The Waiting Rats

The dining room is full of patrons this morning. I avoid eye contact as I walk through rows of tables, wearing the fake smile that’s become as integral to my uniform as the starched white shirt and black tie. Nausea chews through my stomach like a swarm of rats, but I ignore it, walking with purpose through the cramped spaces between tables. If I get this right, no one will notice the sweat on my face or that my hands shake as I take away dirty plates and soiled flatware. Maybe if I move quickly enough, they’ll just see someone working hard.

A dull ache is pulsing through the back of my head, and I know it’s only going to get worse. The bin of dishes feels heavy, and I nearly drop it before reaching the dish pit. A few moments later, I return to the dining room, carrying a pot of steaming coffee ahead of me.

“More coffee, sir?” I ask. “And you, madame?”

A dull ringing in my ears makes my voice sound tinny and far away. A silver-haired woman waves me over. Her skin is dull and orange from artificial tanning. Not knowing why, I instantly hate her and suppress a shudder as I fill her lipstick-greased mug, concentrating so I don’t spill the coffee down her arm.

The dozen oxycodone pills I scored from the sketchy guy who works at the record store on Rideau St. are long gone. I crushed and smoked the last one in my basement apartment exactly thirty-six hours and twenty-four minutes ago. Then I watched reruns of SpongeBob while drifting in and out of consciousness. They call it being “on the nod,” but that doesn’t even begin to describe it. It’s bliss. A state of grace. A heavenly vacation from an otherwise miserable existence.

Running out is the problem. That’s when the vacation ends. You find all your quotidian woes right where you left them. And then and the clock starts. Every minute and hour bring you deeper into a hell of withdrawal. The only escape or relief come from finding more pills to smoke. And so, the cycle continues. It’s not a “habit” so much as a circadian rhythm. The desperate need to find and smoke is reborn each day. It’s been like this for as long as I can remember.

“Hey! Lewis.”

I look over and see Denise walking toward me. Her red hair frames her face in a way I’ve always found attractive, but I feel sick and can’t work up the courage to flirt with her.

“What?” I ask, a bit more sharply than I intended.

She hears the irritation in my voice and her smile fades for a moment while she looks me up and down. I like Denise, but I’m in no mood today. After a moment, her smile returns. 

“Can you watch the desk? I really need to pee,” she says.

“I can’t. Bruno wouldn’t like it, and he’s on my case as it is.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be an ass. It’ll just be for a minute. All you have to do is stand here and answer the phone if anyone calls.”

“Fine, whatever. Just hurry,” I say.

We walk over to the lobby and I come around the side of the reception desk and drop into the computer chair.

“Thanks!” Denise says, rushing off to the bathroom.

I’m so absorbed by my mental and physical anguish that I don’t hear two customers who walk up to the counter on my left. Two figures suddenly appear in my peripheral vision, and I nearly jump out of my chair. A woman of at least 75 or maybe even 80 is standing there, wearing a bathrobe, and holding a pool noodle.

“I need more towels,” she says.

She doesn’t even bother to precede her demand with any sort of polite expression like “hello” or “excuse me, young man”.

“I said, I need more towels. Did you hear me?”

I stare back at her and say nothing. She turns to a man sitting in a wheelchair behind her, who I assume to be her husband.

“Is he slow or something?”

He shrugs and avoids eye contact with me. She turns to Denise, who has just retaken her place behind the desk, and repeats the question.

“Hey, is he slow or something?”

Instead of looking impatient and entitled, she now looks slightly worried, as though she is genuinely concerned that I may indeed be “slow”.

Denise looks at me, and probably seeing the growing redness of my face, intervenes.

“I can help you here, ma’am,” Denise says.

The woman ambles over to the side of the counter where Denise sits. I sit there tapping keys, but not really accomplishing anything. Too busy thinking about what my next move should be. A few minutes later, Denise comes over.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she hisses.

“I’m fine,” I say, not looking over at her.

“You don’t look fine. You look grey. Like an eel. And if you keep ignoring customers, you are going to piss Bruno off.”

I walk around to the front of the desk just as Bruno walks past the desk, zipping up his jacket. Probably going out to smoke one of those disgusting wine-tipped cigars he likes.

