Fiction

Room Service

Mike Schindel

Usually, Joel had to work the graveyard shift. He liked working nights because there were never too many calls to the kitchen and no one really hassled room service until six, when people wanted breakfast before their flights. Some nights, he could go into the pantry and take a bottle of wine. The chef only checked the stockroom when he took inventory at the end of the month. Joel would sit on old milk crates, reading Hemingway and sipping wine until his shift was up at seven. This Wednesday night, Joel was finishing The Sun Also Rises when he got his first call. Whenever there was a room service call, it never went directly to the kitchen. First it went to the front desk, who transferred it to the “At Your Service” representatives, who then took the order and relayed it to the people in the basement kitchen.

“Joel, we need you to go to the bar and bring a bottle of Jameson to room 217.”

“Sure, tell them I’ll be right up.” He shut his book and hung up the phone. He grabbed the tray from the kitchen and pressed it into his hip as he charged the bottle to the room hoping all the while that it wouldn’t be a busy night.

He arranged the bottle with a bucket of ice, two glasses and waiter’s billfold to display the receipt. Tammy smiled from behind the front desk as he waited for the elevator.

“Quiet night?” he asked.

“Not too bad. Three came in, and we’ve got thirty out tomorrow. How about you?”

“This is my first call, but who knows. Wednesday’s are usually dead though.”

“Yeah. Well, let me know when you go on break. I brought left over enchiladas tonight.”

“Sounds good. I’ll give you a call then.” Joel switched on his radio so Tammy could see.

Joel smiled the entire way up the elevator. After the ding of the second floor, he caught his reflection in the bronze surrounding the window above the unused ashtray. He wondered why they keep them out even though Marriotts don’t allow smoking any more. He knocked lightly on the door and returned his hand to the tray.

“Room service.” He knocked again. “Room service.”

“The door’s propped, you can just come in,” a voice called.

Joel walked into the room and set his tray down on the luggage rack. There was a man sitting on the far side of one of the twin beds facing the window. He was slumped over, already drunk.

“Where would you like this, sir?” Joel asked.

“Bring it over to the table” the guest replied. He never turned around to look at Joel.

The room smelled like cigar smoke. Joel set the tray down on the table and looked over at the man.

“Well, you’re whiskey’s right here. Is there anything else I can get for you?” he said.

“No. No thank you. That’s fine for now.” He stood up and walked over to his suitcase on the other bed, fumbled around in a pair of pants and produced two crumpled twenties.

“Here, I’ll probably be calling later on?” He handed the money to Joel.

“Thank you, sir. Please, if there is anything else I can do for you don’t hesitate to call. My name’s Joel and I’ll be here all night.” He took the tray and started toward the door, crumpling the dollars into his pocket as he reached for the doorknob.

“Hey, kid, how old are you?” Joel was at the door. He turned and smiled.

“I’m nineteen, sir,” Joel said.

“Please, call me Tom. You from here, Joel?”

Joel walked back into the room.

“Yeah, I was born and raised here. I don’t live here now though, I live up in Pennsylvania. I’m just here for the summer,”

“You go to school up there?”

Tom buttoned up his beige cardigan and took a seat at the table with the whiskey. Joel stood at the far side of the room fingering the volume of his radio.

“Yeah, I go to Penn,” Joel said.

“A Lion, huh?”

“You’re thinking Penn State. We’re Quakers.” Joel hated always having to make that correction.

“Jesus. What’s your major?” Tom said. He put a few cubes of ice into the glass and poured some Jameson.

“English, but I’m minoring in Marketing.” He looked back to the door for some reprieve. If only Tammy would radio him with some guest needing another set of towels.

“English, huh? Who’s your favorite author?”

“Right now, I’m reading Hemingway. Like I said, I’ll be here all night, if you need anything.”

“Right. Hemingway. Right.” Tom sat back into his chair.

“Call me if you need anything, sir,” Tom said. He gave half a wave as he exited the room. In the hallway, he couldn’t help but feel relieved. There are always those guests who loved talking, getting to know your life story. Usually, Joel didn’t mind because they tipped better for the extra personal touch. As he waited for the elevator, he remembered Tammy’s enchiladas and Hemingway.

“Joel, hey, it’s room 217 again. He wants to know if you can bring up some limes?” Joel heard the AYS rep crackle through the kitchen phone.

“Be right up,” he replied. He grabbed a fist full of limes from underneath the bar and put them into a sorbet dish.

“Room service”

“Joel, hey buddy, come on in.” Tom called from inside the room.

“Here you go, Tom,”—guests love it when you use their first name— “is there anything else I can do for you?” He could see the old man’s cheeks starting to darken. Half of the bottle he’d brought an hour earlier was gone.

“Take a seat, Joel.” He kicked out a chair for him, never taking his eyes from his glass.

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir. I’ve got a lot of orders tonight. We’ve been busy.”

“Bullshit. Come on, it’ll be worth your while. Sit for a little bit. I promise it’ll be worth it,” Tom said.

“Fine. I’ll sit for a little while; but I’m on call all night.”

“Look I promise, it’ll just be for a little while. You say you’re reading Hemingway, right?” Tom asked. Joel sat down in the chair across from him, “You drink?”

“Yeah, I mean once in a while,” Tom answered.

