A Place to Cry

         The hotel lobby is a bustle. Bellboys and whatnot are hopping around here and there and everywhere. The couches are well upholstered. A debonair fellow in a suit, an older fellow, mind you, but quite, quite, yes, yes, a debonair fellow indeed, well, he strolls up to the front desk, nearly smiling, but not squinting properly for it to be a true smile. He adjusts his wireframe glasses. He rings the bell on the desk. Ding.

         How can I help you, today, sir? the buggy-eyed hotel clerk asks with a smile.

         I, he says, need a room to rent.

         Okay, she says, clicking her clickers, aaand let me just pull up what we’ve… got… right now.

         Thank you, I just, I need a place to cry, the gentleman explains.

         The buggy-eyed clerk fake smiles. Her name tag says Shelly. What’s that? Shelly asks. I’m sorry, I just, I missed what you said.

         Oh no, yes, no, I said, I need a place to cry.

         To cry?

         Yes, have you any rooms available?

         Shelly sniffs. She scratches the exterior of her nostril, unable to find anything to say. She only looks at the gentleman.

         And, I beg your pardon, I don’t mean to rush you, but I do need a place to cry as soon as possible.

         Well, what’s the matter? Shelly asks the gentleman.

         He laughs a little too loud. My dear, nothing, nothing, not a thing, my dear, not a thing. He laughs again quietly.

         Did you say you need a place to cry? Shelly asks.

         Well, yes, of course I did, that’s what I said, yes. Just a a place to cry, is what I need, yes, so… Ms.… The gentleman squints at her chest and sputters various consonants.

         Shelly.

         Yes, Ms. Shelly, I’m I’m so pleased to meet you.

         The gentleman reaches into his coat pocket, but does not find what he’s looking for, so he reaches into his other coat pocket – at the other end of the jacket –, but he doesn’t find what he’s looking for there either, so he scrunches his face back a bit, to look into his breast pocket, which he opens with his two best fingers, but he doesn’t seem to find it there either, so he reaches for the inset pocket of his jacket, but loses a button as it becomes strained by his reaching hand, and by this time, mind you, the gentleman is getting frustrated, visibly frustrated, nearly throwing a fit, but then the whole display ends with the gentleman tearing the inset pocket out of the lining of his jacket in what appears to be half-accidental and half-conniption.

         Sir, are you alright? Shelly has her concerned face on now.

         My fucking card! he jams his fists into the pockets of his slacks, nearly tearing the seams, he jerks and jammers. Ah, yes, he concludes, pulling out a business card, which he wiggles between his graceful fingers, here ‘tis.

         Shelly takes the card from the gentleman.

         Dr. Benastain Grober, DDS, ready, willing, and able.

         Well… hello Mr. Grober. Shelly tries to focus on her computer screen, but keeps a leery eye on the gentleman.

         Doctor.

         Oh, right, sorry. Dr. Grober.

         Oh! Dr. Grober was my father, Dr. Benastain Grober’s eyes wander off as if he might sneeze, but then he doesn’t sneeze: he slurps and finishes, you can call me Astain.

         Astain?

         Yes, it’s what all my best ladies call me. His face scrunches up momentarily and he looks at the chandelier hanging from the archway ceiling. He slurps again.

         Okay, uh, so… Dr. Grober,

         Astain…

         Sorry… Astain, you’ll be needing a… a single bed?

         Oh Lord, he breathes heavily, one eye twitching, both hands resting on the countertop as he leans forward. Yes, I, I suppose so. S-single yes, yes.

         Well, we have a single bed available.

         Yes! He pounds the desk, which makes the little bell ring a little bit. Ding. Oh, sorry. Sorry, Ms. Shelly.

         You’re okay, Dr. Grober, you’re okay. Your room will be 208.

         208! Tip-top.

         So, then, how many nights would like, sir?

         Nights? What time is it?

         Shelly looks at her screen. It’s four-thirty.

         Nights?

         Yes, sir, I…

         Please, call me Astain!

         Okay, sorry, Astain, it’s only late afternoon, but I just need to know how long you plan to stay with us.

