17. Baldwin Rearranges the Furniture.

Oct 17, 2020

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Room 352

Baldwin Harvey was so hopping mad that his hands were shaking. He twisted his room key in the lock to open the door. But as he did, the key jammed, and the metal bent sideways in his grip.

“Dang!” Baldwin shouted in the hallway. Conscious of not disturbing the other guests, he caught himself and repeated bashfully, “Dang.”

He jimmied the key out of the lock, held it up to the light and closed an eye. The key was bent into a soft J that wouldn’t fit back in easily.

“Dang,” he said again.

He set the key flush against the wall and began to press with his sweaty palm.

“Dang, dang, dang,” he muttered.

The key carved a slight tear into the wallpaper that turned into a small rip and then began to form into a divot as he thought about Susie.

His latest fight with his wife of over a decade had been brewing for the past week, before it found its footing and dug in its heels earlier that afternoon. She’d been on his ass for not keeping his promise to get rid of the old crap he’d tucked away in the garage, and in the moment, he thought about all the stuff she’d kept around the house.

Dozens of shoes by the door. Shampoos and conditioners and creams and whatever else that was taking up the valuable real estate near the sink. Clothes that took up way more than half the closet. Not to mention all those kitchen appliances.

So, he returned her complaints by lobbing over a few of his own.

The tone kept rising until he got her to gash the wall with a frying pan. He responded with a slam of his fist against the TV dinner tray, knocking the steak that she’d cooked onto the carpet. After he silently wiped up the splatters of brown sauce, he packed his “time-out bag” and left. He concluded this fight with another extremely satisfying slam of the front door on his way out.

On the sunset train into the city, he guessed that he’d probably stayed at the Palmer every six months or so. Same reason, every time.

Susie and him ran hot, they always had, and whenever it hit that point of physicality, he needed a release valve that meant being away from her. He didn’t drink, didn’t run around the pool halls, had no real interest in seeing a late-night flick. Just needed a night on his own now and then. To regroup and reset before returning to that world he’d helped make.

When he departed the elevated train into the swampy air of the city summer night, sweat immediately formed on his brow. He huffed the block to the Palmer’s front entrance. As he approached, he saw that it was surrounded by a group of ten or so people milling around in a circle. They held up placards reading “Fair Wages Now!” and “On Strike For My Family,” and were glumly chanting something that Baldwin couldn’t make out until he got closer.

“Jacqueline Palmer! Pay Us Now!” they said. “Jacqueline Palmer! Pay Us Now!”

He stood on the sidelines for a few waves of his hand to cool the sweat that was dripping into his eyes. He recognized at least one person in the circle. That guy who was always in the bellhop’s uniform. This was the first time he saw him in something approaching civilian clothes—jeans and a t-shirt. Hart or Heck or Harold maybe? Nice guy.

Beyond the strikers, through the hotel’s revolving glass front door, Baldwin saw a flash of movement. He peered on his tip-toes and recognized it as a hand, waving in his direction. He subtly waved back, and the hand stuck a thumb out, signaling for him to go around.

Baldwin went back the way he came, and as he turned the corner of the building, he saw a metal door spring open on its side. It was being held by a man with a pockmarked face, slicked-back hair, and a thin mustache. He looked familiar to Baldwin, too, but couldn’t remember his name.

“Please, sir,” the man said with a luring smile. “Step inside and let’s get you a room.”

Baldwin, for a moment, considered if he had anywhere else to stay in the city. But then the cool interior air conditioning hit him in the stifling heat. He told himself that one single customer couldn’t hurt the cause of the strikers, whatever it was, that negotiation power didn’t rely on his sole consumer discretion. So, he stepped into the hotel’s side door and checked in.

Thirty minutes later, he was in the third-floor hallway, still trying to straighten out that crooked key.

“Dang,” he whispered.

In the quiet, he heard the chants coming from the strikers outside.

He put them out of his head and got to work on the key. His hand was growing tired. He closed his eyes and took a deep steadying breath as he worked the metal against the wall, noticing that his frustration with Susie had settled into a simmer. He opened his eyes and saw the key was mostly straightened out, so he tried it again. It fit.

Baldwin unlocked the door, walked in, and let it slam shut behind.

In his previous Palmer stays, Baldwin would’ve entered, walked over to the bed, straddled it, and begun wailing and clawing and biting the pillows until he’d gotten the rage out of his system. But the key mishap had taken that furious wind out of his sails. This time, he just wanted some rest.

