Sip of Assistance

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The taxi had a distinct scent to it; somewhat like the musk that lingered during winter on the faded white buses back in Iowa City. The trudge of the lower class, the acrid bustling of life on the lower end of the scales. I rolled down the back window of the yellow crown victoria to cut through the stench. A green sign whizzed overhead reading: Vine Street Exit and we veered to the right, a warm coastal wind ruffling my long auburn hair. I took a deep even inhale, letting out a long slow exhale, the kind I'd usually feel relaxing my joints. But afterwards, the muscles in my back remained tense. Another interview. Another no. Sure, they'd dressed it up, but it was still a no.

When we pulled up to the modern red building with its wide windows and globe-bulb lit sign, I didn't wait for the driver to get to my door- not that he looked like he planned to. With a quick toss of cash, a murmur of " no change," and a pull of the door handle, I clamored out and away from the pungent smell.

The May sun shone bright even as it powered through the haze of pollution that lingered in the Los Angeles skies above me. The breeze touched my bare legs and softly swirled my sundress as I opened the door to The Redbury Hotel, an oversize purse in tow.

I walked across the polished black and white checkered floors towards the stairs and found myself slicing perpendicularly through a short line of people waiting to be checked in at reception. Another two flights of shiny walnut stairs, a brief walk down yet another confined hall and found myself walking through the door for room 312. I locked it behind me, leaving the Do Not Disturb sign swaying in its permanent spot on the knob.

With a plop onto the modern black canopy bed, I dislodged the neatly tucked bohemian comforter and inadvertently jostled the hodgepodge of disorderly frames on the wall above my head. The pictures of unrelated inanimate objects, places and quotes swayed for a few moments before settling. My eyes casually surveyed the space, the hint of a yawn in the back of my throat. The walls alternated between deep crimson high gloss paint and faded filigree wallpaper in browns, greens and yellows. The floors transitioned from walnut hardwood in the hall to short navy carpet in the bedroom, giving way to a pale gray stone in the bathroom. A 60 inch flat screen television shared a home atop a white dresser with a round artificial topiary. The busy bedroom's contrast of prints and colors created the illusion of occupation; the way a closet's explosion can take on its own form after a long morning looking for something to wear.

Aside from the ornate decor, the hotel room was clean, like housekeeping had just left, like they'd just given me the keys today. Nothing was out of place. The clothes, shoes and accessories that weren't still in storage lay folded in the dresser drawers or hung in the closet, tucked away neatly out of sight. My laptop lay asleep in the nightstand drawer, my toiletries in appropriately sized travel bags sat under the sink, my snacks and sparkling water in the mini fridge. The only obvious proof of a tenant was the dirty laundry in a small basket in the bathroom, still more carefully placed than it had any right to be.

To say my flat in London had been different would be an understatement. Where the Redbury had color and pattern in spades, the flat had been bland; a white canvas I never bothered to paint. Where my items were tidily arranged here, the flat had the look of depression and procrastination winning out over will. It was a place for regrets, a witness to my failures. Not that my lodging had been the problem. It wasn't about leaving London so much as it was about leaving places that reminded me of him, places I still might see him, places he might be visiting with her. I let out a taught breath and scanned the room for something to focus on.

The digital alarm clock on the nightstand read 2:02pm, not that it mattered particularly. I still had nowhere to be. I chose the Redbury hotel for two reasons; Location and Clientele. Unemployment is a privilege of the independently wealthy, and my bank account was dwindling. Time to move forward.