Page 39 of Phoenix Fire

Finally, it stopped ringing.

Jason lay still, his body a leaden and damp mass on the lumpy bed. He felt stuck to the sheets and he was afraid to make any sudden moves lest a wave of nausea would hit. He slowly and tentatively opened his eyes, his left cheek moist against the stained and soiled pillow where his deep sleep drool had settled. He squinted as he peered into a cracked and alien wall where a dirty window was partially covered by a faded, grimy shade. The day outside was bright with sun, and he halfway expected the window shade to become inflamed. His eyes moved farther down the wall line and he saw an old soiled chair, its fabric shiny with use and age, its arms and back patched and torn.

Another kind of buzzing started, softer but more annoying because of its close proximity to his ear. It was a fly. He raised his hand to swat it away and the movement caused his body to churn in nauseous waves.

He forced himself to sit up in the bed. His temples were throbbing and his head felt top heavy and cumbersome. He noticed that he was dressed, in wrinkled shirt, slacks, and one sock. In the corner of the dingy room he saw his blazer and the other sock.

His nostrils registered a foul odor in the stuffy room, like a combination of long settled body musk and urine. The smell caused him to retch, and he stumbled shakily to his feet and found the bathroom.

The bathroom was odious in its own peculiar stench, the visible pipes showing rust marks and seepage stains. He gagged and ultimately heaved into the loathsome toilet bowl. He knelt there on the scarred linoleum floor, hovering over the stinking bowl, for several minutes until the nausea eased. There came a nebulous relief, and he rose and went to the filthy wash basin and splashed his pale stubble face with fetid tap water. He went back and sat on the edge of the bed, his face dripping water onto the ugly green and matted carpet.

Where was he?

God! He had no idea where he was.

Yes, he did! He was in a dirty two-bit hotel room. He was in some kind of hell, perhaps the end of his world as he had known it. A pang of anxiety struck him, followed by an uncontrollable shivering.

He could remember nothing beyond this wretched hotel room. A dark shroud had fallen over his memory and the ensuing panic brought a fresh terror to his awareness. His shaking prompted him to lie back on the squeaky bed. He forced himself to take long, slow breaths of the unhealthy air. A sun ray came through the ragged window shade and showed a gray blur of a million tiny specks of dust and dirt.

He needed to relax, to think. Where was he? Okay, he was in a shabby hotel room, but where was the hotel room? How had he gotten to this awful room? He again took slow, deep breaths of the bad air. He tried to reach back, to remember.

“For God's sake, remember!” he admonished himself in a voice he could hardly recognize.

The bar! The cocktail lounge on Camelback Road? “Yes,” he said to himself, “I just need to relax and think.”

What happened at the cocktail lounge? Where did he go after he left the bar? He could not remember leaving the bar. “Think, think!”

There were two men, Roy and Hal. Yes, Roy and Hal. They kept ordering drinks, and he paid for them. Yes, he remembered. He had not liked the men. Why had he been friendly with them? What had happened?

A sharp knocking came at the door. The door was so cheap and hollow that it made the sounds seem like a hammer splintering wood.

Jason was startled by the loud rapping. He did not move, waiting. Waiting? For what? The loud rapping came again. He thought that the door might leave its hinges.

On shaky legs he stood and moved toward the door. It was probably a maid, if a place like this would even have a maid.

“Yes, yes! Just a minute. I'm coming.”

When he opened the door he saw a small man in a white shirt and wrinkled brown pants, his face pinched and mousy, his teeth stained with nicotine. A cigarette was squeezed between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.

“Why didn't you answer your phone, pal? You coulda saved me a trip up from the desk.” The little man didn't wait for a reply. “You staying over or what?” The man stared brazenly into Jason's wet face, his breath a mixture of cigarette smoke and alcohol.

Jason hesitated, confused, fighting a new wave of nausea. He opened his mouth and his words came out in stumbling cadence. “Uh, I don't know. What time is it?”

“It's time you make up your mind, pal. Otherwise, you're gonna be charged for another day. Checkout time is 1:00 PM, and we're about ten minutes away. Do the math, pal, it's 12:50 PM.”

Jason stared vaguely at the little man, shaking, trying to formulate words.

The man spoke again with some impatience. “So, what's it gonna be, pal? Don't got all day.” The eyes, for just a moment, seemed to soften. “You all right, buddy? You look like hell.”

Even in his current state of imbalance, Jason was a bit piqued with the little man's patronizing 'pal' and 'buddy.' He finally managed to speak.

“Yeah, I'm fine, I guess. Look I need … yeah, I'll stay over.” Jason just wanted the man gone.

“Okay, you're staying over. Come down to the desk in the thirty minutes and pay up. We're pay as you go here at the Warren and we're very strict about that.” The little man turned to go, then stopped and waited for an acknowledgment from Jason. “You with me, pal?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, I'm with you. I'll be down shortly … Pal.”

A small smile appeared on the face of the mousy clerk as he turned and strode away. He raised his arm to his sides and fluttered his hands, a gesture of unknown significance to Jason.

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