Hotel Carolina - 2. Chapter 2

V.

Yellow Tiger Inn the sign reads in bold, antique script. It's mounted on a sturdy, white post, too clean and perfect to be anything but that fake-wood vinyl. A curving mass of yellow and black stripes underscore the letters. Est. 1934!

The exclamation point makes him laugh, when the image of a 300 pound yellow-striped cat gets little more than a smile. To the young and idealistic, old equals quaint. Quelle surprise when they discover it actually means squeaky floorboards, thin walls, and one bathroom per floor. The Yellow Tiger ain't no Marriott. Old is fun to visit, but nobody wants to live there.

Except Russ. He's got twenty-three days to kill.

The Inn occupies three acres of land, with one large building and three smaller ones, all two stories with sizable covered porches brimming with neat rows of rocking chairs. There's no discernable pattern to the place; the three outbuildings sprawl haphazardly over the compound, turned at odd angles, white-sided with black shutters, like dice left to languish after an unlucky roll. A maze of crushed-gravel paths connect them. The property borders protected wetlands.

"Swamps," Mary said, when he showed her the brochure. "You're going to a swamp. Basically as close to hell as it gets in the spring and summer. Are you trying to make some sort of statement? Take your mosquito repellent."

Pond pines line the paths. At some point, they were pruned unevenly and now resemble giant drunken sentries, arms askew and helmets tilted. They create dappled shade for the benches scattered about. It's quiet but for the mosquitos and cricket frogs.

Russ stands next to his car, hand cupped over his eyes to block the glare, and inspects his final resting place. "Could be worse. Peaceful, anyway."

Peace comes cheap, thankfully, because Russ is paying cash.

"Are you sure about that?" the owner, a Ms. Abby Briggs, asks later when Russ has found the small reception desk in the main building. "Most people, they use a credit card. We can do that, you know. Use a card. This isn’t the end of the earth."

"Just the end of the line," Russ quips.

Abby, widow, not spinster (she made sure to mention), looks at him over the top of her reading glasses, taps the guest ledger, then points the feathered quill at Russ. "You’re funny," she says without a smile. "You’re not one of those addict comedians, are you? Out here to find yourself?"

He’s no comedian. His jokes, as a rule, fall flat. But the finding himself part hits too close to the truth to deny. "Just looking for some peace and quiet."

"That we have in abundance." She hands him an honest-to-god brass key, shiny, and at least six inches long. "Not too many guests this time of year."

He gets the impression there aren't too many guests at any time of year. Fine with him. He hefts his duffel and holds up his key. "So where did you put me?"

"Guesthouse Three. Closest to the Preserve."

Closest to the swamp. No matter, he brought Mary’s bug spray. "Sounds good." The question he tries to ask sticks in his throat. He suddenly doesn’t want to know if there are any other guests on the property. "I’ll just—" he waves in the direction of Guesthouse Three, "—go get settled."

"Breakfast is served between seven and nine. Deli sandwiches and other light snacks are available in the kitchen throughout the day. And there’s a small restaurant," she points through an arched doorway and Russ sees red-flocked wallpaper and the edge of an American Gothic print, "with a limited menu, open from four to eight nightly." She smiles, kind eyes crinkling at the corners. "You sure about that cash payment?"

He’s sure. A lesser man would use the one credit card he has left and stick Abby the widow with the bill. It's insane and counter to his nature to hand over so much cash, but he doesn't want to die the man he's become. It's not about the afterlife, not even close. Final destination: six feet down. Heaven and Hell are just words that, in his book, don't even deserve to be capitalized.

But.

But.

Before the end, he wants to remember something he's never been quite able to forget. A feeling. One he won't sabotage by putting a name to. He nods at the wad of bills still clutched in her hand. "There's enough there for the twenty-two days. That's how long I'll be staying. Twenty-two days.”

Abby nods and the cash disappears with enough sleight of hand that Russ double checks her eyes. Brown. Which he noted when she first came out of her office, oversized flannel shirt hanging over her jeans. Brown hair, brown-framed bifocals, brown liver spot on her neck, and brown eyes.

Brown, not blue.

"Enjoy your stay,” she sings.

