He was just a man once more, everything about him now in correct proportion to his environs: his body, his clothes, his bag. It was vaguely disappointing.
Between Ben and the clerk was a small, circular stone table with a fruit basket sitting on top: complimentary apples and pears and oranges. He grabbed an apple on his way to greet the creepy old clerk, who looked like a wax figure: his face caked with foundation makeup, each strand of hair on his head discernible to the naked eye, occupying its own little patch of real estate on his pale scalp. He looked as if he had been crafted by a twisted dollmaker. Ben approached him with caution.
“Hello?”
The clerk said nothing, and instead reached into a drawer to pull out a plastic key card, the kind you find in any twenty-first-century hotel. He placed it against a magnetic reader until it beeped, then bundled it inside a little pamphlet and scribbled a number—906—on the inside in blue pen. He left the Wi-Fi password space blank, then slid the pamphlet over to Ben.
“Is this my room?” he asked.
The clerk answered only with a leering half smile. There was a bank of elevators behind him to the right. He pointed Ben toward the bank, but Ben wasn’t in a rush. The lines demarcating the path were gone now. He had free rein to explore the hotel as he pleased. To the left of the cube fountain was a sleek, open lounge with a full bar. No one was there. No bartenders. No patrons. There was a smattering of tables, but all of them were covered in overturned dining chairs, as if service had ended. Ben walked up to one of the place settings and unfurled a cloth napkin, watching a fork, a spoon, and a thick steak knife all tumble out. He grabbed a second bundle from another place setting and tucked it into his backpack. The clerk, who remained conspicuously silent, slowly ambled over behind the bar and rested his frail, rotting hands on the cold marble countertop.
The bar, apparently, was still open. Whatever this place was, it at least had better liquor laws than Pennsylvania.
Ben walked to the bar and hung his backpack over a stool. He didn’t bother asking for a double rye. He knew the clerk wasn’t going to ever speak. Ben pointed at the bottle and held up two fingers. The clerk nodded and filled a tumbler. Then he dug up a scoopful of ice and held it over the glass, awaiting further instruction from Ben. Ben held up one finger and the clerk let a single rock fall into the tumbler, then placed the drink on the bar. He stared at the glass until streaks of condensation ran down the side, pooling at the base and forming a suction ring.
“Money?” Ben asked.
The clerk shook his head. Ben dislodged the tumbler from the wet bar and took a sip. It was real booze. No tricks. No poison. Real, honest-to-God booze. His socks were digging into his ankles and now even his leg hairs were sore, like wearing a snug baseball cap for too long. His body and mind moaned with every blissful sip. It tasted like home in the wintertime.
He gestured for a refill. The clerk obliged.
At the far end of the bar was another set of tinted double doors. After a couple more sips, Ben stood up and walked toward them, then looked back at the clerk for approval. The clerk gave a nod and Ben stepped onto the floor mat that made the doors slide open automatically.
Outside, he came upon a flagstone patio. In the center of the patio was a small, black-tiled pool with deck chairs arranged in a rectangle around it. Rolls of complimentary towels were stacked on built-in shelves over to the side. To the right of the pool was a raised fire pit, made of stone, with a circular slab running along its perimeter for bench seating. The pit was surrounded by wrought-iron outdoor furniture with firm cushions and little side tables where patrons might rest all manner of fruity, fifteen-dollar cocktails.
The entire patio was enclosed by a black aluminum rail fence that was five times higher than Ben was tall. In the distance, he saw that the patio overlooked a vineyard at the base of a series of rolling, sun-bathed hills. It looked like paradise: the fat grapes hanging in bunches from vines that were held up by wooden stakes. (Stakes, eh?), the wizened olive trees that dotted the hillside, the way the fading sunlight seemed to embrace all of it and give it a visible aura. He walked to the fence and grabbed one of the cold rails with his free hand, the second rye cocktail in his other hand nearly finished. He wanted a third. He wanted a hundred.
The clerk was outside now as well, perched by the double doors, which remained open to the hotel lobby. Ben took a final sip of his whiskey and then grasped the fence with both hands, bracing his foot on the rail, ready to climb. He looked to the clerk for approval.
The clerk shook his head.
So Ben picked up the tumbler and gave it a shake. The clerk nodded and went to get another refill. The sunlight faded to purple and Ben looked down into the stone fire pit, which was filled with tiny blue rocks and had two small gas pipes jutting out. When the clerk returned with a full drink, Ben pointed to the fire pit. The clerk nodded once more and walked over to a white switch on the side of the patio. The flames kicked up and toasted Ben’s skin the way the liquor toasted his insides. He slumped into one of the chairs ringing the pit and gazed into the fire. He didn’t want to think about Annie Derrickson, but he couldn’t help it. It was okay now. A few drinks always made it okay to put guilt aside for a moment.
Then he thought about Teresa and the children. No SWAT team or Special Forces agents had found him. They wouldn’t find him, of course. They could sweep every square inch of the Earth and not find him. Maybe they had a funeral already. He hadn’t had time to write a will or make any sort of proper burial request. He was at that age where he used work as an excuse to put off other pressing matters, like personal finances and filling out life insurance forms. He preferred making the small amount of money he made to figuring out how to take care of that money.
But Teresa would know what to do. She would be practical. After the proper amount of time had passed, she would accept that he was gone, and then hold a small memorial service in their home, with platters of sandwiches and bowls of dip (she made excellent dips) set out for the bereaved. She would keep her shit together until everyone had cleared out of the house, and then she would cry and wail privately, just to herself. After a year, maybe she would begin dating again. Maybe she would get married. The kids would have a new dad. And slowly, they would all forget about Ben, wouldn’t they? Life would move forward, without him. He didn’t want to be gone, but now he was. Just like his worthless old man. A whole new ecosystem would soon grow and thrive over his grave site.
He squeezed his glass angrily and left it on the edge of the fire pit, unfinished. He fell asleep right in the deck chair, his clothes still on. In the dead of night, the clerk gave him a gentle tap on the shoulder and he slowly opened his eyes. He didn’t like the clerk touching him. His touch felt like it could infect others.
The clerk pointed up. It was time for him to go to his room.