We walk together through the lot, go around the hotel, and reach the front entrance. This is where we split up. Mom stays behind and lights up a smoke as she pretends to wait for her ride, so no hotel employee bothers her. But people, especially men, tend to be drawn to her, so someone is surely going to try to strike up a random conversation with her.
I open the door and head into the lobby. It’s so nice in here. The floors are squeaky clean and way too white for my dirty duct-taped shoes to walk on. There’s an expensive-looking golden chandelier above my head. There’s even a dude in a black suit playing piano next to the staircase.
But what I love most is the smell. It smells like toothpaste. It’s minty and warm. Mint is my third-favorite smell, behind the smell of brand-new shoes and freshly made donuts. I haven’t smelled either of those in a while, so my nose dances with joy as I head to the elevators.
Once I reach them, it doesn’t take long before the doors open and people are getting on or getting off. The first two people are men, which won’t work for this game. So I wait.
Even though I stand out as the only person in this place who looks like they just wandered in from off the streets, no one ever approaches me and asks me to leave, because most of the staff at hotels don’t get paid enough to care, and those that do get paid enough to care won’t waste their time on a kid. They just assume I’m waiting for my parents to come down to the lobby. If I was a teenager or an adult, I’d be escorted out of here right away, but my youth is what makes this hunt work. No one suspects a kid could be a skilled hunter.
About three minutes later, the doors open again, and a woman walks out. She’s a white lady with silver hair and wears a matching black skirt and blazer. Gold is everywhere on her. It wraps around her wrists, dangles from her ears, and hangs off her neck. I hit the jackpot. One older rich white lady coming up.
I make my move as she passes by me.
“Excuse me, young lady,” I say, and even though she’s probably in her late sixties, my mom tells me to refer to all women as young women—because compared to tortoises and sea turtles, all of us humans are young.
The woman stops when she hears me and lets out a small chuckle. “Are you speaking to me, young boy?”
“I most certainly am. Are you on your way out to dinner?” I ask.
“Why, yes. You’re an astute young man, aren’t you?” she says as I walk with her.
“I don’t even know what astute means, but I am sure I’m it. What’s your name?” I ask.
She smiles and looks in all directions. “I am Eleanor. Where are your parents?” she asks.
“They’re home. In our house. I’m here for work.”
She lets out another laugh. “Work? What are you, ten?”
“Twelve. But the faster I start working, the quicker I can retire, right?” I say. I’m using this line for the fiftieth time, but it never feels old. It always garners the lifted eyebrow of whoever I deliver it to.
And Eleanor here lifts her eyebrows. “Astute indeed. This is where you sell me whatever it is you’re selling, correct?” she asks, thoroughly entertained by this interaction.
I peel off my backpack, flip it around, unzip it, and pull out a Snickers bar.
She laughs, holding one hand over her mouth, nearly coughing. “You’re quite adorable, and I’m running quite late. I have no need for candy, but tell you what, how about I buy one anyway,” she says as she reaches into her purse.
“I’m sorry, Eleanor, but I don’t accept cash,” I say.
Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “Excuse me?”
“A kid carrying cash in this city alone—I mean, you might as well paint a target on my head,” I say. “Outside these hotel walls is a whole different world, Eleanor. It’s like the wild West.”
She doesn’t know whether to laugh or not. She doesn’t know what to do. Surely, she’d never hand over her credit card to a kid. No one ever does. And I know what she’ll say next. The same thing everyone says next.
“I had no idea … Well, how am I supposed to buy your candy bar?” she asks.
“Easy. A way to keep young ultra-manures like myself safe, the hotel has agreed to allow each candy bar purchase to be billed to your room.”
Her eyebrows rise again. “They do that here?”
“Yes. I’ve sold seven already. It’s only one dollar and fifty cents. But if you changed your mind, I understand,” I say, and give her the best sad puppy dog face I can muster. I even stop wagging my nonexistent tail for her.
“Entrepreneur. Not ultra-manure,” she says, returning her smile and hoping it brings mine back.
And it does. I got her. Hook, line, and sinker.
“Very well. Room three twenty-seven. And put me down for two candy bars,” she says.
“Two! Thank you so much. The least I can do is open the door for you,” I say, and escort Eleanor to the front entrance, where I see my mom waiting by the curb.
I open the doors, and Eleanor exits. I hand her the two candy bars and look over to see if my mom sees our transaction. She does. She flicks her cigarette away, straightens her posture, and puts on her game face.
My job is done. I lured the fish to the shore; now it’s up to my mom to drive the spear down and finish this game.
