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Looking for Eddie

Jenene Ravesloot

    The second floor of what used to be an office building; the click of the hotel’s metal elevator door as it opens and closes; lights that blink on and off in a long hallway; scent of piss and stale beer; a carpet that slinks around the corner and disappears. I slide a tool that looks like a dry erase marker into the port at the bottom of a Onity lock. One backwards glance. Jake should be exiting the stairwell. Christ, he’s never where he ought to be, but I’m in. Water running over in the bathroom sink. A white toothbrush, with toothpaste, still curled like a worm on the bristles, slithers toward the edge. A can of shaving cream, and an old heirloom Bronson razor in bright nickel finish, aren’t going anywhere fast in spite of the water. A breeze blows in from the open window that looks out onto a fire escape. The sound of a whistle moves down the street as I turn off the faucet and close the bathroom door. We missed him I say to Jake when he finally catches up. No use asking Jake where he’s been and why it takes him so long to get here. He never says. I riffle through the contents of a suitcase: stained underwear, socks, two V-neck sweaters, and a pair of wrinkled slacks. I open bureau drawers. I close them. Empty. Not even a Gideon. I begin to pour the contents of the wastepaper basket onto the dirty hotel carpet. Tissues! Tissues! Tissues! We pat our guns and take the stairs; lift our coat collars in unison when we hit the street. Glare of lights. Oil-streaked streets. Oil rainbows in gutters. Jake and I go our separate ways. I comb my hair in a storefront window. Not bad. My reflection looks almost serene..

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