Feet up and book in my lap, I am working at the extended stay hotel in south Denver, again—of course, when I say ‘working’ I mean that I am balancing the life and death of patrons in five-minute intervals. I am three pages from the end of a chapter when I hear that beep-beep-beep sound trucks make when in reverse. I keep reading, waiting for the noise to go away. It doesn’t. I look outside but I don’t see any trucks. Truck noise with no trucks, this is a mystery. I am about to keep reading, trying to get to the end of the paragraph, when the realization settles in my mind like a gentle snowfall: fire and smoke alarms make beeping noises too—damn.
I adjust the weapons belt around my waist and fling open the door to the hallway. Game time. I would love to write that my mind was racing but that would be a blatant lie. Sluggish from energy drink withdrawals, my mind is slowly warming up and keeps repeating the same thought: I don’t remember the words to “Navidad, Navidad,” how will I save the Latina in Lacy lingerie?
I did not have to walk far to “investigate the warning” which is good because my legs are still sore from 12-miles of endurance training on Wednesday. The door directly across from my room is ajar and smoke is sauntering out in a melancholy fashion, we appear to have matching levels of ambition. A girl in her mid-twenties is holding a spatula in one hand, she uses the other to prop open the door. She is wearing pajamas. A man’s voice inside asks if he should pour water on it.
“Did you open the window?” I ask the girl in pajamas.
She says, “Yes,” and with that, I walk away. Leaving the decisions to the girl involved always seems to work for me.
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