Hotel Christmas

The young lady at the front desk is in particularly high spirits.  Probably because in 43 minutes, she gets to go home.   To family.  Eggnog.  Presents.  Decorations.

She smiles so I smile back.  Christmas spirit is so contagious. 
So, I decide to hurry back to my room.   I've got 9 channels on my TV waiting for me.  Excluding fake news CNN, the 3 Spanish channels and PBS, of course.

Standing at the elevator, a middle aged couple push the button.  Are you going up?  They sternly ask. Considering, we are on the first floor, yes, I silently think to myself as I politely nod in the affirmative.

First thing, I do is look for TBS on my 36 inch TV with almost no good channels to watch.  THANK GOD, I'VE GOT TBS.  Any minute, the most overrated Christmas movie in history will begin its annual 24 hour marathon.... the one with the nerdy kid with no personality and Ward and June Cleaver are his parents... the movie where he gets super excited over a BB gun and gets his tongue stuck to a frosty pole.  THIS IS THE CHRISTMAS I FINALLY LEARN TO LIKE THIS MOVIE, I think silently to myself.

I had to work today.  And I don't work retail or Uber or even fast food.  Then again, even most fast food places are closed today.  But not my company.  Mr. Scrooge made me come into work. 

Finally, found TBS.  Weird that Friends is on.  IT'S ALWAYS ON.  I guess I'll just wait for A Christmas Story to start and leave Friends on for now.

Mom texts.  I'll be by later and I'll bring food.
Christmas food!  I wonder to myself if it will be turkey or ham.  Will she bring stuffing and an apple pie?  I'm hungry but my 17 pack of Hot Pockets from Costco can wait another day.

I'm feeling like a hobo minus the stick and attached sack.  Fun fact:  It's called a bindle.   It dawns on me that no one talks about hobos anymore.  Maybe, they went extinct when trains no longer were a viable means of transportation. 

I step outside my room to empty my trash.  The maid is pushing her hefty cart which is covered in towels and sheets down the long hallway.   Feliz Navidad, Senora, I almost say but then stop myself.  Everything is racist these days so I figured I better not assume she speaks Spanish just because she's Hispanic. 

Feeling a little cabin feverish, I head back downstairs to sit in the comfortable lobby.  They have Wi-FI so I'll just look on Twitter and play a game or two of Scrabble on my phone. 

A blind guy with his dog are at the front desk talking to the cheerful receptionist.  I see him every few days.  He lives here, I believe.  
A shirtless guy walks in and sits next to me.   Did you just go swimming?, I ask.  No, why?  he replies.  And I begin to wonder if he even knows hes wearing nothing but swim shorts. 

This hotel deserves a high rating on Yelp or one of those travel sites.  The staff is friendly.  The people staying here don't look like hobos or hookers.  My room has everything excluding good TV channels.  I couldn't ask for more.

Mom texts again.  I won't be by tonight.  Miss M isn't feeling well. 
She lives with a 94 year old woman and is also her caregiver.  Kind of a live-in job.   Mom likes the free housing and the pay she gets BUT she's exhausted from all of Miss M's nagging.  She's old enough to be YOUR mom, I remind her constantly.  The irony floats over her head.  I get tired of my mom's nagging and she gets tired of Miss M's nagging.   A generational thing, I suppose.

Miss M is a sweet church going lady.  She nags at mom for watching any TV show that has guns in it and loves fake news CNN.   If you say fake news and CNN in the same sentence to her, she will have a stroke.   So, mom just smiles and texts me about the nagging.  And then an exchange like this will happen:

Mom: What are you doing?
Me:  Watching Shark week.
Mom:  Whats with you and sharks?  You and animal shows?  Are you a marine biologist now?

Yup, she starts nagging me over MY choice of TV shows.  It's a generational thing, I suppose.
 
Well, since mom isn't bringing me Christmas food, I guess I'll head up to my room and break open my giant box of Hot Pockets.

The joyful receptionist loudly tells me to have a great evening.  Probably because it's her job.
 
A couple stands in front of the elevator with me, I smile and say Hello.  Neither of them reply.  I silently think, How rude.  No hello back or even a Merry Christmas?

Probably because it's only July.  


 

Home

I grew up in a few different houses.  Got older and lived with a few friends.  Had a roommate, a stranger, here and there.  Rented an apartment.   I've lived under many roofs. 

I've only called two places Home. 

That house I grew up in had a ghost.  She waited at the end of the hall for me every night.  I would sprint from my room to moms'.   Some nights, I'd walk slowly just to make sure she hadn't abandoned me.  That house was haunted.  Neighbors, all of them, were drunks.  The one white family were busy bodies.  Calling CPS on my mom every time, I urinated in the front yard.   

That house in that trash strewn neighborhood surrounded by three specatcular lakes where I learned to fish without bait, was home.  
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Years later, I learned about family.   Had the amazing luxury to live in an upper class neighborhood with best friends and in between missionary trips, their nuclear two parent family.  We even had a foreign exchange student there.   It was glorious.  I never spoke at dinner when the parents were present.  I'm awkward in family settings.   Especially, around fathers.

That house was haunted by a living ghost.   2003, he found peace.  God in all His mercy.

That was home.
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This place is a hotel, apartment, halfway house and rehab center all in one.  My room is 68 degrees.  Cold, just how I like it.  I only get 12 channels on my 36 inch flat screen TV.  I'm spoiled.  I want more.   This is temporary.  God in all His mercy.  This is temporary.

Its a cliche in movies when writers isolate themselves so they can focus.  My window leads out to a Goodyear Tire Center and Costco.  Not exactly inspiring or scenic.

This isn't home.  It's lonely.  The inspiration to write flows like the emptiness in the dances of the Bacha Bazis.  But I dance anyway.
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The obese 18 year old girl at the front desk had me sign a form promising I wont drink or do drugs.  I'M A FREE MAN, I tell myself.   But since I do neither and have no vices, I happily signed my name.   And the judgmental cynic in me looks at her with resentment.  If you're pushing 400 pounds at 18, you're the mess. Not me.  God in all His mercy, this is temporary. 
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I want to feel sorry for myself.  I can't. 

A week ago, a friend contacts me to tell me her young chocolate lab dropped dead.  And she's devastated.  I don't spoon feed friends with cliches.  So, I just say I'm sorry.  Because I am.  God in all His mercy.   Time is linear.  Time is linear.  Time is linear.   And this is temporary.

And then tonight, I wanted to feel sorry for me.  Just once.  A woman I will always love contacts me.  She is haunted by those Bacha Bazis.  And the inspiration to do the one thing I do well enough, flows like the River Jordan.  

God in all His mercy.  Love is linear.  Love is linear.  Love is linear.  And permanent.

Like Home.