He takes one of the wandering gravel paths to Guesthouse Three and climbs to the second floor. The stairs creak as predicted, but Russ scores a private bathroom. Two window mounted air-conditioning units rattle away, dust and damp sludge lining their slats. Duct tape seals the holes between the wood frames and the machines, though it’s peeling up in places. No wonder with all the moisture. Whistling, Russ presses it back into place.

His one bag looks small on the four poster bed. He didn’t bring much, doesn’t have a lot since he abandoned his house. Most of it he left for the bank. Besides, jeans and T-shirts will more than suffice for the death watch. Shorts would’ve been more practical in the heat, but outside of a few fucks in the toilets of his favorite bar, nobody has seen Russ’s pale, naked legs in years, and he plans to go his grave with that record in place. Plus he burns like a lobster. There are twice as many tubes of sunscreen in his bag as bug spray.

He doesn’t want to die in pain. That’s his biggest fear.

When the room phone rings – an honest to God rotary dial, mustard yellow – Russ ignores it. There’s no question who it is, but the bastard can call his other number. No way is Russ paying local phone charges. Places like this love to gouge you on that shit. Ten bucks just to call 411, and they smile like sharks when they hand you the bill.

Sure enough, the moment the first phone goes silent, his cell phone comes to life, blaring a familiar tune. Russ sinks onto the mattress and tries not to cry, because he only has three ringtones on his phone, and Dust in the Wind isn’t one of them.

He flips it open and listens.

“Arrive safely?”

Eyes glued to the beveled mirror across the room, Russ nods.

“Good!” Death belches into the phone. “You left before your burger was ready, so I ate it for you.”

Mirror-Russ cracks a smile, though can’t feel his lips curling into the familiar expression.

“I’m glad you’re there,” Death says. “Now it’s time for your surprise. Do you want your surprise?”

No. Russ shakes his head.

“Ooh.” There’s enough pout in Death’s voice to put Russ on edge. “Of course you do. Everyone loves surprises, even if they don’t admit it. Ready? Stand up and go to the window.”

Russ stands on shaky legs. Icy air from the A/C rushes over his face as he approaches the window, drying the sheen of sweat that broke over his brow the moment the phone rang. He can smell the sour odor of his fear.

“Now,” Death barks in his ear, “look at that. Tell me that’s not the best surprise you’ve had all year.”

It’s been a shitty year. Competition wise, whatever’s on the other side of the glass will probably win hands down. Russ doesn’t bother saying so. He stretches over the A/C unit until the corner is poking into his stomach and presses his nose to the glass.

His windows look toward the main building, toward Abby and the flocked wallpaper restaurant. There’s a car parked in front, a bright orange Chevy Camaro, the king car of overcompensation. A man steps out of it and jogs up the steps out of sight. “I knew a guy with a car like that back in college,” Russ mutters. “He had a small pecker.”

“I don’t kiss and tell.” Death gives a low whistle. “Hot ride, though.”

Russ ignores the innuendo. “If you go in for that sort of thing.” Which he doesn’t. He’s got more than a thimbleful of self-esteem, thank you very much. “I’m underwhelmed.”

“You are for now, but the day is young. Farewell, Russ. Talk to you soon.”

Russ takes the phone away from his ear. Like his mother’s house key, he suddenly wants rid of it. The desire is a living thing, the ache physical. Russ stumbles out of his room, down the stairs, and outside. I’m defiling protected wetlands, he thinks as he throws the tiny phone as far as he can out into the marsh. It’ll be Hell for sure. The phone lands far away, but Russ thinks he might have heard a splash. The hum of mosquitoes makes it difficult to tell for sure. “Bye bye,” Russ says.

He drags his feet all the way back to the building, trying to shed as much bog scum from his shoes as possible. No such luck. The crushed stone attracts the sludge instead of removing it, and each shoe feels five pounds heavier by the time he steps onto the porch. He sits on the steps and removes them one at a time, using Abby’s pretty white railing to scrape off the goo.

A shadow stretches out beside him, folding down the steps and spilling onto the gravel. “Hullo,” Russ says over his shoulder. He hadn’t seen much from the window and takes a second to imagine what Mr. Orange Camaro looks like.

“Um, hi.”

Russ smears mud onto the railing as he admires the deep, tentative voice. As much as he hates to admit it, it stirs him, because masculine and demure is a combination that never fails to make him hard. Clapping the leather soles together, Russ sneaks a glance over his shoulder.