I wait near the doors so I can hear my mom work her magic. I’m pretty good. But my mom is a master. And every time I get to hear her work, I learn something new. She’s so natural at getting what she needs out of humans. I bet she could sell air to the wind or water to the ocean. I once saw her convince a cop to let my brother off the hook after he was caught stealing a radio from that same officer’s squad car. She’s that good. And yeah, my brother is that careless. And yeah, Mom had to agree to go on a date with the cop. But she didn’t. We left that city the same night. Mom would never date a cop. Not even an attractive one. They’re way too scary.
As Eleanor passes, my mom gives her a warm smile and says, “It’s just so great to know there are still people like you walking this planet,” my mom says. “It may be just a candy bar to you, but you really helped out that boy.”
“It was nothing, really,” Eleanor says, and continues walking, but my mom cuts her off—gently.
“I supervise these kids. We go from hotel to hotel, trying to raise money for their after-school sports teams, or instruments, or art supplies. But sometimes there’s just not enough candy bars in this world to make a dent, am I right?”
“Well, I was happy to help. Good luck with everything,” she says, and again attempts to walk on.
“As a thank-you, we always love to give appreciation cards. You can toss it, stick it on your fridge, stuff it in a drawer, but please, accept this from us to you.” My mom pulls out one of the thank-you cards we got in bulk at the Dollar General. Fifty cards for five dollars. What a deal. We’ve gone through about a dozen of them already, and the amount of joy they’ve brought us so far has been … priceless.
“Of course,” Eleanor says.
Mom pulls out her pen. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Eleanor,” she says.
“How curious. You’re the second Eleanor this morning. The last one was Eleanor Miller. Are you a Miller as well?”
“I’m Eleanor Valeski,” she says. “And I’m sorry, but I really am running late.”
“Of course,” my mom says as she jots down Thanks, Eleanor Valeski. Signed, The Kids of America, and hands her the thank-you card.
Eleanor accepts it, tucks it into her purse, and walks off. My mom grins and approaches me. I feel like the little spider that just led the fly toward the web. And on the web, the bigger spider was waiting. “Name confirmation?” she asks.
“Eleanor.”
“Name confirmed. Room number?”
“Three twenty-seven.”
“Three twenty-seven. Good job. Why’d you give her two?” my mom asks.
“She bought two. She was super nice.”
“Yes, she was. Now let’s hope nice old Eleanor enjoys long dinners. Go wait for me by the elevator,” she says as she opens the front door for us.
“I want to watch. Can I?”
She considers.
“The only way for me to get better is to learn from the best,” I say.
Normally, Mom does this part alone, since technically this part is illegal, but we’ve never been caught this far into the game before, so the learning experience for me must outweigh the risk, because my mom wraps her arm around my shoulder and says, “Fine. But don’t talk. Just listen.”
This is so exciting. I can almost feel the hot shower already. We approach the front desk. A man with a very well-groomed face takes one look at my mom and perks up. She’s got him. He’s not drooling, but he’s definitely trying not to drool too. I can tell by the way he’s swallowing as he stares at her. It’s like she puts a spell on everyone she meets. He hasn’t even noticed me yet.
“How can I help you?” he asks.
“I’m such a goof. I went outside to get something from my car and left my room key on the counter. Is there a way you can give me a new one and I’ll bring the extra one back down?” she asks.
“I can do that for you, no problem. What’s your name?”
“Eleanor Valeski. But you can call me Ellen. And you are?” she says with the smile that staggers most men.
He takes a deep, nervous breath, trying to remain cool. “Mark. I’m Mark. My name is Mark. What’s your room number?” he asks while typing her name into his computer.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mark. I’m in room three twenty-seven,” she says.
He types it in.
“All looks good. Mrs. Valeski. I mean, Ellen.”
“Miss Valeski,” she corrects him, and gives him a wink.
He just stares at her like a goat staring at piece of furniture it wants to jump on.
“My key?” she reminds him.
“Right. Here you go.” He swipes a card into the key code device and hands it to her.
As she takes it, she brushes her fingers against his. I roll my eyes. We already won, Mom. No need to play with your food. I tug at the bottom of her coat. “Thank you, Mark,” she says, and walks off.
I look back and notice he is watching her walk away. Still not noticing me at all.
I follow her to the elevator. “He’s staring at you,” I say.
“Of course he is, Opin. They hate to see me go, but they love watching me walk away.”
