Men ask me, “Don’t you like being able to look up women’s skirts all the time?” First thing: I don’t understand why they’re talking to me; second thing: I’m a floor. Perhaps – perhaps – I’ll look at the ceiling once in a while, but I learned a long time ago not to put any hope in that relationship. This is an office building; I’m the lobby floor of an office building – these are, like, twenty-foot ceilings. For years I gave the ceiling the eye, and you know what it said? “Long-distance relationship.” I guess it was for the best. Maybe someday, when they demolish the building, we’ll spend some time together. I mean, I daydream about our cords and pipes getting tangled, but what else am I supposed to do? The only really good part of my day is when the janitorial staff mops, and I have to wait until the evening for that bit of romance.
And on a slightly related topic, the rug really pisses me off. There’s all kinds of things I can’t see in that spot, like executives tripping. Although if that ever happens on me just by myself, it makes me kind of dizzy.
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The first thing I felt was hard, pressing against the back of my head. My eyes were closed, but the lids were hot and red. "sun" I thought and dared not open them. It hurt, where the back of my head pressed against the floor, but I dared not move.I knew the moment the thick red blood began to swish through the distended veins of my head, the real pain would begin. I carefully flexed my fingers and lifted a leaden arm to cover my eyes, draping it across my face like a sack. Covered, I dared open my eyes. They hurt. I wondered how this could happen. How did I end up on the floor, hung over, the light filtering around my arm enough to cause my head to throb? Slowly I lifted my arm. I looked up into the hotel room. It was bright; mid afternoon, from the way the sun slanted through the windows. the mattress, nightstand, arm chair towered over me like skyscrapers, their legs covered with lint. The dirty beige wall-to-wall stank of sick and cigarettes. My sick. Old cigarettes. How could this happen? Way up high was a light. IT was still on. I turned my head. The room swam. my stomach convulsed. But no worry; there was nothing left to vomit. I found myself staring at an empty bottle. Green glass reflected a warped face, unshaven chin, an eye staring at itself. How could this happen, I asked myself yet again. It was then I remembered. The bar. the booze. Stumbling in the arms of someone and then . . . nothing.
ReplyDeleteI dared lift my head. I was dressed in the tux I wore last night. shirt unbuttoned, pants undone. At least I tried to get to bed, I thought. I lifted myself up on one arm. I laid back down, my head swimming. How could I have left this happen again? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Fighting to focus, I wondered. what would they say? Did they already know? They must know. Why would they leave me lying on the floor. practically choking in my own vomit? Were there photos? My God, I thought, my pants half around my knees, lying in my own vomit surrounded by liquor bottles, did they take pictures? My mind swam with the possibilities as I looked up at the wads of chewing gum stuck under the lip of the end table.
It was too much. I wretched and wretched again, my stomach bringin up nothing. I was not throwing up food. I was throwing up everything else. The suffocating marriage, the oppressive father, the emasculating, manipulative advisors. How did this happen?
. . . I did not know. But as my head throbbed and remembered all I had sacrificed, and realized that it had all lead to this . . .lying face up in a hotel room covered in my own vomit with no idea where my wife was, my advisors were or whether I would open a news paper to see pictures of my humiliation I realized that it was not worth it. I could not do it. And yet, I realized with a sinking feeling that made the chair the bed and the table grow even taller, that I had no choice. I had to do it. NO matter how humiliating. No matter how painful. No matter. I had to. I was the sacrificial lamb.
I laid back down. I covered my eyes. what seemed like a few moments later a knock came at the door. A tentative voice. My advisor. "Sir? Mr. McCain? Are you ready?"
I vomited again. Of course I was.