Chris Bachelder - The Throwback Special

Derek’s T-shirt read University of Virginia School of Law , and in the dark he wondered if he should put some pachysandra or other ground cover on that steep slope in his backyard.

Steven’s T-shirt had a picture of sunlight passing through a prism, and he snored consistently.

Jeff’s T-shirt read Ninja in Training , and he told Steven, snoring beside him, that as much as he hated to say it, this would probably have to be his last year.

Randy’s T-shirt read Thompson Optical , and he could begin to feel the gentle tug of the pill.

Chad’s T-shirt read California Dreamin’ , and he snored without making a sound.

Charles’s V-neck T-shirt was white, and all of his T-shirts were V-neck and white.

Adam’s T-shirt read Second Place Is the First Loser , and in the dark he calculated his chances.

Peter’s T-shirt was blue, and he stared at the clock, waiting for the number to change.

Trent’s T-shirt read Big Data , and although he courteously wore a nasal strip, he snored with calamitous volume. When he woke up, he discovered that his nose was running. Though he did not have a cold, or he hadn’t had a cold when he went to bed, mucus was now streaming down his face, his neck. In the dark he reached toward the bedside table for a tissue or towel. He grasped something soft, and brought it to his face. As he did so, he realized that the mucus was blood, and that the tissue was a jersey.

In the bathroom, with the light on and the door closed, Trent stopped the nosebleed by clogging his nostrils with bits of toilet paper. He unwadded Gil’s Mark May jersey and held it up in front of the mirror. The stain was intense, and extensive. With despair, Trent considered (reasonably, but incorrectly) that this year might now very well be remembered primarily as the year that Trent ruined Gil’s jersey, instead of the year that Randy picked Donnie Warren seventh in the lottery, or the year that Adam came late, or the year of the weird pizza guy, or the year without the conference room, or the year of Tommy’s mustache. Trent could not remember the edict about laundering bloodstains, whether it involved cold water or hot water or club soda or what. In the dark room he found his pants. His belt jingled like a sleigh on the eaves. Someone in the room was snoring like a lazy dog in a cartoon. He eased the door shut, walked toward the elevator with bare feet and a bloody jersey. Angela, one of the more than a dozen vice presidents in the top-heavy management structure of Prestige Vista Solutions, watched Trent from the peephole of Room 318, and then called the front desk.

Trent waited by the elevator, but it did not arrive. A door led to the stairwell. Trent closed his eyes and extended his index finger, touching lightly the Braille letters on the sign beside the door. Repeatedly he moved his finger left to right across the tiny raised dots. Stairs , he said to himself. Stairs . When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was reading not Braille letters but the knobby residue of pink gum on the wall. Astonished, he put his fingers back on the letters.

He walked down the stairs, keeping his eyes closed. He could feel the layers of paint on the railing. He could hear the rain, the service road villainy, the metronomic beat of Fat Michael’s stride on the treadmill in the Workout Center. Through occluded nostrils he smelled chlorine, though the hotel did not have an indoor pool. He put two feet on each step, a blind and barefoot man clutching a bloody jersey. After descending two flights, Trent opened his eyes. He looked first at the bottoms of his feet, then wished he hadn’t. He saw a door marked Lobby , and he saw the stairs continue down. His eyes now open, he walked slowly down the stairs another flight to a door marked Staff Only . Propped beside the door at the bottom of the dim stairwell was a wet bicycle with a basket attached to its handlebars. In the basket, a glistening bike helmet and a thermos. Trent laid the jersey across the bicycle seat. He unscrewed the two lids of the thermos, and put his face to the opening. It was vegetable soup! The steam from the hot soup washed his skin, and he drew the vapor through his mouth, deep into his lungs. He screwed on the lids, returned the thermos to the basket, and removed the jersey from the bicycle seat.

Beyond the door marked Staff Only was a long, dark hallway, lined with locked doors of supply rooms and offices — manager, assistant manager, head of housekeeping, head of maintenance, and someone named Mr. Cottrell, on whose door was affixed a yellowed quotation by George Bernard Shaw: “The great advantage of a hotel is that it is a refuge from home life.” On the cinder-block wall a bulletin board featured the grainy mug shots of recent employees of the month. At the end of the hallway, Trent found a door labeled Laundry , and he went inside. The laundry room was large, loud, bright, and blurry with heat. An entire wall was lined with enormous washing machines and dryers, all in use, humming and spinning and vibrating. Another wall was lined floor-to-ceiling with shelves containing sheets, pillowcases, and towels, folded and stacked. The smell in the room, not unpleasant, was as if the towels and linens had been slightly singed. In the corner, a large birdcage, draped with a dark T-shirt, was suspended by a yellow rope from the ceiling. Trent stood blinking in the white heat. He looked down at his jersey. The stain was the reddest thing he had ever seen. In the heat and the light he was suddenly aware of his own substantial weight, the burdensome layers of himself.

In a corner next to the washing machines Trent saw an enormous pile of jumbled sheets, five or six feet high, presumably dirty, though spotless and white. Trent took three steps toward the pile, and noticed that it was concave across the top like a bowl or a nest, and inside the pile of linens he saw dark clothes against the white. He stepped closer and looked in. There he saw a man and a woman, both wearing hotel uniforms. They were lying on their backs, holding hands, asleep. Trent checked for their breath, watched their chests rise and fall. Their faces were flushed in the heat. The woman was perhaps thirty. The name tag on her vest read Holly . The man was a bit older, with streaks of gray in his dark hair. He did not have a name tag on his vest. Their breathing was synchronized, their fingers interlaced. Later, Trent’s wife would ask him if the man and woman were wearing wedding rings, but it had not occurred to Trent to look for rings, and he would not remember. Holly appeared to be pregnant, though Trent could not be sure. He knew that pregnant women should not sleep on their backs — it restricts blood flow to the fetus — and yet he also knew how important sleep was during pregnancy.

Trent heard a scuffling sound behind the T-shirt draped over the birdcage. He backed away from the nest of sheets, as you back away from royalty. At the door, he turned and left the room, making sure the heavy door closed without a sound. He walked through the dark hallway and into the stairwell, which still smelled of soup. He climbed the stairs to the lobby. There, directly before him, in the center of the lobby, the celebrated fountain was burbling and splashing, its series of bowls filling and spilling merrily. The yellow tape had been removed, as had the notice from the health department. The fountain was large, though not ostentatious. It was, as the Internet reviews claimed, an attractive feature, and a visitor admiring the centerpiece of the lobby would never have guessed that he currently stood one hundred yards from a roaring interstate with floral crosses in its median. There was a woman on her knees in front of the fountain, her back to Trent. She had removed her shoes and placed them tidily on the floor beside her. When Trent approached, he saw that her long sleeves were rolled, her elbows resting on the edge of the fountain. She gripped a toothbrush, and she diligently scrubbed a light stain on a white blouse.