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There are two guests tonight. One of them only makes it a few steps into the lobby before vomiting onto the floor. We have floorboards tonight. Dark wood. They creak. I look over at my Manager and she nods. I nod back at her. Once. I cross the lobby to my supply closet. It’s dimly lit. The whole lobby, not just my closet. The walls are green.
The guests are sitting down when I come back. There are fancy-looking chairs with swirly wooden legs and a little table between them. The guests don’t have any luggage. The one who was sick is leaning forward. Elbows on his knees. Head in his hands. The other guest is doing something on his phone.
“Hey, what’s the Wi-Fi password?” asks the man with the phone. The words sound rounded when he says them. They all lean against each other. He’s taller than I am. Taller maybe than the Owner. I haven’t seen the Owner tonight. The man’s voice booms, but I don’t think he’s angry. I think he’s just loud.
My Manager smiles. I hope she is comfortable tonight. She doesn’t have a blazer on and I know she likes those. She's wearing a polo shirt, like I am. Her hair is in a low ponytail. She isn’t wearing makeup.
“The guest Wi-Fi password should be on the card,” says the Manager. I focus on the sound of her voice to distract me from the smell. I mop up the guest’s vomit and try not to breathe in through my nose.
“What card?”
“There’s a laminated card on the table.”
“Oh.”
For a little while the lobby is silent except for the squishing sound of the mop and the splashing of the bucket. Then the man with the phone speaks up.
“Yeah, nah, ’s not working.”
“We’ve been having some trouble with it lately,” the Manager explains.
The man with the phone leans back. “Fuckin’ sick of hotels,” he says.
“Don’t swear at her,” says the other guest quietly. His head is still in his hands. The man with the phone frowns and folds his arms.
“Nah, guess I’ll just puke on her floor, eh? Bet she’ll love that.”
They’re talking about the Manager as if she isn’t here. I don’t look over at her. She knows that she is here. She doesn’t need me to reassure her or apologise for the guests’ behaviour. She just wants me to do my job and get them to their rooms. Before they can cause any more trouble.
The quiet guest rubs a hand over his face and gets to his feet. He stands up and nearly trips over the little table as he walks towards me. He grabs at the mop in my hands. “You don’t have to do that,” he says.
“Hey,” says the guest with the phone. His voice is friendly, but there's a warning underneath. The first guest spins around to face him.
“I’m trying to fuckin’ help,” he snaps. Then he turns back to me and puts another hand on the mop.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says again. “You don’ have to… I’ll clean it up.” I look over my shoulder at the Manager. I don’t think this has happened before. She steps out from behind her desk and starts to say, “sir-“
“I’m just tryin’ to help!” He snaps. But then he mumbles, “'m sorry. I didn't mean to yell. I just...”
“It’s quite alright, sir,” says the Manager, even though I can see the tendons standing out on her neck. “It’s no trouble at all. Can I get you a room?”
The guest’s hands on the mop loosen and his head lolls forward. Like he’s about to pass out. But he doesn’t. He nods a couple of times and then he pats me on the shoulder. I don’t like it. He pats me on the shoulder a few more times, nodding.
“Right this way,” says the Manager. The guest with the phone stands up and puts an arm around his friend.
“Come on,” he says. “Come on. Let’s go with the nice lady.”
“Stop being a dickhead.”
“I’m not being a dickhead. Walkie-walkie now, one step at a time.”
The guest who patted me lets himself be guided to the front desk. I swipe the mop over the floor one more time and then return it and the bucket to the supply closet. My Manager is telling the guests what rooms are available and how much they cost. They are signing their names in the guest book and searching through their wallets.
I walk over to stand by the front desk. I wait to be useful. The guest with the phone presses a plastic card to the little machine on the desk until it beeps.
“I’m sorry about him,” he says, as he returns the card to his wallet.
“What’s your fucking problem?” asks the other one.
“What happened to not swearing in front of the pretty lady?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
I dig my fingernails into my palms. Sometimes, guests. Do things to each other. Sometimes they don’t make it up to their rooms. I’ve seen it before. What they do to each other isn’t usually as bad as what the rooms would do. But when it is a surprise it feels worse somehow.
The guests are shouting at each other now. Their voices overlap so I only hear half of what they say. I move a little closer to the check-in desk, so its wooden side digs into my hip. Closer to the Manager. I don’t have a luggage cart to hold on to. I look over at my Manager, but she’s not looking at me. She’s staring straight ahead. She isn’t smiling.