We enter the elevator and hit three. This is where the real game begins. The walls are covered in mirrors. I see how dirty I am. I haven’t washed my hair in weeks. I’ve been in these same pants for five days now. My shirt is a bit stiff, and my teeth are wearing sweaters; Mom makes me brush them every night, and gargle water, but we’ve been out of toothpaste for two days, and she told me this morning my breath is kickin’ like a three-legged chicken. I hope Eleanor didn’t smell my bad breath. I hope astute doesn’t mean “dog-breath.”
The elevator doors open, and we enter the hall. It’s carpeted, with orange triangle patterns on the floor and hotel rooms on both sides of us. I follow Mom as she heads down to room 327. She doesn’t walk nervously like I do, hoping to not get caught when we are this close to the shower … No, she struts along like she owns this place. Like she’s home. Like all is right with the world.
We reach the room. My mom slides the key into the card reader like a rich person slides their feet into fluffy slippers when the fireplace isn’t heating their feet to their liking. It flashes. Green light. We’re in.
She opens the door and allows me to be the first to enter. A mama bear and her cub entering their cave. But this cave is fancy. And spacious. And it shows me a glimpse of what life is like for other people. People not like us. People who are on the cavalry’s side.
“Holy sh—”
“Opin! Thank Eleanor,” she interrupts.
“Miigwech, Eleanor.”
There is a large kitchenette. I bet this lady stocked the fridge full of food. There’s a couch. A flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. A glass coffee table. A window overlooking the city. And another room! This is heaven. Eleanor must be an angel to stay in a place like this.
“How much do rooms like this cost, you think?” I ask.
“Around two hundred bucks a night, at least.”
“Two hundred bucks! For one night? That’s crazy.”
“It’s a crazy world.”
My mom places the DO NOT DISTURB placard outside the door. That way, housekeeping won’t bother us. As soon as the door closes, she lets out a long-winded sigh. Like she was holding it in this whole time … Just in case.
I enter the bedroom, and the bed is the biggest bed I’ve ever seen. I touch the comforter. My fingers squeal from the softness against my skin. I can’t believe people get to sleep in these things. It’s like a cloud. Why would anyone ever get out of bed? I never would.
“Can we just live here? I’m sure Eleanor wouldn’t mind, Mama. This room is so big, I bet she wouldn’t even notice us,” I say.
“Yes, Opin. We can live here … for about forty-five minutes. So, remember, don’t touch anything. The cavalry mustn’t catch wind we’ve been here. We must be sneaky. Hop in the shower. I’m going to make some calls,” she says, and sits on the bed. I can’t hear it, but I just know her butt is shouting in joy, the same way my fingers were.
“Who you gonna call?” I ask as she pulls out a pile of loose papers from her purse.
“Let’s see … Babysitter wanted. Piano teacher wanted. Barback needed. Security guard wanted. Looking for models for a photo shoot. In need of a math tutor,” she reads as she flips through the many torn-out sheets she pulled off the bulletin board at the last coffee shop we were in. “Looks like we got some good options before we head out.”
“You can’t play the piano, Mama. Which means you definitely cannot teach someone how to play,” I say while removing my shoes and socks.
“How hard could it be? I got fingers. It has keys. All I gotta do is teach them to dance with each other, and you know I can dance,” she says.
“True. Maybe I can be a security guard. I’m strong.”
“So are your armpits. Hit the shower,” she says as she picks up the phone and begins her job search.
Inside the bathroom, I remove my clothes and just stare at the shower. Five people could fit in here. The shelves are lined with shampoos, conditioners, and body washes. I don’t even need the half-used bar of soap I keep in a ziplocked bag stuffed in my backpack.
I run the water, making it as hot as it can get. I’m taking full advantage of my time in here. Most of my showers are at dirty truck stops that have no towels and no water pressure, so it just kind of dribbles out and gets you more cold than clean. Or standing outside the car while my mom red-buckets me with warm water. But by the way the steam has already engulfed the bathroom and covered the mirrors and glass, I can tell this is going to be the best shower I have ever taken. Maybe the best shower anyone has ever taken, besides Eleanor, who gets to shower in here every day.
I step inside, and the water nearly burns the skin off my bones. It sizzles. I wince but don’t back away. I like it. I need it. I open the bodywash and spread it over every corner of me. I scrub and scrub. Dead skin peels off of me. I watch the dirt rinse away, streaking down my legs like brown falling stars. The dirt swirls and spirals around my feet and down the drain. Goodbye, dirt. I’ll see you again soon. I lift my face to the stream and fill my mouth with hot water, only swallowing a little.
