While she went to the lobby to cook the pizzas I took a shower. I could have stayed under the hot pelting stream until the Kansas River dried up, but for the ceiling fan failing to clear the sultry fog and making a godawful racket to boot. I got out and thought, to hell with it, and opened the bathroom door halfway. I took a hand towel and wiped the steam off the big mirror above the sink counter.
Knotting a bath towel low on my hips I stood looking at my misty reflection and noted the gray hairs among the black ones on my chest; the tattoo I had needled on my right pec and not finished, the name 'Rose' barely hinted at by 'Ro' and the beginnings of an 's.' I had had to use a mirror to see where to poke the ink-soaked string-wrapped needle and it was just too much of a bother. Well, my apologies, Rose, wherever you are.
Knotting a bath towel low on my hips I stood looking at my misty reflection and noted the gray hairs among the black ones on my chest; the tattoo I had needled on my right pec and not finished, the name 'Rose' barely hinted at by 'Ro' and the beginnings of an 's.' I had had to use a mirror to see where to poke the ink-soaked string-wrapped needle and it was just too much of a bother. Well, my apologies, Rose, wherever you are.
At that time I had been on the road for almost fourteen years. How much longer? Another eight years, actually, but I didn't know that then, and wouldn't have been fazed if I had. I wondered about the Roadents, what few of us there were, and where each of them might be. Just about anywhere; each on his own journey to the unattainable destination: a place to settle down in.
I dried my thinning and graying brown hair and left it a tangled mess, going out to the bedroom waiting for Moira's response to me when she should return. It was then I noticed a cell phone on the dresser, charging.
The screen was dark. I supposed she would contact Josie to find out which Motel 6 he was shacked up in. Josie the girly boy. I was okay with that. But I didn't want him/her joining us, except during the day, when anyway I would be busting up concrete or digging ditches, compliments of Labor Ready; that is, if they had work for me.
A knock on the door and "It's me!" She didn't want to hassle with the card key. I let her in and the room was engulfed in the aromas of tomato sauce and pepperoni. I was immediately famished. She asked about the shower as she looked at the dark curly hairs below my navel. I was pleased by her smile. "Not much water pressure," I said.
I was taking a beer and the soda bottle out of a styrofoam ice chest when she mentioned wanting to "see" the indoor swimming pool after dinner. Then she brightened, telling me about the free breakfast in the lobby from 6 to 9 and how she looked forward to blueberry muffins and waffles. That was swell, but I was wondering if she would opt for a bath instead of a shower.
She glanced at the steamy air lingering in the bathroom, and in just that one brief moment I saw the tension in her eyes. I might have imagined it, but I don't think so. I couldn't help thinking that she was trying to overcome a phobia of sorts, that maybe she expected me to understand and help her, without having to open up to me or even explain things in broad strokes. I hoped that just my being there and giving her what she felt she needed was enough. I didn't have to do or know anything else. I would play it by ear. I would just go with the flow.
"I'm gonna wash myself up," she said. She left the bathroom door partly open. She hated the clattering freight-train sound of the ceiling fan and turned it off. I took off the towel, tossed it into a corner, and pulled a pair of cut-off jeans from my backpack. I could have watched her strip to the buff from my position in the armchair at the table were it not for the dripping steam on the bathroom mirror. Instead I opened my pocketknife and cut a slice of pizza the size of my foot.
I heard the tub faucet going. So, a bath it was.
A few minutes later I heard her humming and singing snatches of unfamiliar songs. She was slapping the water at times, and would ask herself questions without answering. I remember one in particular. "Should I drown it?"
Was Moira crazy? I stared at the bed as I ate. It was impeccably made. It was a work of art. It was Victorian prudence. It was a hypocrite disguised as a piece of furniture. It was an operating table. A morgue slab. The psychologist's couch for the walking dead. It was where Moira and I would learn more about each other in five minutes than we had learned all day. But first... the pool.
The screen was dark. I supposed she would contact Josie to find out which Motel 6 he was shacked up in. Josie the girly boy. I was okay with that. But I didn't want him/her joining us, except during the day, when anyway I would be busting up concrete or digging ditches, compliments of Labor Ready; that is, if they had work for me.
A knock on the door and "It's me!" She didn't want to hassle with the card key. I let her in and the room was engulfed in the aromas of tomato sauce and pepperoni. I was immediately famished. She asked about the shower as she looked at the dark curly hairs below my navel. I was pleased by her smile. "Not much water pressure," I said.
I was taking a beer and the soda bottle out of a styrofoam ice chest when she mentioned wanting to "see" the indoor swimming pool after dinner. Then she brightened, telling me about the free breakfast in the lobby from 6 to 9 and how she looked forward to blueberry muffins and waffles. That was swell, but I was wondering if she would opt for a bath instead of a shower.
She glanced at the steamy air lingering in the bathroom, and in just that one brief moment I saw the tension in her eyes. I might have imagined it, but I don't think so. I couldn't help thinking that she was trying to overcome a phobia of sorts, that maybe she expected me to understand and help her, without having to open up to me or even explain things in broad strokes. I hoped that just my being there and giving her what she felt she needed was enough. I didn't have to do or know anything else. I would play it by ear. I would just go with the flow.
"I'm gonna wash myself up," she said. She left the bathroom door partly open. She hated the clattering freight-train sound of the ceiling fan and turned it off. I took off the towel, tossed it into a corner, and pulled a pair of cut-off jeans from my backpack. I could have watched her strip to the buff from my position in the armchair at the table were it not for the dripping steam on the bathroom mirror. Instead I opened my pocketknife and cut a slice of pizza the size of my foot.
I heard the tub faucet going. So, a bath it was.
A few minutes later I heard her humming and singing snatches of unfamiliar songs. She was slapping the water at times, and would ask herself questions without answering. I remember one in particular. "Should I drown it?"
Was Moira crazy? I stared at the bed as I ate. It was impeccably made. It was a work of art. It was Victorian prudence. It was a hypocrite disguised as a piece of furniture. It was an operating table. A morgue slab. The psychologist's couch for the walking dead. It was where Moira and I would learn more about each other in five minutes than we had learned all day. But first... the pool.
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