For Rent: one mildly attractive, 24-year old, college dropout. 5’10”. 180lbs. Moderately athletic build. Brown hair. Blue eyes.
Pay in cash and he will fulfill your fantasy, your needs. For only $9/hour, he will accompany the construction site through the night. For only $9/hour, he will attend a wedding or quienceañera, but don’t ask him to dance, he will only stand at the door. For only $9/hour, he will be the personification of a fire alarm system for an extended stay hotel during a remodel. For only $9/hour, he will be your anything.
The sign in the parking lot advertises “Studios Kitchens from $189.99 weekly,” there is no mention of the other, more refined amenities. A few examples: the wonderful aroma—a drywall plaster, cigarette smoke, and dirty carpet concoction that permeates the hallways; the ambient noise— a cacophony of television sets, bored children and short tempered parents always audible in the hallways; the security— a mildly attractive, 24-year old security guard who walks the afore mentioned hallways every twenty minutes. It’s this last feature that I find the most unnerving.
Because of the renovation process, the hotel’s fire emergency system is partially disabled so I am filling in—I am a rented set of crutches—as required by the fire marshal. Every twenty minutes, I walk each hallway (past the non-smoking rooms on the third floor that reek of marijuana) doing a modified version of the Look, Listen & Feel drill from CPR. I Look for signs of fire, I Listen for a fire alarm and I Feel a tired resilience built from twelve-hour shifts and Red Bull.
“Foot patrol of all three floors and stairs,” I write in my reports, “No signs of leaks, smoke, or fire. I did not hear any fire alarms. The fire alarm panel is clear. No guests smoking in the hallways.” The patrol takes roughly five minutes, giving me a fifteen-minute window before I have to start again. This is just enough time to update my Facebook status, masturbate to online porn, snack on sea salt roasted, California almonds, etc. “Foot patrol of all three floors and stairs…”
If I do stumble upon a fire alarm, I have a detailed list of instructions to guide me: 1. “In case of alarm proceed to main fire box and use proper procedure to silence alarm.” 2. “After silencing the alarm proceed to the area indicated on the fire panel and investigate the warning.”
There are no further instructions. Letting my imagination fill in the blank space, I teeter between two fantasies:
1. In slow motion, I kick down the door of a studio kitchen suite on the second floor, fire extinguisher in my right hand; I use my left hand to scoop up a Latina wearing lacy lingerie. I throw the damsel over my shoulder (my left one because the metal plate in my right shoulder aches in the winter) and run to a secluded place, where I serenade her—with a romantic song I learned from the free CoffeeBreakSpanish podcast—as the building burns down behind us. Navidad, Navidad, hoy es Navidad, con campanas este día hay que festejar. Navidad, Navidad, porque ya nació, ayer noche, Nochebuena, el niñito Dios
2. After discovering a fire and a smoldering set of curtains (caused by a lit joint in a non-smoking room on the third floor), I run to my suite on the second floor and quickly stuff my laptop, iPod, Perfect Push-Up travel set, and lunch box into my backpack. As I sprint down the staircase, taking stairs two at a time, I’ll dial 911 then wait for the fire truck in my car while snacking on sea salt roasted, California almonds.
Feeling a bit peckish, I am leaning toward the latter. If they tenants knew the line between living and being engulfed in flames balanced on my weary shoulders, would they smile at me in the hallways? Or move to a different hotel?
I’d leave, pack boxes and move, but I’m scheduled here again tomorrow.
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