The sun foils him. Death’s gift is little more than a dark shadow surrounded by a halo of light. “Damn.” Russ averts his eyes and tries to blink the spots away.

“Yeah, sun’s a bitch, isn’t it?” The voice is traveling, moving past Russ. He hears the thump of boots on the steps. The man reaches the ground and turns. “Bright as hell. But if you think it’s hot now, try coming back around in July or August. The whole fucking state bakes like an oven on self clean.”

Russ stands before lifting his head. He’s familiar with this game. It’s his turn to sling back a couple of profanities, maybe degrade a few ethnic groups, complain about whiny women, and commiserate how light beer is for pussies. Instead, he says, “Won’t be alive come August, but I’ll take your word for it.”

Whatever he expected from the man, it wasn’t for him to laugh and reach to shake Russ’s hand. “I’m Eric,” he says. His grip is firm and warm. He’s nothing special, nothing like Death in the diner. Eric’s easily Russ’s age or older, with a shock of brown hair receding over a wide forehead. He’s in decent shape. Men who reach forty without some sort of softening around the middle made Russ suspicious, but Eric passes muster. His belly is slightly rounded. Nothing excessive. He’s no glutton. The rest of his body is compact and well-proportioned, if clothed in the ugliest suit Russ has ever seen. His cock doesn’t seem to mind the fashion disaster. It plumps up in greeting.

Uncharacteristically bold, Russ lifts one foot onto the steps. The denim stretches exactly where he wants it to. “Rooms are air conditioned at least.”

Eric doesn’t answer. He does, however, take healthy stock of Russ’s crotch.

So you’re my present, Russ thinks. In retrospect, the idea of Eric is nothing to sneeze at. A final fuck would be welcome. Warm, sweaty skin and the sound of someone else’s grunts besides his own… there’s appeal there. Shame the man’s dick is probably nothing to write home about. Not that Russ is a size queen, but the orange Camaro looms between them. Some stereotypes exist for a reason.

Eric clears his throat. “Did you say something about not being alive in August?”

Russ lays it all on the table. “Yeah. I’m going to die soon. Thought it’d be nice to spend my last days somewhere peaceful. You know, reminiscing about life.”

“About the things you’ve done?”

“No.” Christ, no, and isn’t that a kick in the teeth, because Russ has done nothing he wants to be remembered for. Nothing. “No,” he repeats, voice shaking this time. “More about what I haven’t done.” And what he’ll never do.

Eric’s fingers scratch idly at his bare forehead. Russ expects a polite, “I see,” or some other stupid piece of shit platitude that means absolutely nothing, but Eric surprises him.

“Maybe you’ll find some meaning in it all before the end,” he says.

And Russ blinks and stands there like an idiot because, yes. Yes. That’s exactly what he’s hoping for. The fucking meaning of life.

But before he can share his epiphany, Eric leaves, throwing a casual two-fingered wave over his shoulder.

VI.

There is in all of us, Russ’s father used to say, a curiosity about death. What there wasn’t enough of, he added, is a curiosity about life. Pretty words, but Russ noticed they stopped right around the time the doctors told him his cancer was acting like the Little Engine that Could.

Russ’s father had been a good man, but he shoveled bullshit by the truckload. When faced with death, who doesn’t poke at it, like one would poke a snake with a stick? Who doesn’t relive every goddamn choice they’d made and play the "what if" game? Russ isn’t going to deny that desire. No, sir. He’s going to embrace it.

It’s why he chose the Yellow Tiger. Not to be forgiven or enlightened. Or even to get laid, though Russ is flexible on that one. It’s time to pay the piper for the past forty-two years. Admit that he hasn’t touched anyone, not in a lasting way. If Russ is one thing, he’s a man, and he’ll face his failure like one.

For skipping right to the acceptance part of things, he gives himself a mental pat on the back and sips more of Abby’s freshly squeezed orange juice.

Four other empty tables occupy the room that’s supposed to be a restaurant. On each, novelty shakers flank loose packets of sugar. Russ’s table sports a brightly painted Pooh dispensing salt and a worried looking Piglet full of pepper. Think, think, think, Pooh seems to say, one paw pressed to his temple.

