The Secret Life of A Hotel Room

They are alive, you know.  And not only that, they have feelings, too.   Don’t ask me how, but they do. 

I think it’s because they absorb the energy of their occupants.   That means every time you walk into one, whether it was just vacated an hour earlier or one week earlier,  the residual energies are still there. 

That is until you walk around the place, use the poddy, lie on the bed (sans covers please, I hear those things are a veritable petri dish of contagion) and get your emotional DNA all over the room.

You can’t stop and think about who stayed there before you.  If you did, you’d go crazy and never stay in another one ever again.  You can’t think about the amount of hygiene (or lack thereof)  employed by the previous toilet squatter; of the debauchery that took place early on the very same Sealy Posturpedic on which you now lie.   

Let’s face it, hotel rooms, regardless of the high dollar interior designers who were paid big money to make canary yellow wall paint go with navy chintz, are hard to be really comfortable in.   They’re not your home, not your tastes.  They’re nothing other than rooms in a big building owned by corporations which employ the same men in the same black vests and matching trousers to whom you gave some money who in turn gave you a  key that unlocks a somewhat tastefully appointed room with a bed and marbled pissoir.  For the duration of your stay it becomes way station, a port in a storm…a place to rest your head until check out time at 11 the next morning.

Maybe, but hotel rooms, regardless of the amount of stars with which Michelin rates them, are always cold and starkly impersonal and they have such a temporary feel about them.  I think they’re designed to make you want to go back home.   But unlike home, you have no attachment and certainly, no responsibility to a hotel room.    That’s the best part:  you can simply walk away from them; shut the door on your way out, and leave a mess, if you want.  There are always hotel maids.    But they only clean up the mess that can be seen.   There’s that psychic mess…the room is crowded with paramecium-like, paisley shaped flotsam that swirls around pne at  head level.  Psychic mess is invisible to the naked eye, but in plain sight for those lucky enough to be born with a Third Eye. 

But whether you can sense it or not,  it’s all there,  angst–the remnants of a fight.  Passion that was exuded.  Expended tears of joy; tears of sadness.   Someone needed to escape a bad relationship;  a couple  came there to help repair one.   Someone stayed there for a job interview.  Someone needed a place to stay to attend their mother’s funeral.   Someone stayed there in order to be closer to her sister who was giving birth to her first child.   One man booked the room simply because he couldn’t tolerate being at home.

Every reason for checking in converts a simple 14 x 21 foot room into sanctuary…to a degree, anyway.

I stayed at a five-star hotel in downtown Houston this weekend.   I paid a lot of money to come to the gripping conclusion that the water tight compartments of my past which were never all that water tight to begin with, are suddenly becoming very water tight and in addition to that, they’re rapidly closing.   Sealing shut is a more appropriate term, I think.   And this closure isn’t because of anything I’m doing;  they’re closing out of attrition, I think.   I don’t go back  as often as I used to, but when I did, I’d stay there a while…make camp.   I’d wallow in a time that I felt was sooooooo much better.   These portals were wonderful; they separated me from the bad things…and  the good things, too;  those trusted ‘go to’ memories I kept resuscitating for any number of reasons.   But you have to let go when they let go of you.  They do that sometimes.  Either way,  it’s not easy, especially if you’ve spent years breathing so much life into them.  

But I stopped doing that this weekend.   I cut off their lifeline.    Don’t ask me what the correlation was between a five star hotel room and all of this shedding,  it was just the right place at the right time.    As a result, so many ghosts were released; so many demons were freed.   They’ve been with me all of my life, at first conspiring together to conspire against me, determined to haunt my memory banks, then that morphed into full-blown competition.  They’d fight a battle royale for supremacy and for the title of the BMIC (Big Memory In Charge) until I, the ultimate puppet master realized my own power and said, “No, I’m bored.  Now, go immediately to your respective corners.  Hell, my past wasn’t even all that ideal when it was my present!!” 

And this weekend, that’s exactly what I did and when they stopped, so did I.    I stopped beating my very last dead horse.    

And it all came to a head in room 1002.    

I can only imagine what it’s like in there now.   Deafening silence; a stifling mood.  Its latest occupants feeling this uncomfortable sense of regret and loss for no explicable reason.  But the question is, can this hotel where I stayed can make this room alright again for the next guest?   Can it be saved?    Yes, providing this well-known inn, with its overly attentive wait staff,  its courteous maids and bell boys,  its gracious parking attendants, knowledgable someliers and of course,  its annoyingly obsequious front desk clerks,  also has an exorcist on staff.

And someone well-versed in the removal of large animal carcasses.  Especially the metaphorical kind.

db

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One comment on “The Secret Life of A Hotel Room

  1. did you at least steal a towel?

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