“You don’t know anything about me.” Dean gives me a dark glare and turns away from me. “Let’s keep it that way.”
We stay through til the end of the set. It’s 2:30 in the morning when they finish, and Dean has gone through another beer, another martini and a shot, yet he’s not sloppy or belligerent or loud. He sits quietly on his stool, probably waiting for me to say something. I’m just happy I made it through the night without dying or combusting or anything in between.
“Give me the keys.” I hold my hand out to Dean.
“What? Why do you want the keys?” It’s hard to tell, but his voice is slurring.
“I can drive,” I say. “You’re too drunk.”
“No. You’re not driving me five hours through the night. It’s way, way too late for you to be driving.” Dean waves me off.
“I meant, I’ll drive home,” I say.
“No. Like I said, it’s too late. We’ll just stay at the inn.”
“What?” I ask.
“Don’t you have, like, a whole suitcase packed for your little road trip?”
“Yeah, but, us? Together? In an inn?” I’m flabbergasted. “It’s like a 40 minute drive. I think I can handle it.”
“You haven’t driven in what, a year? Do you even have a license?” Dean is zipping up his jacket. “No, thanks. Let’s go.” Dean drags me by the scruff of my puffer jacket out of the bar and through the main doors of the inn. I can’t tell if it’s me holding him up, or him holding me up.
We walk through the hall like we’re in a three-legged race contest, but we make it to the counter in one piece. The woman behind the counter looks sleepy and is slow, but she gives us a good price on two rooms that I put on my credit card. I make a note to tell Dean in the morning that he owes me $64.
Finally, I feel like the one in charge as Dean follows me like a puppy on a leash to ournext-door rooms. The hallway is dusty, dank and dimly lit. I fumble with the keys, because Dean is towering over me, swaying, watching as I put the key in every which way.
“Are you the drunk one?” He laughs, and then immediately belches.
“No.” I finally get the door open and once in the room, he immediately flops onto the small double bed, not bothering to take off his long jacket. I dig through my tote bag once more, looking for my bottle of ibuprofen. Unwilling to give up the whole bottle, I open the lid and shake out two for him. I hold my hand out, two red pills in my palm.
“Here. Take these. Your head is going to kill you in the morning.”
“I don’t want these,” He groans, waving my hand away.
I put them on the nightstand anyway. “Unzip your jacket so you don’t suffocate.”
“I’m not a baby, I can take care of myself,” He moans, shedding the jacket like a second skin. At least he has the wherewithal to listen to me.
“Fine,” I say. “Goodnight.” I align his shoes by the doorway, and close the door, praying he’ll still be there when I wake up.
3
My alarm goes off at approximately 8:00 a.m. Although I’ve been awake since at least 7:00 a.m., I never bothered to turn the alarm off. The soft light from the overcast sky shines through the thin curtains, even though they’re tightly closed shut. It was dark and dank last night, but at least it’s just dank now. The room is cold, barely pushing 64 degrees, even with the heat on. I slept huddled under a sweater with two pairs of socks on, refusing to use the duvet, because I doubt places like this clean those things.
The white sheets are old and yellowing, and rough against my palms. I pull myself up and out of the bed and take the two steps to where my bag is sitting on the lone, red fabric armchair nestled in the corner by the window. The 70s style plush carpet is soft, but I can’t help but wonder what kind of crumbs are hidden and what kind of bacteria festers underneath the fibers.
I root through my bag, and pop both my medications into my mouth. I wash the little blue and white pills down with my water that tastes a little bit like plastic. This should be totally routine for me now, but it still feels strange knowing my entire sanity depends on something I could crush between my fingers.
At any rate, I walk towards the door, desperate to put on a fresh pair of pants. I didn’t shower last night because of the mildew in the tub and I slept in the same outfit I wore all day as I was too tired to change. My suitcase, haphazardly zipped, is left wedged underneath the door handle to prevent any possible intruders. After I un-wedge it, and unzip just enough to fit my arm through. I pull out the first t-shirt and pair of pants I can get my grubby fingers on.
Tossing them over my shoulder, and I head towards the bathroom. I stare at myself in the mirror in the fluorescent light. I look like a tangle of a person, my hair lopsided and mangled. The bags under my eyes are an unhealthy shade of blue and purple. My lips are peeling with a fresh layer of dead skin, probably from the fact it was dry and freezing in this room overnight. I make a mental note to maybe get some extra lip balm somewhere along the way.
I turn the sink on and it sputters to life with two bursts of water, like it hadn’t been turned on in ages. Who knows when the last person to stay in this room was? The layer of dust accumulating on the carpet and in the closet feels thicker than a wool blanket. I splash water on my face before fetching my toothbrush and toothpaste to brush my teeth like the good daughter of a dentist that I am.
While I only look marginally better, I certainly feel magnitudes better with a fresh shirt, pants and most importantly, fresh socks. I fold the sheet over the mattress, and sit on the edge of the bed to put my shoes back on. While it feels like I’m moving at a snail’s pace, it’s only 8:15am. Is it too early to wake Dean?
I know I have over a whole day, just about 36 hours, to kill before the next performance at The Monarch Resort in Camden, but I’m eager to get to Portland and hopefully get on the road. I sit on the edge of the bed, debating my options for anotherfifteen minutes. As soon as the clock ticks to 8:30, I jolt up. I make sure my suitcase is zipped and locked, and leave the room.
