Halfway Hotel

Part three - Twelve

Elizabeth's bright laugh echoes in the dive bar Eddie chose for our outing. When the three of us started hanging out together we got a lot of stares, but people are getting used to us being a trio. Now they stare because my companions are loud.

"No one told me!" I attempt to defend myself. Eddie and Elizabeth's favorite pastime is teasing me. Elizabeth never starts it, but she is not above finishing it.

"They are your pillows, Isaiah! If you hated them so much you should have told someone." She scolds over the rim of her heavy mug. I swear the swill that woman drinks would put hair on the chest of anyone else, but she sips at it like a cocktail and doesn't even flinch.

"I am so sorry that I foolishly assumed they would all be the same and that complaining would serve no purpose."

After that night with the disgruntled Irishmen, Eddie and Elizabeth banded together to redecorate my room. As it turns out, a stock hotel room is not the standard here at the Halfway hotel and I was living (or unliving) in my pillow misery for no reason. Evidently, guests reside in rooms that resemble ones from former homes. Mine was generic and impersonal because I'd never had such a thing. As a child, we moved often for my parent's work, a trend I continued into my adulthood. I never bothered with a personal residence as I spent my time traveling between the hotels I owned. I always thought of bedrooms as transitional, a space for me, but never for long, making a connection to any one of them would not have served anyone. Eddie teased me relentlessly (and still does) when he discovered that I hated the down pillows in my room and could have changed them out at any time.

Elizabeth got considerable enjoyment out of creating a 'pillow sampling' for me. We did some digging and found one of each pillow currently in the hotel and tried them all out. It turns out that my preferred pillow is stuffed with buckwheat. An option never considered in the hotel business, so I'd never considered it for myself. WIthout these two dorks meddling, I'd still be suffering from neck pain.

"Your happiness and comfort here, serve a purpose, Isaiah. You act like you don't matter," I'm scolded more seriously.

"My apologies, Madam," I repent, "I will speak up more often."

"There he goes again," Eddie rolls his eyes, "I swear I've met people from the 1800s around here that don't say crap like 'madam' anymore."

"We only just got you to stop saying 'where's the beef?'," Elizabeth comments primly.

"Hey, "Eddie shifts in his seat to take up a defensive position, "That shit was bitchin',"

Elizabeth nods her head as if to thank Eddie for proving her point.

"I think what the lady is trying to say is, that we all have our own left-over linguistic stylings from our unique lifetimes." I have decided that the more Eddie complains about my word choices, the more preposterous and outdated my choices will become. It's the most fun I've had in ages.

Eddie throws his hands up in exasperation and then downs the last of his drink, "Well, this is the perfect time to dip, you two are annoying and I have a date with that doll from the 7th floor," leaving us with a wink.

I have a feeling Eddie will not be returning to his room tonight; his dates have been known to take quite a while.

Elizabeth giggles and shakes her head, "We'll have to apologize to Samara later for getting him all riled up before sending him off."

Of course, she knew exactly who he was talking about. With the three of us spending our free time together, I've gotten the chance to know a lot more of the guests here at the hotel, but I don't have Elizabeth's tenure or Eddie's innate sociability. Even now he's allowed himself to get stuck at the door chatting up some men I don't know with a smile on his face. Eddie is always offensively himself and whether people like it or hate it, it never bothers him, never stops him. The mob boss looking color wheel, who lost his life in the 80s, has probably never even heard of armor and if someone tried to explain the concept to him, he'd probably laugh them off, believing the idea to be a joke.

"I never would have guessed the two of you would have ended up so close."

I blink at her and Elizabeth nods her head to where I had been staring at Eddie's back.

"You think we're close?"

"You don't?" she questions back.

It's been like this lately, when we talk, just the two of us, we ask deep questions and expect deep answers. It still makes me nervous, like every little step that brings us closer together also takes us deeper into uncharted territory. I'm no good in uncharted territory, I like plans and itineraries and clearly defined expectations. But Elizabeth has done well in leading me through new places, so I suppose I'll trust her for this step too.

"I don't know," I answer honestly, "I have never attempted to have a friend like him. I don't have any flow charts or mergers to measure the success of the relationship by."

"He keeps coming back."

"Yes," I sigh, "Rather like a stray cat, I think no amount of effort would run him off."

She chuckles, "Do you want to? Run him off?"

"Absolutely not!" feeling offense at the suggestion, "That boy is absurd in every way. Did you see the shade of orange he was wearing? I would have believed no one could pull off that color before I met him. My death will be as gray as my life when he is gone."

She leans closer, her smile turning dangerous and her tone almost suggestive as she twiddles her fingers in the sleeve of my bright blue cardigan, "Well, we wouldn't want that would we, Mr. Bradley, color does look rather nice on you."