A heavy silence weights the air, so oppressive that Russ’s shoulders droop with it. He chases his egg yolk around the plate with a scrap of burnt toast and tries not to breathe too loudly. Down the hall, the front door opens. Russ freezes, certain it’s Death come to ruin what little appetite he has left.

Instead, Eric walks into the tiny dining area. He smiles. “Good morning, Russ. Sleep well?”

Russ clamps down on his "very well, thank you". Honesty and Eric went well together yesterday, after all. “Not really. Had horrible nightmares about my mother.”

“Oh?” Eric chooses scrambled eggs and bacon from the chafing dish on the sideboard. He joins Russ without being invited. “Was she in danger or something and you couldn’t save her?” He asks for the salt and Russ hands him Pooh.

“No. Actually she was chasing me with a pitchfork and screaming.”

“Oh.” Not a question this time. Eric looks good in shorts and a polo, Russ can’t help but notice. Preppy. He watches Eric stretch his tanned, furred legs to either side of the table. Eric notices him watching and dips his head to hide a smile. That’s encouraging. Russ licks his lips.

“I take it you have some unresolved issues with your mom,” Eric comments.

“Something like that.” Then, because Eric already knows, or at least suspects, adds, “She never accepted the fact that I was gay.”

Eric shrugs and pats his napkin against his lips. “Her loss.”

His complete unforced nonchalance is a challenge Russ can’t resist. He adds "Shock Eric senseless" to his short to-do list, putting it in line after "Admit your life was worthless and get over it." Then, what the hell, mentally pencils in "Fuck Eric senseless" at number three.

Three goals are more than enough. No sense going crazy with only twenty one days to go.

“You think?” Russ asks. He lines his silverware up on his plate and pushes it away. “I mean, that’s what people always say, but… she was my mom, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” Eric graces Russ with warm hazel eyes before reaching for Piglet and sprinkling pepper over his eggs. “Believe me, I know. But to turn her back on you just because of that one thing? Crazy.” He circles his fork at his temple. The tines graze his hair. “Only someone who doesn’t understand how hard love is to come by would throw it away so carelessly.”

“Not understanding love makes you crazy?”

“Not appreciating it makes you crazy.”

And apparently verbalizing the idea strikes a sore spot, because Eric falls silent and stares at how his two pieces of bacon cross on his plate like a crude, greasy crucifix. “Here’s the thing, Russ,” he says. “When they say love makes the world go around, they’re right.”

“They?”

Eric nods. “They.”

“The people at Hallmark?”

Laughing, Eric nods. “Them, and others.”

Like it’s a dangerous animal, Russ puts the idea in a box to examine later. He’s never loved anyone. Maybe his dad. Then again, maybe not. But that love is the meaning of life is as foreign an idea as the earth being the center of the universe. He can’t get his brain around it.

“So what are you doing here, Eric?” He hadn’t asked yesterday.

“I think,” Eric stands and fills his coffee mug from the copper urn on the server, “the same thing you are, essentially. Trying to find meaning in it all before the end.”

Are you dying too? Russ almost asks, but that’s even worse than asking a fat lady when her baby’s due. “How long have you got?” he asks instead, because it can be interpreted several ways, and Russ is curious which way Eric will choose.

“As long as it takes.” Eric shrugs. His eyes aren’t dancing like they were a few minutes ago. “A few weeks maybe.”

And now they have matching timelines. Russ smiles.

VII.

The absence of responsibility isn’t as freeing as Russ hoped. If he didn’t have the whole imminent death thing hanging over his head, it would probably be fun. But for fifteen years, his life has been about other people. Planning their lives. Making them rich. More recently, making them poor. He supposes there was a time in the distant past when what he wanted and needed took precedent, but he can’t remember it. He’s out of practice.

To his mother he was every bit the selfish bastard, skipping through a carefree life without having to worry about a goddamn thing but himself, emphasis on the goddamn. It was her favorite word: Oh Lord, she liked to pray, please let Russell see that he needs a wife and children and not a series of goddamn one night stands. Hallelujah. Hallelujah.

She would’ve turned her nose up at Eric. Russ couldn’t say why, except that he likes Eric, which means that his mother would’ve found something wrong with him. Something other than his proclivity for fucking men. She’d insist he was too short, too tall, rude, pretentious (the orange Camaro would have brought this one on), or possibly even a Godless heathen. She saved that last one for the men who really threatened her. Like Russ.