“You want one?” Tom said, already pouring the cocktail. He gripped the bottle tightly so the boy couldn’t see his hand shaking.

“I can’t, I’m working. If the night manager finds me here, he’ll lose it.”

“You’ve already broken one rule sitting here with me. Come on. I’ll teach you how to drink whiskey like a gentleman.” Tom smiled as he inched the tumbler toward Joel.

“Fine, I’ll have one. But don’t make it too strong.” Joel started to relax as he slunk back into the chair. For the first time since working for the hotel he allowed himself to be comfortable in one of the rooms.

“So you like Hemingway, huh? Have you read all his books?”

“I’m reading them this summer.” Joel shook his head from whiskey’s bite. He wasn’t used to drinking the stuff straight.

“I remember, I was about your age, I spent a year in Spain. God, I wanted to be like him. To sit around and write. Be one of the greats. Ever read A Moveable Feast?” Joel shook his head. He didn’t want to interrupt whatever story about bullfighting and Spanish women he was sure would come next. Instead, Tom sat in silence. He licked the whiskey of his lips and stared into his cup of ice.

Joel had forgotten just what it must feel like to be a guest to be here, come for one night, sleep in a strange bed and leave the next morning. Tom would never see him again.

“Anyway, back to Hemingway, did I tell you I saw him once?” Tom said. He went to light another cigar. Joel decided not to mention the hotel’s new policy about charging guests who smoke in their rooms, he’d figure out soon enough.

“Bullshit, you saw him?” Joel said. Guests love the personal touch.

“Yes, sir. I was born and raised in Hailey, Idaho about thirty miles south of Ketchum. Now if you recall, Hemingway spent his last years up in Ketchum. So I was six years old, visiting my aunt and we went to the park by the lake,”—Joel saw Tom’s hands begin to tremble—“and my aunt and uncle went down to the help my mom start up the grill and they left me on a bench. Sure enough, I saw Ernest Hemingway sitting on a bench looking out at the water, probably remembering his days catchin’ fish.”

“Did you know it was him?”

“Of course, I didn’t I was only six.”—He finished his drink and poured himself another. Joel struggled through the first few sips of his cocktail—“My mom came up to me and the man on the bench got up and left. She told my years later, that that was Ernest Hemingway, the old man himself,” Tom said and he slapped the table knocking over the limes, which had so far remained unused.

“That’s amazing. To actually see Ernest Hemingway, to be in the presence of such greatness,”

“It is hard to believe, isn’t it?” Tom was half through his cocktail.

Joel smiled behind his.

“So, do you still live in Idaho?”

“Christ no. No, now I live in Santa Monica.”

“So, are you in town on business?”

Tom grinned at his whiskey glass and bit into his bottom lip. He laughed.

“No, I’m not,” Tom sipped from the whiskey.

“Well, visiting family then?”

“Nope, kid. This is my last night as a free man. My last drink. You want to know why I’m here. I’m here because last night, after work, I came home to find my two ex-wives standing in the living room of my condo with a plane ticket and that suitcase right there. They told me that in an hour I’d be leaving for Rehab in Tucson. I told them, ‘I’m a grown man. I’ve got a business to run. I need more than a day’s notice here.’ But they handed me the ticket and told me I had no choice. Can you believe that? Fuckin’ fifty-eight years old.” He finished his whiskey and slammed the glass. He poured himself another despite the melted ice.

“Jesus, that sucks. Why do they think you need rehab?” Joel asked. He began to feel the whiskey when he heard a squawk from the radio hooked onto his belt.

“Hey Joel, I’m about to go on my break.” It was Tammy.

“I’ve been through detox before, about seven times. Each time it’s the same. When I’m not drinking, I’m fine. I stay clean for about six months. That’s the longest. Then after a while, I just get back into it. Never had any real problems with my kids. I just like to drink. But my ex is on my ass and now they won’t let me see my son.”—Tom pressed his forehead into his hands—“What is it Hemingway said, ‘Drinking is a way of ending the day,’ he was one of the greats, an artist. And no one fucked with him, no one could.” Tom slammed his glass on the table again. He was nearing the last quarter of the bottle.

“Yeah,” Joel said, laughing, “I love it. After school, I plan on doing like he did, traveling around, watching bullfights and drinking wine out of a sack.” He poured himself a glass.

“That’s the way to do it, you got to do it. You’re young. You can handle it. Do what you love. Fuck it. Might as well, live it up.”

“And I got to say, nothing beats sitting back with a good book and a glass of wine. I’ve got a spot downstairs where I got my book and my wine glass. On nights like this I can sit and read Hemingway with no one to bother me. I’ve never tried it with whiskey, though.” Joel smiled and finished his drink, slamming it on to the table.

Tom looked down and chuckled once to himself.

“You can handle it.”

He stood up and walked to the window clutching his whiskey glass. He staggered backward and sat on the edge of the bed. “Really is a beautiful city at night, wish I could have seen it under different circumstances.”

“Yeah. Can’t wait to leave. Nothin’ to fuckin’ do in this city,” Joel said. He finished his glass and took it upon himself to pour the last of the bottle. “Hey, how about I grab us another one?”

“Sure, kid.” Tom stared out the window. “Sure.”

Michael Schindel lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He studied creative writing at Stetson University.