He slipped off his shoes and sat on the bed, then laid down—but only for a moment, as the wind billowed open the curtains and blew hot air into his eyes. He pulled the curtains shut and scanned the room. He knew he’d be going through his ritual soon enough, so why not start now?

“Dang,” he relented.

He slumped to the desk, unplugged the phone, and stuffed it into a drawer. He set the nightstand lamp on the ground—still plugged, casting white light into the room—then carried the bulky nightstand into the bathroom, Gideon Bible thumping around inside. He lifted the desk chair and similarly set it on the bathroom tile. He peed, flushed it down, and shut the door on his way out.

Baldwin went to the foot of the bed, lifted the frame, and swung it flush against the wall. Not ideal, but there really wasn’t another way to hide the bed, so it had to do. He removed the pillows and set them up in the corner where the wall met carpet. He pounded them into a chair of sorts and eased his hefty body down into a seated position.

He unzipped his “time-out bag.” Inside was his old alarm clock that he set for his wake-up call. Next he pulled out an orange t-shirt and draped it over the lampshade; he found this mimicked his old college dorm lighting well. He withdrew his tattered varsity letter that he’d pulled from one of his boxes in the garage and set it by his side. He stroked its felt for a moment, then reached back into his bag for a small envelope.

Inside was an old, delicate photo that he unwrapped from its protective plastic. The color had washed out with time, but there he was, decades younger, dozens of pounds lighter, with a short beard and full head of curly hair. He was leaning against his old yellow Camaro, an easy smile squinting into the sun. He sure loved that old car, but the significance of this particular totem was that Jenny was the one who’d taken the photo.

Baldwin had met Jenny in freshman year science class. They’d only been seeing each other for a little while—seven total date nights, Baldwin remembered each one—before the accident. A car going the other way had hit some black ice and spun out, crashing head-on into the Camaro. It was totaled. Baldwin lucked out, Jenny didn’t. Wheelchair for life.

Her parents took her out of school and back home out west, since the college wasn’t set up for her needs anymore. Baldwin stayed behind because what other choice did he have, really. They’d only known each other a few weeks. He called her for a bit, but then he stopped, and they lost touch, going their separate ways. It ended with a slow dissipation more than any concrete finality. “Growing apart” is how folks put this kind of thing, whenever they have to put it.

Baldwin stared at the photo for an hour or so until he became drowsy. He laid back against the pillows and gazed into the ceiling, lit by that orange hazy light, like in those times before the accident. He closed his eyes and drifted off into a type of sleep.

Around midnight, just like every night that he’d stayed at the Palmer, something stirred Baldwin awake from his near slumber. Some noise outside the window in the courtyard—like a whoosh and a thud, then a faint scream. Loud enough that he opened his eyes, but not loud enough to spook him. No one else ever seemed to hear it.

But then, when he opened his eyes, there would be Jenny, lying next to him on the floor, in his bed of pillows.

She’d be facing him but asleep. Older, with a few more laugh wrinkles around her eyes. Her blonde hair smashed into a stringy mass between her face and pillow, her mouth slightly cracked, eyes quivering with dreams. Then her face would slow and stop, and she’d lick her lips before her eyes would slowly open into consciousness.

She smiled at him, and he smiled back, and they’d get up to start their day.

It was a blur, what with dogs to feed and grandkids to call on the phone. Dinner and calm conversations about the neighborhood goings-on, moaning about some repairs they needed to make to their home. Then it was again time for them to rock in their respective chairs on their porch as they dipped their tea bags into steaming mugs to watch the sun set beyond the mountain range. It cast everything in a magenta hue before fading to deeper blue, then starry black.

The alarm clock went off at its usual time, and Baldwin’s eyes shot open. Jenny’s image lingered for a moment on the pillows and gently disappeared.

He stretched and stood. He packed up his bag, reset the furniture, and plugged the phone back in.

This particular morning at the Palmer, he sat at the desk for a long while sipping his coffee, staring at the phone. He still had Jenny’s number, tucked away in the bag. Maybe today, Baldwin thought—maybe he’d finally do it.

“Dang,” he muttered to himself as he slowly stood up to leave and return to Susie.

Maybe he’d do it the next time.

Artwork by Tiffany Silver Braun.