         Well, it shouldn’t take an hour.

         Shelly makes a face. We’re not that kind of place, she says.  

         Of course not, of course not, my dear. I wouldn’t dare to make such a claim. Why this place is elegant, well decorated, lovely really! It’s just the perfect place for me to cry.

         Well, what’s the matter, Astain?

         Oh, it’s nothing, Ms. Shelly, as he speaks, Benastain Grober picks up the button at his feet and attempts to tie it back onto his jacket with his fingers, but fails to do so, just some post-tragic-um-depression-getting-fired-a-divorce kind of thing. He rushes through these words and chokes-up as he finishes.

         Shelly tilts her head slightly to one side and clicks her tongue, Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. That must be very difficult for you.

         Difficult? he says firmly, his voice augmenting deeper. What’s that supposed to mean: difficult?

         Now Shelly looks like she’s about to sneeze. Um, so, if you will sir, I’ll just need a credit card for the room. Shelly goes on clicking her clickers and pulls out a key card, withholding it for the moment.

         Yes, payment, of course, of course. Dr. Benastain Grober jams his fists into his pockets, hunched over and grimacing. From his pocket, he pulls out a credit card and hands it to Shelly. There she is, he says.

         She runs the card and gives her spiel about the room, the hotel, et cetera, and hands Dr. Grober the key card. Please, let me know if you need anything, Dr. Grober.

         The name is Astain, please.

         Okay, Astain… if you’re needing anything, okay?

         Anything, yes?

         Shelly clears her throat, Well, you know, ice or towels or anything like that.  

         Ah, yes. Of course, thank you. Thank you, Ms. Shelly.

         Thank you, Astain.

         With a slight bow, he strolls to the elevator and presses the up button. Smiling and nodding as he waits. Ding. Swoosh. He’s gone.

         At five-o-five, the phone rings at the receptionist’s desk. Shelly answers, Grand Plaza front desk, how can I help you?

         Hello, it’s a woman’s voice, I’m calling from room 209. There’s something going on in the next room. Someone’s yelling and throwing things.

         Shelly bites her lip and pulls up the second-floor floorplan on the screen. Is it the room on the other side of the wall? At the head of the bed?

         Yes, yes, that’s the one. You need to send someone up here right away. I think someone’s being hurt over there. It sounds like a pretty serious… Oh, Jesus. Something just smashed against the wall. Shall I call the police?

         No, no, we’ll send someone up immediately. Please just, sit tight and we’ll deal with the situation.

         Make it quick, the woman concludes and hangs up the phone.

         Shelly steps to the office behind her. I need to go up to 208, she says, just got a noise complaint.

         Okay, I got it, says the woman in the office.

         Shelly takes the elevator up one floor and steps out into the long hallway: striped carpets, matchy-matchy, useless little tables, ignorable art on gold trimmed walls. As Shelly approaches, she hears a rumbling, guttural screech, muted through walls. The inhuman tones fill the second floor: groaning and bellowing from room 208, followed by the sound of something large falling. Shelly stops in the middle of the hallway.

         A man pokes his head out of room 203, What’s going on over there? he asks.

         Shelly turns and smiles, Don’t worry sir, we’ll take care of it.

         Sounds like Goddam shark attack over there!

         Shelly walks past 203, just as a head pokes out of 204, asking similar questions. 206 pulls the door open, keeping the chain locked, What’s going on? a woman asks. 207 and 209 are both leaving, rushing down the hallway with their suitcases in their arms. They, a family of three and a woman in a business suit, don’t say anything, but simply exit via the stairway at the end of the hall.

         Room 208 is alive with grunts and clattering; the heavy door vibrates.

         Sir? Shelly knocks at the door. Dr. Grober? The door falls open. The lights are off. Dr. Grober? Astain? Are you in here? Something moves over the bed; Shelly breathes in. There’s something swinging above the bed. Dr. Grober? The swinging thing groans, a rattling groan, like something jammed in a shredder. The thing swings and bulges at the bottom. Then it mumbles nonsense, loudly, filling the room with low tones, sad tones. Whatever is inside sobs, growls, and flails.