Threatening isn’t a word that fits Eric, Russ decides after one week. He also decides he thinks about his mother more than is strictly healthy.

Russ sees him walking sometimes. Eric likes the swamp. He wanders there for hours, just the thought of which makes Russ shudder. There isn’t enough insect repellent in the world, if you ask his opinion. Some nights, Russ lies in bed listening to the wetlands breathe. The swamp teems with life, throbs with it, just not the sort of life Russ wants to know intimately.

Speaking of which…. A flash of color makes him turn. Night is so close to falling that full dark can’t be more than minutes away. Maybe seconds. But there goes Eric, out into the swamp like he hasn’t a care in the world.

Before Russ realizes what he’s doing, he’s halfway down the steps. The gravel crunches under his feet like popcorn, but the swamp swallows the sound. Cicadas and frogs compete to drown each other out. A brisk breeze rustles the reeds. The place is noisy as hell. Russ could probably hotwire the Camaro and chase Eric with that, no one the wiser.

He skirts the painted, weathered boardwalk that extends into the swamp and follows the soggy sandy path that Eric took. Something splashes to his left. Russ stays the course, subscribing to that trusty adage about blissful ignorance, and finds Eric twenty yards further in, standing perfectly still and staring into the distance.

It feels like a private moment, but Russ grazes his fingers over Eric’s shoulder anyway. “What are you doing?”

Eric’s body jerks, but doesn’t make any noise, and when he turns to face Russ, he’s smiling his easy smile. “Russ. I didn’t hear you.”

No wonder. Russ has to raise his voice to be heard over the insects. “Sorry. I asked what you were doing out here? I mean, is it safe?”

“Would you be here if it weren’t?” Eric caps his question with a puzzled smile, but Russ hears the irony in his voice. Frankly, no, he wouldn’t be. He has no idea what Death has in store for him, but it can’t be as bad as being eaten by an alligator. He hopes.

“Well, I figured you knew where you were going, and…” he falters, squinting for a hint of Eric’s face in the dark, “do you?”

Eric takes one giant step back. It places him shoulder to shoulder with Russ. “Not really. I’m just listening.”

“Listening.” Russ does the same for a moment, tuning back into the discordant symphony. “To what? It’s just all insects and frogs. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” Eric shrugs. “Some of it does, you know. There are mating calls and warning calls. All sorts of signals. But you’re right. It doesn’t have any higher meaning, I suppose.”

Russ is ready to challenge this. Mating and warning. Those are both important parts of life, as far as he’s concerned.

“All that noise,” Eric muses, “and they have no idea what it is to be happy.”

“They’re concentrating on not getting eaten. Survival’s all they care about.”

Eric’s hand alights on his shoulder. “Not so different from us, are they?”

It’s the sort of statement that makes Russ want to invite Eric back to his room, and never mind the moldy, rattling air conditioners. Ambiance is for the idealistic. He turns, twisting in such a way that Eric’s hand stays anchored to his shoulder and his fingers, heavy and slightly damp, continue to brush the side of Russ’s neck. He places his own hand on top of Eric’s—just to be safe. An insurance rider in case his words don’t do the job, and with his track record lately, who could blame him? “The mosquitoes are thicker than soup. Want to head back?”

The sun slips below the horizon the second his words meet the muggy air. Eric’s face falls into deep shadow, and his voice barely carries over the screaming insects. “I’m sorry. I’m with someone.”

“Okay,” Russ says easily, and means it. After all, he’s kind of with someone too, not that they’d be picking out curtains and china together, but at least it has the old “till death do we part” feeling about it all. “Sorry to put you on the spot,” he says, retreating one two three steps, and Eric shakes a finger at him, barking out a harsh laugh.

“I was kidding.” He chokes on the last of his chuckles. “At least, I think I was. I don’t know the truth about it anymore, to be honest. When do you stop being with someone? When you stop fucking? When they move out?”

Russ spins the question around in his head. “I think it’s when you stop filing your taxes together.”

Cross number two off the list—Eric is shocked into silence. Now, if Russ can manage to roll goal number three into the deal, the swamp walk will be worth it. He takes a firm grip of Eric’s bicep and tugs. “So… you coming?”