers. No need to get ratted out by some overzealous do gooder housekeeper. The next step is locating any and all paraphernalia. Empty baggies, broken crack stems, bits of chore, anything left over. But don’t just toss it in the trash. Stuff it inside one of the dozen beer cans littering the room and crush it. Some people would say flush it down the toilet. But believe me you don’t want to take the chance of it overflowing the toilet and flooding the room below you during peak tourist season. Because you definitely won’t be welcome here anymore after they snake the toilet and find out a dozen plastic baggies and busted crack stems were what caused the plumbing to back up. Throw all the beer cans etc, littering the room in the trash. Take the bag out of the can, tie it up, and leave it next to the door. You also want to gather up all the towels and linens and leave them in a pile next to the door too. Make the house keepers job as easy and hassle free as possible. Be a good guest. Your lively hood depends on good relations on every front. A pissed off housekeeper can end you in a blink of an eye. Now it’s time to collect your clothing and stuff it in your bag. A quick double check to make sure you didn’t miss anything, and it’s time to go. But don’t forget to leave a 20 spot on the dresser for the house keeper, just in case you might have missed anything. Remember a little cash can go a long way.
By 11:15 I’m settled in my new room on the opposite end of the hotel. The room is no different than the last one. Same musty salt air and mold smell. The same Technicolor puke comforter covering the sagging mattress, the cheap nightstand with the King James Bible in the broken drawer, I’ll put my coke in there and let the lords words keep it safe. Until the paranoia kicks in, then I’ll pull the shitty little fridge out from against the wall and tuck it up under the motor for safe keeping. I know nobody ever pulls the fridge out from against the wall in these rooms. I can tell by the disgusting- sticky- fly carcass- incrusted- dripping- rust- orange- stain that lies behind them, in every hotel I’ve ever stayed at in my life. I’ll take a steaming hot shower to clear my sinuses of the cocaine encrusted inside of them from the previous night. Blowing the bloody snot out my nostrils and watch it swirl down the drain. Once I’m dressed. I’ll flick on the TV. 9 times out of ten I’ll flick on CNN. I’ll grab my scales. The ones that look like a cd case complete with a false album cover of band I’ve never heard of. Then I’ll weigh out the days work. ½ gram- 50 dollar hollers. They go fast. So I need at least 20 of them just for my first round of the day. By the time I’m done doing this it’ll be about 12:15. I’ll fill a plastic baggy with the 20 half grams, take the bag tuck it in the pocket of my boxer briefs the one that goes right under my nuts connected to the fly, and I’ll walk out into the summer sun and make my way to Lebecs. Same ritual every day, like I said before… I’m a creature of habit.
I hadn’t even reached for the cigarettes yet and I saw all this play out before my eyes, before it ever did. Luckily my vision was correct. There was a vacant room. I’m reveling in the power of positive thought as I actually do step out into the warm summer air. I’m a bit groggy from only sleeping for a couple hours after my late night with Diana. But it was well worth it and nothing hanging out on the deck with my good friend Mr. Walker couldn’t fix.