Storytelling

Heeb‘s critically acclaimed Storytelling series presents Jewish stories from an ever-changing crew of performers across the country. We now give you Heeb Storytelling in its online incarnation. Check back here each Thursday for a new story. This week’s feature is the second installment of “Behind Closed Doors” by Alix Strauss. You can catch up on part one “here”:http://heebmagazine.com/blog/view/220.

Finally free from my mother and her bridge friends I swing by the front desk.

The turnover in the hotel is tremendous. According to our computers, every three minutes and 49 seconds someone is either checking in or out. There are three small boxes responsible for giving room assignments and security codes to the key cards. Upon checking out, the information is erased and a new number and code is given.

I close my eyes, run my fingers over the duplicate guest’s keys. Like a deck of cards waiting to be fanned out by a magician, I remove one and stick it in the box. 1709 lights up in green. In the four years I’ve worked here, I’ve never gotten this room, until today. I’ve been in 70 percent of the quarters, and am as familiar with each line as I am with my own apartment. I know which has the best layout, the grandest view, the largest bathroom, the nicest closets. That the corner rooms are 25 square feet larger then the regular ones. That the water pressure in suite 2510 will never be as powerful as the others, no matter how many times we try to fix it. That Star Jones will only stay in the Presidential Suite and that the housekeeping once found a wad of cum on the wall in room 615.

I take the elevator up with an attractive Japanese couple who are decked out in Gucci. I bow my head as I exit, then utter goodbye in Japanese. They smile politely, return the bow as the closing doors disconnect us.

The floor is quiet, deserted. Not surprising since 11:40 a.m. isn’t a heavily trafficked time. Three or four hours earlier and the hallway was active with men in crisp white shirts and expensive ties, newspapers tucked under their arms, cell phones already attached to their ears. The women dress in smart pant suits or good-girl skirts and pull boxy, black suitcases on wheels. Then there are the young, pretty girls who wear jeans and v-neck sweaters. Sunglasses hide their faces, baseball hats cover their heads, underwear is tucked in a pocket of their coats or hidden safely away in their Prada handbags. Those that want to sleep-in never can because the slamming of doors pulled harshly by the fire-friendly hinges is endless. But now no one is stirring, not even a mouse.

I knock on the door and wait for an answer. When another knock produces no response I slide my passkey easily, professionally, into the opening. I announce myself, hand on the door, body half in, half still in the hall. “Housekeeping,” I say.

Nothing.

I glide in and stand in the entranceway. I take a deep breath, momentarily forgetting the trouble I had a few hours ago, close my eyes, tilt my head slightly to the right and catch the light aroma of… lily. A woman is staying here. The fragrance is mature, yet fresh.

I scan the area. Some people leave their room in a disgraceful mess. Liquor bottles and half-eaten $8 candy bars or potato chip bags sit open, haphazardly placed wherever the guest felt like leaving them. Some abandon empty soda cans overnight so that the sticky rims have left marks on the leather blotters or glass tables. Leftovers from dinner reside on the floor by the door, uncovered and picked over. Towels are discarded on the bathroom tile or tossed carelessly on the beds, the wetness seeping through the sheets. Not this woman. Though housekeeping hasn’t been here yet, you can tell by the way she’s left the room that she’s respectfully tidy. Even her shopping bags from Bergdorf, Dior and Ferragamo are stacked neatly on the chair by the couch.

In the closet closest to the door is a stylish duffel bag, which is free of flight check-in tickets or stickers. It’s too large to fit under the seat of an airplane, but small enough to carry without struggling, and would fit comfortably on a train or in the back of a car.

I check the mini refrigerator and bar to see what’s been consumed. Everything is untouched. I don’t need to look at the price card, and like a game show contestant on an up-scale version of Lifestyles of the Rich and Unhappy, can announce the cost of each child-sized item. I close the bar door and inspect the desk area. The leather bound directory, blot board, notepad, stationary, in-room service listing and menu all seem undisturbed.

I enter the bedroom, noticing that the pillows have been aligned and placed up against the headboard, the comforter and sheet pulled up and smoothed out.

The bathroom is clean, used towels folded neatly over the tub. On the vanity table sit three small LV bags. The first is filled with enough Chanel makeup to impress the sales people at Bloomingdale’s. I apply some blush, Warm Mocha, with the enclosed brush then spray some of her Jessica McClintock perfume on my wrist.

Another bag holds a set of Chanel travel-size bottles: toner, face cleanser, eye cream, moisturizer and anti-aging serum. I save the best part for last. The third bag is filled with personal items, toothbrush, tooth-paste, eye drops, and bottle of pills. I love the sight of a punched out V or K. A few small tablets of lavender or yellow or white pills—mood enhances, elevators and downers, pain killers and relaxants—all in similar, small, see-though rusty colored plastic bottles with white tops. Valley of the Dolls anyone? I read the recommended dose, then see if I know the name of the doctor or patient. Her medication selection is disappointing. There’s only one type of pill inside, and the bottle of Xanax belongs to Ben Theron. Her husband? Lover? I reach for a glass, fill it with water, wash down one of Mr. Theron’s pills, which I’m hoping will help my little breathing problem, wipe the glass clean, and replace it in its original spot.

When I get the room cards I never glance at the computer, let alone the guest’s profile that automatically pops up on the screen when the room key is activated. I like to do this without help. I tally up the information: Chanel products are too mature for most women in their 30s. The shopping bags are from sophisticated, high-end neighborhood stores. The clothing has a mature feel, too. On the nightstand is this month’s _Town & Country_ and _Vogue_ along with a Discman and several CDs. Anyone in their 20s or 30s would own an iPod or MP3 player. People who bring their own music selections are usually seasoned travelers who spend more time in hotels, airports and train stations than at the office. There’s no laptop or palm charger, so this might be a pleasure trip. She didn’t fly here, and she’s too chic and product oriented to live in a small rural place, so my guess is she lives in a large urban city like DC or Boston.

I open another closet, several pairs of pants hang motionless next to a navy jacket. The first dresser drawer has a sweatshirt and matching pants, control top underwear and T-shirts. The next drawer reveals three silk shirts. I touch the cream colored one, then remove it from its resting spot. It smells like her perfume. I twirl in front of the mirror, the silk shirt held up to my chest, until I feel dizzy. I fall back onto on the bed, her shirt draped over me like a shadow.

I close my eyes and listen: to the buzz of the florescent light above me, the low murmur from the TV escaping from the next room, the hum of the refrigerator, the annoying ticking of the clock on the desk, the distant zooming noise from the cars outside, the deep, hollow sound of my breathing as I wait for the Xanax to take effect. I allow myself one more moment: if I don’t will myself up, I just might fall asleep.

_Alix Strauss is a trend writer who has been published in_ The New York Times, Time Magazine, Esquire, Marie Claire, Self, Elle _and_ Time Out. _Her novel,_ The Joy Of Funerals _(St. Martin’s Press) has been optioned by Stockard Channing who is set to direct the film version. “Behind Closed Doors” is excerpted from_ Based Upon Availability, _her new collection of interwoven shorts which she is currently writing._

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