Reno? Really?

Gamble on This, Champ

At night the pink light from the El Dorado floods my little room here at the Stardust Motor Hotel, turning the corners into dim, warm homes for benign secrets. I still wake through the night but less often now that I know where I am. Like a dog in a crate, I can sleep again.

I squirm away from the first sun shafting into the room but can’t bring myself to pull the blinds before bed and lose my pink comforter. Ok, so it won’t kill me to get out of bed at 6am, now will it? Cranky and defiant, I roll over and squinch my eyes shut. Screw the sun. Screw getting out of bed. Screw Reno.

What the hell am I doing here anyway?

I lose the fight again this morning and stumble over to the little kitchenette to turn on the kettle on the odd, little two-burner electric gizmo by the sink. Yep, instant coffee. I click the radio on for company and shuffle off to the john to pee. Maybe I’ll go over to the library later and check my email. I’ll have to go see if the money came yet from that last job. If it hasn’t, it’s ramen noodles and cheap tuna again tonight.

Late summer here still conjures fake aches for colored leaves and brisk evening walks. Whose memory is that? Has to come from some commercial. I never took a brisk evening walk in my life. Maybe by next year, I’ll be feeling anticipation for the blistering cold wind that rips through here in February. Fat chance. The kettle shrieks. I wipe, flush and go for my lousy instant coffee. Even when some money comes in, I can’t trust it and don’t go for coffee from one of the joints around here. My one indulgence is half an hour at the casino.

Shower. Or something approaching it in this dinky stall next to the toilet. The water pressure is surprisingly steady, but there’s a smell I can’t identify and don’t like. It’s been ages since I felt clean.

At first not having a computer made me crazy. I’d go back to the library over and over for nothing. Same thing with no television. I even thought of picking up some piece of crap little thing at one of the pawnshops but wound up adjusting. At least I got the radio and that’s enough for now. I guess I’m adjusting to the instant coffee, too. Not bad. Can’t drink it black, though.

Ok, day. What am I gonna do with you?

There’s got to be something productive and satisfying that I can do with you. Just because I haven’t managed that for the past nine months doesn’t mean I can’t today. Oh, sure, I can work on my “novel”. There it is, over on the card table. A sloppy stack of legal pads and a cup of pencils. Hey, if it’s good enough for Melville and Nabokov…oh never mind.

It’s too late to beat the sun to the punch and I’m just going to have to live with that.

Staying holed up inside gives me a real appreciation for why a fox will gnaw off its own foot to get out of a trap. What is a haven at night becomes a jail cell in the daytime and I suit up for the daily walk around the exercise yard. I peek out into the parking lot; that Mustang is new. There’s Mabel with her cart loaded down with sort of clean bedding, slowly making her way around the walkway on the second floor. I call her Mabel (not to her face), but I don’t know what her name is and don’t want to. I give her five bucks a week to leave clean stuff and leave me alone. I call her “Miss”.

I glance over at the card table; that’s not going anywhere. I should eat something, but it’s hard to feel hungry these days…for anything. I’ll wander on over to the Save-Mart and pick up something. Before heading out, I cut the AC on and leave it on low with the blinds and curtains all drawn tight. There isn’t anything to do in this dumpy ass town and I’ll be back in time to hide out from the worst of the heat.

I almost turn back once I’m out on Virginia Avenue. Everything is an effort; each step jars right up my spine and jogs some switch in the back of my head. Off. On. Off. On. Off. Where am I going again? Right. Keystone. Save-Mart. Off. On. Off. On. Red light. Stop. Wait. Nothing. Go. Off. On. Off. On. Can’t it just stay off? On. Even just a second at a time lets too much through. Shouldn’t I be the one in charge of this switch anyway? Off. On. Off. On…

I could go back to L.A. Sure I could. No reason I can’t. Like I give a rat’s ass about what any of them have to say. Who listens to disgraced actresses who think they’re literary lionesses anyway? Finding work would be tough, but I’ve always found work. Yeah. But. I can work or I can write. Right? Isn’t that why I came out here? Well, that and to let some dust settle after burning several bridges. On sucks. Back to off.

Crossing over to Keystone, I present my case again.

(On) The committee has heard it all and doesn’t care. Throat clearing and paper shuffling and still I lay it all out. Brilliant young writer blinds the literary world with her insightful first book, a memoir about the future. What? No one gets it that a memoir about the future is fiction? First, I’m the Next Big Thing and in record time I’m the new pariah.

(Off) Really and totally off now. Into the refrigerated supermarket and here’s a cart without a wobbly wheel. Up and down the aisles, zoning out and humming along with Brandy, you’re a fine girl. City in a desert. Brilliant idea. Produce is cheap anyway, coming from the Central Valley just down the road. Don’t like the looks of these green beans. Asparagus would be nice. So would a call from my so-called agent. OFF dammit. On to the meat section and more wishful thinking. I’d really like a nice, thick steak but I guess I’ll settle for hamburger again. Or maybe a couple of pork chops. This’ll hold me. I roll on up to the checkout and, oh great, this guy wants to talk. Yeah, it’s the asshole with the Mustang, the one I saw in the parking lot earlier and which passed me on Keystone.

“Hey, aren’t you…”

“Nope. I get that a lot though. Welcome to town.” I’m ready.

“Oh, I’m not new to town, just to the weekly motel lifestyle is all.” He’s a little shaggy but kind of cute. “I’m Curt.” Out comes the hand.

“I’m Zip.” Auntie Ziporah would love me lifting her name. We shake hands and inch up in the line. Eight registers and two of them open. It’s Tuesday, what are all these people doing buying groceries now?

“How is this joint, anyway, The Stardust? You been there long?”

“Not bad. Clean enough. Not too much noise or drama.”

“I’ll take that. I’ve had all the drama I can stand.”

I could drive a semi-tractor trailer through that opening and quite deliberately do not. Instead, I pick up a People magazine and start flipping through it. What the hell? No way am I in this lousy stupid rag. But there I am, shielding my face from view unsuccessfully. I flip the thing shut and shove it back in the rack. Curt is all innocence, just checking out the parking lot, but he saw. Ok, fine. So what?

I unload my cart and scoot it out of the way. In a larger world of anguish and hunger and spine-clenching terror, what I’m walking through is sunlight and daisies. This would be a good time to get over myself.

Wouldn’t it? I mean come on. What’s the worst that can happen?

With the words lining up behind my teeth I look over at this Curt guy and say nothing. Maybe it would be ok. Maybe I could make a friend. Maybe I could get laid, even. But if he’s “new to the weekly motel lifestyle” there is a whole nother set of maybes at play and I turn back to Mindy who’s ringing up my stuff and chewing on either a giant wad of gum or plug tobacco.

There he comes just as I’m leaving the parking lot, my backpack loaded down. He waves. I wave and keep on moving. Then I see it; just as I’m turning away. The camera. He’s smooth but not smooth enough and all that lousy creep is going to get is the backside of what may as well be some homeless vagrant in Reno.

Boom!

Taking the leap and starting a newsletter; see what you think and thanks so much for reading my fiction!