Room Service

 

Suite 10. Coffee with two sugars.

 It’s 2am. My first night on the job. I’ve been here for 5 hours, I have one hour to go, and I’ve had about enough from my supervisor; Lanie, a whining, moaning woman, 10 years my senior. All I’ve heard since 9 pm is how hard it is to keep staff and how no one sticks it out for more than a night or two.

Frankly I’m not surprised, how anyone could bear to be around this woman for more than 5 minutes, let alone hours on end, night after night, is beyond me. I make a mental note to check the classifieds tomorrow.

Getting out of the office into the kitchen is a welcome break from Lanie. I get everything prepared for the order.

Why I thought getting back into hospitality was a good idea eludes me now. I hate working nights, I resent having to prepare food and drinks for people I don’t know, let alone at 2 in the morning.

The coffee complete, I grab a tray. I tut in disgust; it is grimy and finger-marked. I take it to the sinks and as I stack it to wash I notice words printed into the grime.

Stay away.

“I intend to do that buddy,” I reply to my anonymous penfriend, “As soon as I finish this shift.”

I find a clean tray for the coffee and head up to the lifts. Even at two in the morning euphemistic muzak filters through the speakers. The Girl From Ipanema invades my ear canals. I grimace at the lift mirrors and roll my eyes. 1 more hour I tell myself. The lift is far from clean. As I reach to swipe the button for floor 10 I read the graffiti scrawled across the doors.

Stay away.

“You’re singing my song” I think to myself.

The doors glide apart at floor 10 and I head down the corridor to the Suite. The blue white flicker of TV light blinks under the door. I knock,

“Room service” I call cheerfully.

My own voice speaks urgently and clearly in my head,

“Put the tray at the door and walk away. Don’t go in there. Stay away.”

I hesitate; maybe I should just dump it and go. It’s not like Lanie would be surprised. I start setting the tray down when a frail voice calls from the other side of the door,

“Please come in, it’ll take too long for me to get to the door.”

I sigh, straighten up and open the door.

The room is dark, illuminated only by the television screen. A frail figure sits hunched in the couch wrapped in a blanket.

“Coffee sir?”

“Here son, bring it here, put it on the table.” His voice is barely audible over the show he is watching. His gaunt face reflects the blue white flashes of the screen. I put the tray gently on the table.

“Here boy, sit, sit. Rest for a moment.” A thin, long fingered hand pats the space on the couch next to him. I hesitate, thinking of the hour left until I knock off, Lanie waiting downstairs with her litany of loss. I sit on the couch.

“Please son, pass me my coffee.”

Ice cold fingers brush my own as he takes the cup from my hand. His eyes look into mine,

“Thankyou son.”

My eyes return to watch the television screen, only to find empty space. A clock ticks loudly on the opposite wall. I feel confused. Where is the television? Was there a television?

“Read to me,” the old man rasps, “my eyes aren’t what they were. My book’s on the table.”

I look down at the table, where the tray was. Tray? It is no longer there. If it ever was. A thin, leather bound book is in its place.

I pick up the book, open it and look around to ask what page to turn to.

The couch is empty, a blanket is around my shoulders. The clock ticks loudly on the wall. I am so cold, so lonely. I’ve been up here so long. A coffee will warm me up. Maybe someone will be kind enough to sit and read to me. I reach out slowly for the phone.