I open the shampoo and pour it over my head. My hair is so thick and matted that it takes a lot of it just to make it feel like hair again. I claw over my scalp wildly, creating a large white bubble nest on my head before I dip it under the showerhead and watch it all run down my body. I close my eyes, so it doesn’t sting, and I smile. This feels so good. Half of me wants to be mad at Eleanor for having it so easy, whenever she wants, but the other half of me wants to like her even more, because without her in my life, even briefly, I wouldn’t have this shower. Eleanor may just be my second most favorite person on earth, besides Mom. Emjay can be third, even though most of the time I don’t like him at all.
I don’t turn the shower off because I know Mom needs one too, so I step out, wrap the crisp white towel that was folded neatly by the toilet around my waist, and open the door.
Mom is right there, waiting for me, in a white robe. She already undressed and even had time to set out our next outfits.
“How was it?” she asks.
“I’m not saying a word. Because words can’t describe it,” I say.
She laughs and heads in. As I dry off, it just feels wrong that I am going to have to put another set of dirty clothes back on, but we haven’t had the money for the laundromat this week. I grab my underwear and run it under the kitchen sink. I see my mom has already put her panties in the toaster oven, on preheat. I place mine near hers and hope they dry before we have to leave this place. There’s nothing worse than putting on wet underwear.
As my mom showers, I lie down on the bed. It’s fluffy. Puffy. I can’t get enough-y. I could close my eyes and be asleep in seconds. And I’m so tempted to, but I keep my eyes open. This isn’t real life, where I can just fall asleep and wake up hours later like everything is normal. Nope. This is a game. A game we need to win. I can’t relax too much. I can’t let my guard down. I can’t be caught slipping. Or sleeping. Maybe Eleanor can, but we can’t.
Mom takes quick showers. She’s better at this game than I am. And about five minutes after she headed in, she heads out. Towel wrapped around her body, tucked under her arms. Another towel wrapped around her head, and that look wrapped around her face. I know that look. It’s time to go. The game is almost over.
She pulls our underwear out of the toaster oven and tosses me mine. It’s nice and warm and mostly dry. I get dressed. Mom scans the room and makes sure there is no evidence of our arrival. Thieves would ransack the drawers and dig through Eleanor’s suitcase, taking money, jewelry, and any other valuables that I am sure are in there, but we’re not thieves. We were just dirty, and now we are clean. Simple as that.
After we are both fully dressed, we each use the bathroom one last time and drink as much water as we can from the nice glasses and filtered faucet water. Then we wash them, dry them, and return them to the cabinet. In order to win games, one must always stay hydrated. That’s very important, Mom says. Water is the strongest force on earth, and we are made up of 60 percent water. So if we want that strength to live in us, we have to keep drinking.
We exit the room and take our wet towels and place them by another hotel room door. Housekeeping will just pick them up, and all evidence of our visit will be gone. We head back toward the elevators. There was no housekeeping cart on this floor, so when we get in, we don’t press L for lobby. We hit 2 and head to the second floor instead.
The door opens, and we enter the hall. Here there is a housekeeping cart. And it’s sitting there, all alone, like an elk, waiting to be taken down.
“I’ll be lookout,” my mom says, and hands me the brown buffalo bag. “Good luck on your hunt, brave warrior.”
I pull out my imaginary bow and arrow and slowly approach the unsuspecting cart. I pull back, aim, and fire. Ftttt. I fire again. Ftttt. I shoot three arrows into the cart. Ftttt.
One in the heart. One in the lung. And one in the liver. Just as Mom taught me. Kill them quick, kiddo. Set their spirits free.
I tiptoe up to the fallen beast cart. I make sure it’s not moving. Nope. It’s dead. The housekeeping cart is not breathing at all. The door to the room beside me is slightly ajar. I hear the vacuum eating the dirt on the carpet. Good. The housekeeper is occupied. I have at least thirty seconds to collect my winnings and offer my thanks to this fallen animal.
To the untrained eye, it may appear that we’re two Indians raiding this hallway, but we’re not stealing at all. Mom once worked at a hotel as a cleaning lady. She says most of this stuff is never used and boxes of all these items get thrown out every month. We are putting it to use. Just like my ancestors did with the buffalo. They used every single part of it. None of it went to waste … And none of this stuff will either.
I open the buffalo bag and grab all the mini shampoos off the cart. I grab five rolls of toilet paper. It’s one-ply, and Mom hates one-ply, but we can’t be picky right now. I take a stack of folded rags, two white towels, and as many packets of hand lotion and hand sanitizer as I can fit into the bag before it’s completely full. I look back at my mom and give her the thumbs-up. “Thank you, buffalo cart. You will provide for my family for many moons,” I say to it.
Another successful hunt.