Speech Impediment (I of III)

The Office light glows with an emphasis on the Off. One of the bulbs is burnt out. Still, in the early morning haze, it’s hard to miss. A bad omen? 

I wrestle with the door, which is entirely too high strung to be welcoming. My satchel slides off my shoulder and compresses with a clank on the concrete sidewalk. I hoist it up again and dance awkwardly using my foot and elbow to get though the threshold. The ground is farther away than I remember. In tow, I drag my overnight bag. The handle isn’t tall enough, so I have to walk a little contorted. An expressionless young woman has been watching this unfold. She perks up behind the counter once I’m through. She darts around, deftly preparing for our exchange. She looks to be sixteen. ‘Julie’ is stitched in cursive white below a screen-printed logo of a river or stream. She’s wearing a dark green polo and her hair in a pony tail. Blonde frizz dapples her temple’s hairline. 

She is bubbly from the first. “Good morning, sir. Do you have a reservation with us?” 

“Miller. Ed Miller.” 

 “Can I see some ID, Mr. Miller?” 

I extract my wallet from my inside my jacket and hold it open for her. The enthusiasm drains from her face as she concentrates, verifying my name letter by letter. She types. 

“Um okay, Mr. Miller. It says here you’re with the conference, is that correct?” 

“Yes. I’m the entertainment.” I look at her with expectation. 

“Okay great.” She doesn’t miss a beat. “Let’s see. Says here your room’s already paid for.” The frantic chatter of an inkjet starts and we do not continue until it stops. “So if I could just get your autograph here…” She writes an X and circles in one motion with a Bic pen. “I’ll give you your key and you’ll be on your way. This here just covers incidental charges like long distance calls or any damage to your room and things.” Her high pitched voice and slight shrug effectively trivializes the prospect. 

I scrawl illegibly where I’ve been instructed. 

“Thank you.” The paper quickly disappears behind the counter. “Now, we’ve got you all grouped together on the first floor here on the north wing. You’re in 152. It’s just down this hall on your left before the sign for the ice machine over there. See? On the left.” She points. “Here’s your key. Just drop it off here tomorrow morning and you’re good to go.” 

“Perfect.” I feel slothful in her presence. 

“We’re serving a warm continental breakfast in room 185 until 9:30 am. Room 185 is on the east wing, so it’ll be through the first set of double doors over there on the right.” She points to clarify. “Would you like a map?” 

“No. I’ll manage. 185 breakfast. 152 room.” 

“You’ve got it. Great. Okay then Mr. Miller, is there anything else I can do for you?” 

I recite the numbers in my head. “No, that’s fine.” 

“Okay great. Thank you choosing Midland Inn. We hope you enjoy your stay.” 

She has done well. “Thanks, Julie.” 

I give her a half-hearted smirk and she returns a full on smile as I break eye contact. My satchel starts to slide off as I bend to grip the handle on my bag. I grab it and, in the process, knock over a clear plastic display of maps and visitor information. Glossy pamphlets scatter like dropped mercury. Damn it. 

“Oh I’ll get that, sir. Don’t worry.” She has not stopped smiling.

“No, no. It’s my fault.” I groan as I squat. An extra set of hands joins mine on the carpet-tiled floor. She’s wearing a Claddagh ring on her left ring finger, which puts me in a momentary stupor. God how old I am. 

I collect the brochures for CANDLES Holocaust Museum in Terre Haute and put them on the counter. The photo on the front is of a gray sky split by a line of barbed wire. Never Forget is in stark red block letters. I am unsettled but only for a moment. With key in hand, I murmur my thanks and trudge off. 

The keychain is a maroon plastic diamond with ‘152’ stamped in white courier font in the middle. There’s nothing written on the back. It was created before the days of security preoccupation—anonymous keycards or ciphered numerals. 

The room numbers ascend in an alternating pattern of twos and threes for no discernable reason. The floor underfoot sounds hollow. I am alone in the hall. I note the double doors on my right as I pass them. There’s some action halfway down. An elderly man with chocolate brown Velcro shoes is carefully balancing two plates with two cups precariously wobbling on each. His shirt has a thick teal band at the abdomen’s crest. I l avert my eyes, anticipating a mess. 

Arriving at the door, I slide the key into the lock. The bolt clicks over and the door opens without a turn of the knob. The air is stuffy and smells faintly of detergent or maybe cardboard. I run my finger over the textured wallpaper in search of a switch. Nothing. Red light from the digital clock spills onto the nightstand. 7:22. I’ve been up for nearly three and a half hours. It could be a week. 

There’s enough light diffusing through the drapes to safely make my way to a lamp on the dresser. With a twist of the knob, I reveal my temporary lodging. Golds and hunter greens are everywhere in this tiny rectangle. No desk. 

I lock the door behind me, wheel my bag next to the dresser, and put my satchel next to the bed. By the feel of it, the bed is made of the same coarse springs used in heavy truck suspension. I run my hand over the bedspread, which is two sheets of polyester sewn together with the ghost of something insulative in between. Skinny strands of thread like fishing line twist pubicly from the edges of the sewn pattern. 

I can see myself dimly reflected in the screen of a black plastic television that’s deeper than it is wide. I am slouched. My limbs feel heavy. It is silent except for the wheeze of my nostrils. Allergies reach unfathomable heights in the Midwest. 

 I sit for a long time with my chin nearly resting on my sternum. I ponder the weight of my head, of how tempting even these sheets are, of my desperate need for caffeine. Muffled, a nearby door creaks open and thumps shut. Knocking and passionate inquiry follows. Two women, probably friends since way back when, croak greetings. 7:33. I rise to survey the bathroom. 

Incandescent light filtered through the yellowing plastic fixture gives the space a jaundiced complexion. An exhaust fan drones. The edges of the last square of single-ply toilet paper are folded to create a point in the middle. Does this make the roll more inviting? The hospital-grade curtain rattles cheaply on the rod. Inside the shower, a clump of hairs huddle over the mesh drain. A cylindrical bottle reads Conditioning Shampoo. I unwrap what passes as a bar of soap to wash my face. The label declares it to be moisturizing, but the product proves otherwise. I furrow my brow, scrunch my nose, and exhale sullenly. Three drops drip off my nose into the cream-colored basin. I watch them collect and slide to the drain. I nearly dose off in my inclined position. A white facial towel is startlingly coarse and abrasive. 

My eyes have retreated still farther into my skull. The capillaries on the perimeter outshine the ring of cloudy blue in the center. My under-eye pockets are ominously dark, like a gathering storm. When did this happen? The bridges of my nose bear permanent footprints from my glasses. I massage them between thumb and forefinger. The cartilage beneath has little elliptical divots. My knuckles are cracked and swollen on top of my hands gripping the sink. No amount of lotion will replenish me. I am wrapped in paper, a cochina doll.

With a flick, the room goes dark and quiet. 

My stomach is the sort of unsettled that will be pacified by neither eating nor abstaining therefrom. Debbie says I am nursing an ulcer. No matter. Whatever the culprit, it is not happy and will not be dissuaded. I know I should eat on principle alone. Continental breakfast awaits. I need to mingle. I need to get my juices flowing. Less than four hours to show time.