Heartbreak Hotel

Mary Jane's Last Dance

Had he really expected it to get better when he had checked into the hotel? He was not sure. His suitcase itself was highly illegal. Inside were more joints than he could count. He chuckled. He had only been in the hotel since - what, a few months? A year, maybe? Oh, what did it matter! He had lost count, ages ago. Time was buried somewhere between cigarettes, booze and lingering memories. The whole deal was pathetic, but he could not get her out of his mind.

He almost hated the whole ordeal, but he could not bring himself to hate a thing he could not change.

Tom sighed and lit a joint. Bliss washed over him, and he sighed. It was temporary relief for permanent pain, or that's what it seemed to be, anyway. He let it smoke for a while. He did not bother to keep track of the time; that did not matter. After sometime, he stubbed it out, then headed over to the refrigerator. Inside, there was not a single bottle of wine. He sighed, remembering his plan to buy some more. When had he decided that again? He shook his head and walked back to the sitting room to lie across the room. He didn't need wine, particularly. Instead, he remembered a girl he had loved a long time ago, and how she had broken his heart before he did the same to her. He shook his head, his blonde hair lingering in his face. He did not bother to brush it out of his eyes for it hid the tears that flowed from them. He felt terrible, which sounded like an understatement. He was blue. He sat up slightly, lit a cigarette. He was left to his own thoughts:

If only she could see me now.

He chuckled without humor. It didn't matter what he thought of the past, but it seemed to be all he ever did think about. He stubbed out his cigarette and lied back down. Sleep returned to him, somehow, and with it the memories of summer nights spent with a girl. It seemed all too clear that the dream would end in heartbreak, just as it always did. 

A few rooms down the hall, a man named Elvis Presley took out his guitar. He was a traveling musician, and had decided to spend the night at the hotel. He had laughed a bit at the name, and asked the desk-clerk about it. His answer had been it is what it is. Elvis played a little song, humming softly along as he did so. He stopped, satisfied with his work before he set the guitar down easy on the couch. He stared at it. It had been a gift from his mother before he had set out to follow his hungry poet dreams. If anything, this pit-stop would be a short one, and it had food, which was a plus. He smiled, with a fresh cigarette between his lips. He had gotten quite a few looks from the maids when he had stepped into the hotel. He supposed he was handsome; no, he knew that. Of course, he did. But he was not looking for a relationship on the road, as appealing as one may be. Besides, it seemed the maids were caught up in their own troubles. 

Elvis yawned and stubbed out the cig. His stomach rumbled to be followed with his chuckle. He mumbled, "I guess it is lunchtime..." He grabbed his coat and stepped out of his room. 

In the hallway, an odd aroma met his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose, but continued walking until the smell became almost unbearable. He knocked on the door closest: "Excuse me, but what kind of bacon are you cooking in there?" He chuckled at his own joke. He knew it was no bacon he was smelling; no bacon had ever smelled like that.

On the other side of the door, someone grunted.

Elvis knocked again.

"Alright, fine, how could I be at your service?" These words were rushed out the same instant the door flew open. Before Elvis, stood a long-haired blonde man. His dark circles were prominent from the blue eyes they hung from. His clothes were rumpled, but he did not seem to care.

Elvis smiled. "There was a funny smell from your room and -"

The man scuffed. "That's weed to you."

Elvis opened his mouth to speak.

"And you ain't getting any of it, either," he snarled. 

Elvis did not know what to say. For some reason, he stuck out his hand. "My name is Elvis Aaron Presley. It's nice to meet you."

The man shook his hand. "Thomas Earl Petty, only call me Tom please." 

As he shook Tom's hand, Elvis noticed Tom seemed to be more polite than before, even if he had not apologized for his prior rudeness. Not that it mattered. Elvis knew he had meant no harm.

"Would you like to head down to lunch with me?" Elvis asked him.

Tom shrugged. "Sure, it's either that or smoke and sleep." He smiled, sort of, though it was not a full one. His hand lingered in his pocket, where he felt the cold metal of the room key. Then, for some reason - fate, perhaps, he and this stranger named Elvis headed down to lunch, together. Fate was a weird thing, Tom had to think.