Russ Franklin - Cosmic Hotel

When Elizabeth turned to go with Mr. Blaney to the hotel’s “house”—the parts no guest ever sees — I said, “I’ll catch up with you. I’m going to get our things moved to our room.”

I went and waited for a guest to vacate the concierge, a pretty dark-skinned woman. Concierges are the loners of the lobby, and by trade, snobs. “I am Sandeep Sanghavi, I believe there are packages waiting for us.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Boxes shipped to the hotel. They arrived this morning. Last name: Sanghavi.”

“There’s been no deliveries, sir,” she said. “Have you checked with the front desk?”

Before I panicked, I took a fifty from my clip and handed it to her. She gave the tip a glance before putting it away.

“I will be staying here for an extended amount of time, Darlene. Please let me know when packages arrive for me.” I handed her a business card and went to the front desk, feeling time clicking down. The betta fish was in that shipment.

I asked the agent if they had received packages for “Sanghavi.” I had shipped them for a guaranteed 9:00 AM delivery and told her there was a live fish at stake, and she looked at me like I was unstable, and I remembered I was holding Barbie, right there in my hand propped on the agent’s desk. The agent excused herself to check with the shift manager, and I remembered the dream I’d had on the plane, Elizabeth sliding down the aisle and out the door, and now this doll flight attendant had fallen out of the sky. The agent came back and said, “Sorry, no.”

Then I panicked.

I put Barbie in my blazer’s pocket and went into a cavernous men’s room and splashed water on my face. There was a man using a urinal staring at the ceiling as if it were the stars. I dug out the bottle of Rozaline from the side pocket of my bag and tapped out four tablet halves. I often wondered where I would be if we couldn’t afford good insurance. I bent and put my head beneath the automatic faucet to drink. The water ran in the corner of my mouth as the faucet’s tiny red sensor light stared into my lowered eye as if it were my conscience staring back at me.

I went back out and to the sofa, dug the shipping receipt out of my shoulder bag, and searched the Gypsy Sky Cargo website — that damned Gypsy eye greeting me — and I entered my account number and found that the packages had been logged in two days ago in Dallas. On the page ABOUT LOST OR DAMAGED PACKAGES, I hit REQUEST LIVE CHAT FROM PERSONAL SERVICE REPRESENTATIVE, and I waited.

Had the drivers in Dallas tampered with the paperwork? I don’t think it was possible without getting on our account. Should I walk next door to the Gypsy Sky Cargo compound and see if I could find someone to help me?

I had very little to take care of in life. I had never had the responsibilities of cleaning my room or cooking or homework. I had attended formal schools only until ninth grade, which was when Elizabeth discovered that half the freshmen had been “held back” during their kindergarten year, a decision of their parents to make them more competitive, and Elizabeth was furious that ninth grade was populated by should-be tenth graders.

My phone vibrated. The message was from a BLOCKED number and contained some generic text introduction.

I quickly typed my request.

Missing packages. tracking # IN76102009

There was a ding and I saw the message from who I thought was Gypsy Sky Cargo:

Hello:)

You never knew when you were getting a human being or a computer programmed to respond. I hate this, I thought, this pathetic excuse for not talking to a human being who I could explain things to. Then the next message came in:

How is Atlanta?

Need Raye. Can you help me find Raye?

Raye? It took me a second to figure out what the name meant. No one called him “Raye.” I typed in:

Who is this?

I am that I am!!!!! LOL!

I am that I am?

Can you contact Raye again?

No. Suggest u call the university

I see you are Elvis fan!!!!

Elvis? Looking up from my phone, there was a man in the lobby rereading the back of his paperback as if he weren’t sure what book he had started. There was a woman on the couch wearing running shoes, bouncing one foot as she read from a blue file. Everyone appeared to be normal, then again, what was I looking for? There was a ding and the text said:

Elvis makes you happy right?

I took a breath, typed.

what do you want?

I’m not allowed to have fun with you?:(

To earn a favor, I will help you;) Agree?

This is how it’s done, no?

The world was going on around me like normal — the elevator dinging, people squeezing through the doors before they were even fully opened. I glanced behind me at the faceless clock on the wall. I looked at the texts. Who used so many emoticons? A kid or an old person?

I don’t know who you are or what you are talking about

I need an introduction to Raye:)

I see that you have lost items?

I can help. Do you believe me?:-|

I don’t know who you are.

I should have a name

I heard the sound of a phone ringing in one of the phone booths behind me. The old-fashioned sound of a ringing bell was so strange that I saw people looking at the source and smiling, but no one stopped to answer it. I turned back in my seat.

This person texting me was the same person who’d called me in Dallas and played Elvis. Now he knew I was here, and that ringing continued in the booth behind me and I tried to ignore it. It has nothing to do with me , I told myself, but I eventually took a breath, got Barbie and our bags, and went around to the booth, put my shoulder against the wooden bifold door. Hand on the receiver, I hated myself doing this. I picked it up, heard the hollowness of an open line. What is the name of this hotel? “Grand Aerodrome,” I said.

There was a click, then an angry squeal — high pitched, then low — then a saddened long dull whining, a sound I’d heard before, the sound of an old modem trying to make a connection, a horrible sound. The metal phone cord yanked my arm when I tried to look around the lobby. I sat in the booth and that rolling drumbeat started and then a guitar and then Elvis’s unmistakable singing. It wasn’t “Viva Las Vegas,” but “. . come on baby I’m tired of talking, grab your coat and let’s start walking. . .” It was “A Little Less Conversation.”

Jesus, hell . I put my finger down on the silver tongue to disconnect and make it stop. I needed to remain calm. I texted on my phone:

This is harassment.

No, it’s funny!!!!:) That song is perfect for this moment! LOL!

You have our shipment. A live fish is in that shipment!!!!

Its misplacement was random event caused by a 0.05-second power surge combined with a phrase of dead code in a routing program. I could trace it further but you would only find it more absurd

Are u here in hotel?

No. But I *see* you.

I will call you Sandeep. Give me a name

Are you watching me? Do you have our shipment?

I have located your things (which are literally up in the air at the moment) and I will help you. Yes. I am watching you but I can’t see you. LOL! >;)

I’m blocking your texts

You can try.;(

Be prepared for fantastic things. Are you?

And find Raye.:}

There was no number to block on my phone, just the prefix code. After sitting in the booth — no more ringing — and watching people go by in the lobby, I grabbed my bags and made a dash for the elevators. What scared me most wasn’t this hacker. What scared me most was I was going to have to tell Elizabeth Sanghavi that our personal items were not here.