Bone Hotel
Yarrow Paisley
A gathering commenced in my hometown. From all the reaches of the world it seemed came riches to my town, to celebrate some historical event. I watched their gleamy limousines arrive into and leave the circular drive of the hotel. Emergent from the black cars were wizened bejeweled men bent and cracked with so much age in them I could not stand to look. But I looked! I could not refrain, O could not!
They hobbled into the lobby and waited patiently for service. The bellhop fainted from fright. I was enlisted to carry their bags and cases up to their specially appointed rooms. I looked into the eyes of him as he doled out my tip. His eyes were generous, but his tip was not. I could not reconcile this paradox, but I had work to do. I delivered each rich man to his reserved suite, and each was unstinting in his gaze, but stinted in the tip. I could hardly object; I was not a bellhop.
The last rich man to arrive was no man. She was beautiful, and I was in love with her even when I could see no more of her than her single emergent leg. Her eyes found me immediately, even though she could not have known me for the bellhop, since I had not donned the uniform (it did not fit). She smiled, and took me captive, and gestured to her trunks which were strapped to the roof, being so large. I took them down with help from her chauffeur, and together we hauled them up ten flights of stairs (she insisted on stairs) to the penthouse suite, which was the most luxuriant suite in the hotel. Her chauffeur departed, and she called my attention to her gaze. I nodded, mute. There was no tip.
I saw her almost constantly during the festivities. She presided over the events, for she was a personage of no small eminence in our country. Every now and then, as her gaze swept over the crowds from her high ceremonial throne, I thought I detected a hesitation in her eyes, as though she was searching something out. I believed it was me she was searching for. I did not present myself to her gaze, although I yearned to do so.
The final night of the gathering, I hid myself in one of her trunks. When she arrived back into her room later, I listened as her servants prepared her for her sleep. When they tiptoed out of the room, I heard the restless rustle of her sheets. I fell fast asleep to the sounds of her bedtime pleasure.
I awoke at the limousine’s ignition. The trip lasted fifteen hours. Eventually, doors slammed, trunks thumped the ground, and I in my trunk was lifted and dropped. I heard her voice. She ordered her footmen to carry all the trunks to the Bone Room. I shivered when I heard. After being carried up many flights of stairs, my trunk was dropped, and unlatched. After I was certain the footmen had left the room, I emerged cautiously from my hiding place. Blinking, I saw nine boys standing in nine open trunks, their backs hunched in pain postures. A tenth trunk was still shut. After a few minutes, the lid eased upward and a boy stood stretching his arms till his bones crackled. This incited me to stretch in a similar fashion, and it was the sweetest agony I had ever known. All the boys stretched their bones now, and the sound of crackling filled the room.
We said nothing to each other. A few hours later, eleven footmen entered and guided us to our specially appointed suites. There were mirrors in my suite, and I gazed for hours into my wizened eyes. They were not generous, but there is time yet.
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Yarrow Paisley lives in Western Massachusetts, 3rd Floor, and is a member of the Step Chamber. His writing has most recently appeared (or soon will) in Sein und Werden, Abjective, Barge Journal, Clockwise Cat, Kerouac’s Dog Magazine, Exclusive Magazine, and Gone Lawn. He has a website at yarrowpaisley.com.