“I’m sick of you fuckin’ acting like I’m some big embarrassment-“
“Yeah well maybe I’m sick of you acting like a mongrel-“
“-and you brought all that shit up in front of Stella when you know that I-“
“-like crashing my fucking car! I’m not gonna make excuses for your bad behaviour, mate, and I’m sorry-“
Their hands are on each other. I wish the Owner was here. I don’t have that thought very often. If he was here he might pull the men apart and stop them fighting. Or maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he would just stand here and watch like the Manager and I. One guest hits the other with a closed fist. It’s the quiet one. The one who was quiet before the fight started. The guest with the phone falls to the floor.
The quiet guest is still standing. He stares down at the body, breathing heavily.
“Hey. Hey, mate.”
He kneels and shakes the other guest’s shoulder. “Hey. Come on. Come on, man, stop fucking with me.”
He looks up at us. His eyes are wide. “I didn’t mean to.”
My Manager says nothing. Her face is very still. I think she’s feeling a little better. I can see a tiny smile in her eye.
“I didn’t mean to,” says the guest again. He meets my eye. I look away. “You - you believe me, right? Fuck. Fuck. You gotta call- you can’t tell ‘em it was me. Do you guys have a phone?”
There isn’t one on the desk. The Manager nods anyway.
“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll call for an ambulance.”
“It was an accident,” says the guest.
“I know, sir,” says the Manager. “Please. Go and wait upstairs. I’ll explain what happened.”
“I didn’t mean-“
“I’ll tell them that.”
Then she nods at me. I go to the guest’s side. I even reach out a hand. “This way, sir,” I say.
The guest takes my hand. He pulls himself unsteadily to his feet. I lead him to the staircase. There is no elevator tonight. It's an old building, I guess. Tonight's room is on the second floor. The guest lurches to one side and puts an arm around my shoulders to steady himself. I shudder. I can’t help it. I don’t like him touching me. His skin is too warm.
He doesn’t let go of me the whole way up the stairs. He sways and staggers and clutches at my uniform. And he talks. Loud and fast and frightened and then slow and quiet and miserable. I don’t listen. I can’t hear anything with his hands on me. I can’t pull away when I’m the only thing keeping him from falling over. It is not good customer service to let guests fall down the stairs. Not when they have rooms to die in.
I walk the guest down the second-floor hall towards his room. He is heavy against my side. His skin is damp with sweat. Just like mine. As we pass the door to room 17 he makes a low-down sound in his throat and then he chokes bile onto the floor. It’s on my shoes. It’s on the toes poking out from his sandals.
“Just a little further, sir,” I say through clenched teeth. Then I think of my Manager and turn my clenched teeth into a wide smile. I know she is often upset with the guests. She is sometimes upset with the staff. It is not professional to let the guests know you are upset. I don’t always smile right, but the guest won’t notice. He’s looking at the floor. My smile is for my Manager, and for the Hotel.
When we reach room 20 I open the door. Inside there is a blade waiting to fall. It was going to be very simple. Very fast. It was going to be a lot kinder than other rooms have been. The guest sways in the doorway, still holding my arm. I wrench it away from him and he topples face-first over the threshold. He doesn’t groan or try to get up. He just lays there. His feet are still in the corridor.
I clench my teeth harder. I wonder if this is how the Manager feels all the time. The toes sticking out of his vomit-soaked sandals have little blonde hairs on them. I grab both of his ankles and dig in my fingernails. His skin is hot and sweaty. I cross the threshold into room 20, dragging the guest’s legs in with me.
There is a slit in the ceiling above the double bed. Inside it is a long, sharp blade. It was supposed to drop down onto the guests and split them in two when they collapsed into bed. One of the guests is down in the lobby. The other is here on the floor. I wonder if my Manager would want me to lift this guest onto the bed, but I know I’m not supposed to manhandle the guests if I don’t have to. I wouldn’t want to anyway. There has been too much touching today.
I take care not to slam the door after I leave. I close it with a crisp click. Put my head to one side and concentrate. I do not think normal hotel doors are supposed to lock from the outside. I feel the door frame give. Now this one does. This one locks from the outside very securely indeed. At some point, the guest will probably find his way to the bed. If he doesn’t he can stay there on the floor until he starves.
I feel the ghost of the guest’s skin against mine as I walk down the stairs. I smell his sweat and bile and things I don’t know the names of. My skin crawls where his touched it. When I dig my nails into the flesh of my arm it feels soft and healthy. As healthy as mine ever is. We are not finished yet. There are more guests to come. More… More loud, stinking guests to grab me and misbehave.
I linger on the staircase. I know I shouldn’t. I press my forehead against the wall and listen for the skittering of tiny feet. Suddenly there’s a frenzied scratching, and it makes me jump, but then I smile. Come soon, I think to the vermin. Come soon. Be with me. The thought of maggots chewing through my body soothes me. There is no sick memory inside a tiny stomach. The rats’ mouths don’t make me nauseous like warm skin does. The chittering inside the walls gets louder and I know that it means soon.