“Hey Bruno, I’m going to take my break now,” I say.

He says nothing but gives me a look that suggests he’d prefer that I stayed on that break permanently. As Denise retakes her seat, I slip the master keycard into my pocket and head for the stairwell. But instead of going down the stairs toward the exit and the shed by the dumpsters where the employees smoke, I head up to the second floor. The hallway is deserted, but I can hear muffled voices from within one of the nearby rooms.

I reach room 203 and knock. Hearing no reply, I scan the keycard and enter the room, taking care to shut the door quickly and quietly behind me. The room is chaotic. There are clothes piled on the bed. Open suitcases are scattered on the floor. I go for the suitcases first but find nothing.

My heartbeat is thundering in my ears. I’m frantic to get out of here as soon as I can. But not without what I came here for. Stealing from guests is the cardinal, unpardonable sin for hotel staff. That doesn’t mean we don’t do it, of course, it just means we know the stakes. If you’re caught by staff but guests don’t know, expect to be fired. If guests make accusations, or worse, find you in their room scrounging through their belongings, expect the police to be called.

There are six prescription bottles on the night table, next to the lamp. I grab them and run. Within moments, I’m back through the door, across the hall, and into the stairwell. The master keycard is still in my pocket. I run up to the third floor, where the nicest and priciest suites are. I randomly choose one that I know isn’t booked. The sound of my knuckles rapping on the door breaks the silence in the deserted hallway.

The plan is simple. Crush a pill, snort it, and head back downstairs to return the keycard and get back to work without drawing any attention to myself. Hearing no answer from within the room, no shuffling of movement, I swipe the keycard and enter. Unlike the last one, this room is immaculate. There is a large sitting room, a separate master bedroom, and an enormous bathroom with a jacuzzi.

My heart is pounding through my chest as I read each of the pill bottles, one at a time. Nothing but antihistamines, blood thinners, antibiotics, and some others I don’t recognize. But no opioids. The adrenaline, rage, and despair I feel pack a powerful punch. I race to the bathroom and make it there just in time to fill the bowl with the contents of my stomach. I heave until my abdominal muscles ache, and I am drenched in sweat. After a few minutes of lying in on my side, I crawl over to the sink and splash cold water on my face.

*

The lobby is busy when I emerge from the stairwell. Denise is busy and doesn’t even see me come behind the desk, let alone return the keycard. I head through the hallway behind the reception desk that leads to the storage room that doubles as the employee break room. It’s cramped and suffocating. My hands shake as I punch in the numbers, my finger leaving a red smear on the keypad. It’s only then I realize I’ve bitten the nail on my index finger raw and bloody.

A youthful voice answers on the third ring.

“Harbour Light Sanctuary. How may I direct your call?”

I swallow hard, clear my throat, but can’t seem to make the sounds intelligible.

“Um, hello?”

I slam the receiver down. The tabletop is cold from the air conditioning, and I lower my forehead onto it, breathing deeply and trying out that mindfulness thing my ex was always going on about.

I don’t hear Bruno, my manager, coming until he drops his brown calf-leather messenger bag on the table beside me. I jump out of my chair, heartbeat hammering through my ears.

“Back to work. I’m not paying you to make phone calls. There are guests waiting for coffee. Tables three and six need to be cleaned. When you’re done that, you can help Sal with dishes.”

“Sorry,” I say.

“Put your sorries in a sack.”

“What does that even mean?”

He turns to face me.

“It means do your job or I’ll find someone else who will. What? You think I don’t know a goddamn junkie when I see one? I don’t need your kind of trouble, kid, so get your act together or start typing up your resume.”

Not waiting for any response, Bruno brushes past me, heading toward his office at the end of the hall.

“Asshole,” I say once he’s out of earshot.

I cross back into the kitchen toward the coffeemaker. Through the half-open kitchen door, I see the bustling dining room full of excited vacationers and bored pensioners. I take the fresh pot of coffee off the warmer and push through the door. Steam coils off the oily surface into my face, and I breathe it in, wishing it to be the acrid blue smoke that would kill the rats gnawing through my stomach and banish the hurt for a few more hours. But it isn’t. And it doesn’t.

“More coffee, sir?” I ask, smiling. “And you, madame?”

THE END