         Shelly stops and watches, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Hello? Dr. Grober? Then, she sees the thing clearly: it’s the sheet from the naked bed, hanging from the ceiling like a cocoon, swinging and bulging at the bottom, hands and feet pushing from the inside, as if trying to escape.

         Me, the creature inside drools, or this. Then, the ceiling attachments fail and a naked man falls, wild-eyed and screaming upon the bed. It’s my turn! Dr. Grober screeches, scratching at his pink chest with his fingernails.

         Shelly runs from the room. The police walk up the hallway, asking the hotel guests about the situation as they move, hands on their pistols. There are no longer any sounds coming from room 208.

         What’s going on in there? the younger officer asks Shelly.

         I don’t really know, she says, unable to process what she’s seen.

         Is anyone hurt?

         Shelly looks back, buggy-eyed, pauses to think and replies, I don’t think so.

         The officers knock at room 208. Dr. Grober opens the door, eyes red, wearing a bathrobe and a smile that fades at the sight of the police. Yes? Oh, dear me. Is there something the matter officer?    

         There’s been reports of screaming or something, coming from inside your room, sir. Is there anyone else in the room with you?

         No, just me. Would you care to come in? Dr. Grober steps out of the way, letting the door open all the way. The officers still have their hands on their holsters as they enter the room. What manner of noise was reported?

         Screaming, the older officer reiterates, reading from her smartphone, like animals dying, glass breaking, groaning. They thought there was a fight.

         Oh, dear indeed! From my room, you say?

         Yes, your room. This room. The officers inspect the nondescript hotel suite, bed unmade, a suit hanging in the closet, a suitcase on the countertop beside a laptop computer. Nothing broken, nothing out of the ordinary. You sure there’s nobody else in here with you?

         No sir.

         The officers look in the bathroom, nothing out of place, a shaving kit, opened, a toothbrush by the mirror, an unflushed toilet. The officers consult one-another in whispers. The younger officer talks into the radio on her shoulder, Room 208?

         The radio voice buzzes, Copy, 208.

         Nothing here, just a white male, uh, about fifty years of age.

         I’m not that old, Dr. Grober chuckles.

         Copy that, white male, age fifty.

         Are you on drugs sir? the older officer asks.

         I’ve had some Pepto-Bismol, to settle my stomach.

         Pepto-Bismol, the older officer types with her thumbs on her smartphone.  

         To settle my stomach, Dr. Grober repeats.

         And what is your name sir?

         Dr. Benastain Grober.

         Well, Dr. Grober, we had a noise complaint from at least three different people. What’s been going on in here?

         Nothing, officer. Was I being quite noisy?

         Three reports, sir.

         Well, Dr. Grober rubs his raw finger-tips together, thinking, Well, I I just came here to um, well because I just needed a place to cry.

         Excuse me? the younger officer asks.

         I needed a place to cry, and sometimes I cry very loudly, sometimes.

         Why do you need to cry? the officer asks.

         Because otherwise, well, otherwise, well, I don’t know. My emotions.  

         Your emotions? the younger officer snickers.

         Yes, that’s correct officer.

         The older officer looks sardonically at the younger officer, putting away her smart phone. You’ll really need to keep it down in here. She turns to Shelly and asks, Do we need to remove him from the hotel?

         Everyone looks to Shelly, whose bug-eyes blink. The people in the hall have gathered in the doorway and Shelly feels like disappearing. No, no. She says, As long as he keeps it down.

         Keep it down, you hear?

         Well, yes of course, officer. I’ll do everything in my power, Dr. Grober says.

         Alright, let’s go Baker, the older officer points to the door and they leave. Shelly follows them out.

         What did you see in there? the younger officer asks Shelly in the elevator.

         He… Shelly trails off.

         You okay? the younger officer asks.

         Yeah, Shelly responds. Guess he just needed a place to cry. Everyone in the elevator laughs at this, though Shelly is not joking.