Fall/Winter 2006 - Mendocino Art Center

FictionSOUTHERN CROSSby Eleanor CooneyBefore they try to go to sleep in their hotel room, Daveand Elaine check out the fire exits, so that later, in the dark,when the halls are choked with smoke and flames, they’llknow the way out. Back in the room, they shove a dresseragainst the door.They’d walked the eight blocks here from the L.A.Amtrak station, in the dark, lugging their bags. They’d gottenoff the train from San Francisco with no idea at all of wherethey’d sleep that night, and had used the battered, statickydirect-line hotel phones in the station, calling six or sevenand getting fairly close to panic before they found a vacancyat the Pacific Grande, confirmed by a Chinese-accentedfemale voice. They walked because they were sort of brokeand didn’t really know what an L.A. taxi would cost. Theblocks turned out to be the really, really long ones you sometimesfind in the bleaker neighborhoods of cities, and thefurther they got from the station the longer the blocksbecame and the more desolate and Bladerunner-esque thestreets.When they finally sawthe hotel’s orange neon sign,they began to believe that theywould live through the night,and stopped at a taco stand,the only place open, andbought two burritos and a sixpackfor their dinner. In thelobby, three or four largewomen in bathrobes and anold man in a wheelchair wearinga cowboy hat watched TV,and the desk clerk Dave hadspoken to on the phone satbehind a window of bullet-proof glass. They rode the ricketyBarton Fink elevator, cables groaning and clanking, up to theseventh floor. People lived in this hotel full-time; on the wayto their room, they passed a hand-lettered sign outside of adoor over a box of beer bottles: “THESE R MY BOTTELSTAKE THEM AND I KILL YOU.”They’re miserable and exhausted. Their cat, Maurice,had been killed by a car in front of their house the eveningbefore. He’d been safe indoors for the night, but a womanthey knew had paid a surprise visit after dark and Mauricehad slipped out when Elaine opened the door. They hadn’tmissed him until hours later, after the woman had left andthey’d finished packing. Elaine went outside and called andcalled, then got a flashlight and found Maurice.God damn people who drop in without calling first,Dave had said. It’s the rudest goddamn thing in the world. Itshould be against the law.It’s not her fault, Elaine said. She didn’t come over hopingMaurice would get out and get killed.Yeah, well, she did come over, and he did get out, and hedid get killed.They dug a grave in the backyard, taking turns with theflashlight and the shovel, and buried Maurice in a paper bag,shining the light into the bag for one last look before they puthim in the hole. They got about three hours of bad alcoholpollutedsleep, then rose at dawn to drive to San Franciscoand the train.Rich travel-agent friends had arranged the trip, a freefive-day “cruise” between L.A. and Ensenada. Just pretendyou’re travel agents too, they said, working for us, checkingout the ship. It leaves from Berth 93 in San Pedro. Bon voyage!They’d slept a little on the train, twisted into weird positions,heads bouncing, then waking up and staring out thewindow for a while.It should be against the law to drop in without callingfirst, Dave said along about Santa Barbara. He kept thinkingabout Maurice in his paper bag under the dirt.In their room at the Pacific Grande, the air is tropicaland motionless, too hot for even a sheet. They lie sleepless onthe saggy mattress.She’s a goddamned bore anyway, Dave says.It wasn’t her fault, says Elaine.That’s debatable, Dave says, getting out of bed andcrouching at the window to watch their neighbors across theairshaft. A woman in a bra and half-slip moves around heroverhead-lit room. A man, fully clothed, sits on a bed drinkingmilk out of a carton. Come look, Dave invites Elaine.Watching the man and woman across the way helps themforget about Maurice. Maybe, just maybe, they can sleep.In the morning, Elaine uses the phone in the lobby totry to find out how to get to San Pedro, thirty miles away.Nobody has any idea—not the travel agency, not the companythat owns the ship. One woman she speaks to tells her torent a car. She slams the phone down. The old man in thewheelchair is listening, and tells her they can get out there bycity bus.32