Montgomery
Two beers and a bloody mary later and he wanders to the bank of elevators, waiting patiently for the cars to arrive for the short ride up. Four stories, that’s all. Schindler’s lift again. Like the Burbank Airport Marriott, the world’s slowest elevator is in use. The stairs would be quicker, but being both stubborn and lazy, he waits. Not a good choice with a bladder this full. Time passes slowly, each second marked by the further expansion of that swollen pouch, every ounce of liquid turning to urine. Oh Joy! The elevator arrives.
Standing before the mirror, observing the decaying hulk that is me. Muscle turns to fat, bulging here and there. No longer lean and angular, more eggplant. I am old. Damn. It happens to the best of us. I deserve this room, I suppose. I checked in to a room with two neatly-made beds and a bathroom with drip-stains around the toilet, two pubic hairs in the shower and a strange brown streak on the wall an inch short of the toilet paper. Is it possible that the sheets have at least been washed? I wouldn’t be surprised to find the obligatory dead hooker in the box-springs. Welcome to the Hilton Garden Inn in lovely Montgomery, Alabama. Oh joy.
