Karolina Waclawiak - How to Get into the Twin Palms

Small children were playing soccer on the side of the track. They bounced against each other, kicked up dirt and chased after the ball. I didn’t see parents anywhere. I just saw shopping carts overflowing with people’s things, covered in blue tarp and next to men and women, a few at most, lying in the grass, watching too. I hadn’t seen them before, when I ran, the track was clean and bright during the day. I ran in circles watching the children, my street, everything I was supposed to look out for and averted my eyes from the things I did not want to see. Drunk girls walking up the street. They didn’t look ethnic, they did not look like they belonged in the Twin Palms. The sweat was creasing my makeup, I could feel it, and my mascara stung my eyes. It was an unfortunate mistake. I ran harder, contemplated rubbing my eyes, deepening the sting and making them burn red and bright. The lights of the track made the ash look neon white falling down. I breathed in the smoke while I ran, liking the sting and the burn, how I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt throw up coming up my throat but I swallowed and kept it down. I let it fill up in my mouth first, cover my tongue, taste the hot sour of Lev and then I swallowed it back down. I did not want to get rid of him, to leave him on the side of the track in the yellowing grass and dirt and pebbles.

AFTER LEV LEFT I FOUND THREE GRAY HAIRSalong the part in my hair. They stuck straight up, more rigid than the rest. I took tweezers and plucked them out. The bulb of the hair follicle still attached. How were they gray? Already? I had heard that men and women grayed down there and I pulled down my pants to check. I took a mirror and placed it down on the bathmat, stood over it and looked for gray hairs. There were moles I had never seen before, skin hung down lower than I had noticed before. I did not like looking at myself. It looked strange, not mine. Discolored. Is this what Lev looked at when he kneeled in between my legs? How could he want to stay?

I did not find any gray hairs.

I put the mirror away and my clothes back on. I rubbed blush on my cheeks and looked at myself in the mirror. How many in between legs had Lev seen? Was mine better than the others? How would I know?

The American men I had frequented always said it was the best they’d ever had, the most beautiful, but they still left. If I was aware of the rules ahead of time, this time, things would be different, no? I knew the variables now as I had never known them before. It would be okay, I thought.

THE SHADES WERE DRAWN IN THE GLASS CUBEof the office and I wondered who authorized the change — to be invisible to the traffic flowing down each side of the boulevard.

I walked in and there was a man standing at the desk. Prim and slim and Pakistani, I think. Middle-aged. It stopped me for a moment but I regained my composure. He smiled at me like he was supposed to.

I walked to the bank of brochures next to the entrance and fingered them, flicking the tops, pulling out ones for Havasu and Laughlin.

“May I help you?” he asked.

I breathed deep. Where is the desk clerk, Jason , I wanted to ask, Who are you , I wanted to ask.

Was room 214 occupied? Where was Greg?

“How much is a room for the night?” I asked, instead.

The man checked his motel register. He had a thin black mustache and his hair was parted at the side, letting the small tufts near his ear fluff up and out.

“It’s 129 for the night,” he said.

“That’s ridiculous,” I said.

He seemed taken aback. “That’s the weekend rate, best on the boulevard.” He had a lilt to his voice. I could tell he was trying to make a hard sell.

“What about room 214?”

He looked at the key fobs behind him.

“Available.” He looked me up and down. “Best room.”

“Can I see it?”

“Trust me.”

“I want to take a quick look,” I said.

He contemplated it and then got sidetracked with a phone call. He was giving someone else the same speech.

I went back to looking at the brochures and considered what to say next. I didn’t want to be rushed.

“I was here a few nights ago and I forgot something in one of the rooms. Where’s that other guy?”

“Other guy?”

“The one who works here, usually.”

“I’ve been working here for days. I don’t remember seeing you.”

“Maybe it was last week,” I said.

“What did you forget, ma’am?”

“It’s private,” I said. I was getting impatient. “The other guy said on the phone I could come back and he’d let me in the room.”

“Ma’am, I’m the only one here.”

“I’m not a ma’am .” I was clutching onto shiny, slick brochures, printed cheaply and folded precisely. I was bending the edging to them. Stuffing them in my purse.

“What?” He eyed me strangely.

“I’m a miss , not a ma’am. Jason. He told me to come back.”

“I don’t know anyone named Jason.”

“Don’t you clean the pool?” I said.

“No one’s been swimming since the fires.”

I knew that wasn’t true.

“I left it in room 214.”

I made the saddest face I could and he pulled at the fob, annoyed.

I put more brochures in my purse and walked out, behind him.

We walked past the pool, up the stairs and I waited, tapping my fingers on the stucco as he tried to jangle the door open.

He finally opened it. I walked past him and saw the room was empty. Same flower comforter with the plastic sheen. A faint acrid smell, maybe smoke. Nothing else. I pulled the drawer open. The pen, everything was gone. He had the list.

I told the man it was gone and rushed out. He called out and asked if I still wanted the room. I said I didn’t have any money and he swore at me in another language. I didn’t mind because I didn’t know what he said.

I walked up the boulevard, past the Ralph’s. The only place to go was home. Back to wait for Lev.

LEV DIDN’T COME BACK UNTIL I WAS ALREADYsleeping, glass of whiskey and lemon juice and soda next to my bed, near my nose, close enough for me to smell it and turn my stomach while I tried to sleep. Bits of lemon floated up to the surface, hazy brown like swamp water with lemon seeds clustered at the bottom. The knocks were booming and insistent, like I remembered them to be.

I got up and walked to the door, slowly, making him wait, waiting to hear more insistent knocking, to know how badly he wanted to get inside.

They didn’t come.

I hesitated opening the door, worrying he had left to try a door somewhere else. When I finally did I saw him sitting in his car, about to turn it on. He saw me and stopped. He got out, pulled the keys out while standing. He walked over to me, pulled his pants up over his stomach and looked left and right, making sure no one was watching, watching him try again and take me up on coming inside.

“Where were you?” he asked.

“Sleeping.”

“It’s early,” he said.

I didn’t know what time it was but I didn’t think it was early at all.

“Where were you?”

“Nowhere, really.”

He said some things in Russian, looked at me, like he didn’t want me to be his wife, or his keeper, someone who asked him questions. So I stopped and let him through the door. He walked to the bedroom, pulling off his tie, to my sheets and my mattress hiding my stain and I didn’t think he’d ever be in the position to find out about what he was sleeping on. I followed after him, locking the door, and lay down next to him. In between the smell of the glass and the smell of his breath, both heavy with booze and both making my stomach turn. He didn’t lean over to kiss me and I hoped that he would turn over, mouth away from me, before he fell asleep. He didn’t. He pulled me close to him. Face pressed into his chest, I could barely catch my breath while closing my eyes. I regulated my breathing so that I could lie still, lie quietly, and not suffocate. When Lev had asked me to sleep here I thought it would be different. I thought we would do things besides sleep. His grip was hurting my back and I wanted to move but I knew I couldn’t. I closed my eyes and begged myself to fall asleep.