I slip out the front door with the few seconds I have left. This particular angle keeps me tucked away from Eddie’s sight line, at least for now, but my options of where to go from here are limited.
Palm Springs is full of these hipster retreats, boutique hotel chains revamping every scrappy old motel and turning them into something both luxurious and selfreferential. The campy desert aesthetic remains, in a way, but it’s been transformed into a haven for pool parties and social media posts.
I fucking love places like this, but the vibe is certainly different when you’re being chased down by the crazed superhuman corpse of a fabulous gay icon. A zombie who is, apparently, out thereskinningpeople.
This property features a lobby and a diner out front, the two structures disconnected from each other. Locatedbehind the diner is a large central pool area, and the guest rooms surround this oasis in a giant, two-story horseshoe. Because this is a high-endmotel, there are no internal hallways, just door after door lined up along the pool and parking lot. There’s also no easy way out.
I hurry down the left side of this cement loop, wondering if I can hustle to the cover of some nearby cars, and then realize there’s absolutely no way I’ll make it without Eddie spotting me. There are just too many empty spaces.
Instead, I clock a nearby vending machine, scurry over, and duck behind the large rectangular device. This contraption is just far enough from the wall for me to wedge myself behind it, slipping into the crack so that I’m fully obscured save for from one very specific angle.
Old vending machines might seem like an odd thing to find at these updated boutique resorts, but that’s exactly the vibe they’re going for. This machine has been retrofitted with a paint job to match the casual beige-and-brown color scheme that surrounds it. The usual rows of sugary, caffeine-charged beverages and ranch-flavored potato chips have been replaced by a selection of quaint, Instafeed-worthy goods like postcards from local artists, a tarot deck, crystals, a tiny bottle of hot sauce, CBD gummies, and condoms.
Bells loudly jangle as Eddie yanks open the lobby door and heads inside, a reminder for me to cover my ears. I tuck my chin as I cower in the shadows, like tilting my head down might somehow make me even smaller, and it’s because of this angle that I notice a trail of ants.The creatures are hustling along in a thin, single-file line, charting a path between my feet.
They are organized and efficient, perfectly in sync with one another.
My eyes linger on the chain of insects, until suddenly their presence triggers a memory so profoundly important that, despite my steadfast dedication to staying quiet, a faint gasp slips through my lips.
My daughter’s poolside words dance through my mind.It’s called para-moans.
The mental filing cabinet springs open, folders leaping out and reorganizing themselves as new information pours in. I consider the bizarre scent that seems to permeate Eddie’s skin, but I also remember the lilting specks of neon pink dust that surrounded him like a cloud under the ultraviolet light. I recall Eddie’s decision to leave a door open in the back room of Club Flamingo, a seemingly insignificant choice that suddenly means a lot more when you consider one thing:airflow.
While most of my social media connections involve fashion and lifestyle, there are a few Instafeed suggestions that take me off the beaten path. Thanks to Marlo borrowing my phone from time to time, for every nine “get ready with me” videos, there will usually be one nature documentary. Typically, these clips come in the form of a rescued puppy or an unlikely animal friendship between a goat and a cheetah, but right now a different kind of nature clip sticks in my brain.
The video was about pheromones, tiny airborneparticles used across the animal kingdom to create a variety of responses in those that receive them. It featured thousands of ants overwhelming a much larger insect, the pulsing throng of creatures working together with otherworldly efficiency.
But the explanation wasn’t supernatural, it was biological. They were using pheromones to communicate, the ant queen compelling an army into complex formations through the power of her scent. Across the animal kingdom, pheromones are known to cultivate attraction between various partners, but it’s not just sexual attraction. These airborne chemicals produce familial love, friendship, and in some cases, a blinding compulsion to trust.
I can still hear the voiceover: “In humans, pheromones are registered through our olfactory gland, a round mass of tissue located deep within our nasal passageways.”
I remove my cupped hands from my ears and, instead, use one of them to pinch my nose tight.
The only question is, will this be enough? It hasn’t been long since I inhaled a whiff of Eddie’s odd popcorn scent, and as far as I know his commands last around twenty minutes even after leaving the area.
If I were a surgeon, I’d have no problem removing my olfactory glands in the name of survival. Fuck it, who needs them? I’m not a surgeon, though, so whatever I come up with is bound to be a little sloppier.
I unplug my nose and carefully lean out from my hiding spot, peering through the lobby windows. Eddie is inside, but his focus is elsewhere, talking sternly to thefront desk clerk. Directly to my right is the flat glass of the vending machine. I’m too close to get a clear look at every potential selection, but I don’t need every selection. I only need one.
My heart skips a beat as I catch sight of the tiny hot sauce bottle. I might not be able toremovemy olfactory gland, but I can sure as hell confuse it.
I instinctively reach for my back pocket, then cringe when I remember that Eddie has my wallet. Fortunately, there are other options. This particular machine is as vintage as they come, likely picked up at a flea market and refurbished just enough to function. None of the modern bells and whistles are here to stop me from snapping off the rusty old lock that keeps its translucent front panel secured.
In that case, the only thing I have to worry about is noise.
I crouch down and find a small sharp rock, then stand back up and peer around the machine. The bells on the lobby door have yet to jangle, so Eddie is probably still inside, but he’s no longer visible through the windows.
With little time to spare I reach my arm around and bring my stone down onto the lock in one hard, swift movement. It snaps off, hitting the ground with a softthunkthat’s louder than I’d hoped, but not enough to alter course. I pop open the door, extract the hot sauce, then click it shut and immediately retreat around the corner.
There’s another ringing bell as someone, likely Eddie, staggers out of the lobby.
No time to think. No time to hesitate. I unscrew thecap and tilt my head back, then shove the tip up my nose and take an enormous sniff.
White-hot sensation rocks me like a firecracker to the face, more than just a wallop of spice but a shock to my entire nervous system. The sharp, blinding pain that rips through my sinuses is only the beginning, tears instantly pouring down my cheeks and swamping the back of my throat in an effort to combat this unexpected abuse. I can feel my stomach heave up into my esophagus, and it takes everything I can muster to push it back down, to deny the bodily rejection of this fiery toxic agent. My eyes are already swollen and puffy, struggling to stay open.
One thing’s for sure: I don’t smell any fucking popcorn.
“Spooort!” Eddie calls.
