Marie Anderson  Pink Palace

Pink Palace has had little traffic today. It’s Christmas Eve. I’m glad 1968 is almost over. None of my resolutions came true. I’m still 15 pounds more than I want to be. I’m still tied to my ex-husband through work, though we’re getting along better now that he’s got a girlfriend. I still haven’t gotten my GED. Or looked into nursing schools.

I sit behind the counter listening to The Beatles on the radio tell Hey Jude to take a sad song and make it better. I like Yesterday better, when all my troubles seemed so far away, when I was a dewy bride of 17. Now I’m a chewy broad of 32, working the counter of my ex-husband’s Pink Palace on Chicago’s south side, a motel dedicated to love and romance, offering deluxe rooms, short stay, color TV, and truck parking.

I’ll do better in the new year coming. This’ll definitely be my last year at Pink Palace. I’ll get my GED. I’ll stop drinking and smoke only a little dope. I’ll definitely look into nursing schools.

I think I’d be a good nurse. Blood and vomit don’t scare me. My hands are steady.

And nursing would give me lots of material for stories. I’ll definitely start writing again in the new year. I think I’d be a good writer. I got A’s in English, grammar, and composition the two-and-a-half years I managed of high school, before I met my ex and eloped, had a baby, lost a baby.

Outside, sleet attacks. The bell over the door jingles. A man shuffles in.

Shit. Right away I see he’s a vet. He’s wearing dog tags, tattooed arms, no coat, and a rank smell. He’s probably just been kicked outta the flop house down the street.

“Any room in this inn?” His smile shows crooked teeth brown as his skin. His crooked nose drips yellowish snot.

I do what my grandma advised, try to remember that this undesirable was once a sweet clean baby. I conjure a cherubic dimpled child, shiny-hued as the coffee with cream I love. But then a sneeze explodes from a bruised face. In a flash, the sweet child vanishes.

“The Mission kick you out?”

“Right after I kicked the shit outta an asshole.”

“Justified?”

“TV in the community room was recappin’ the year’s big news. When MLK”s assassination came on, the asshole whooped and applauded.

My ex did too, I thought. We’d both been behind the counter back in April watching it happen on the little TV.

“You served in Nam?”

His shoulders slump. “You hate me too?”

“I was on the streets in August,” I say, “protesting the war at the Democratic National Convention.”

He snorts. “And thusly, we elected Tricky Dick our next prez.”

I don’t appreciate his snort. He probably didn’t even vote. “Sorry,” I lie. “We’re all booked.”

Suddenly, the radio’s DJ interrupts Steppenwolf’s Born to Be Wild. “Apollo 8,” the DJ exclaims, “is orbiting our moon! The first humans to achieve this historic triumph are three American astronauts!”

“I wonder,” the vet says, “what they’ll find on the dark side of the moon.”

A staticky voice on the radio answers. “Houston, please be informed there is a Santa Claus.”

The vet and I both burst out laughing. Our laughter oils my crabby ears, tickles my tired heart, lifts my flat-lined lips.

“Okay,” I sputter. “I guess I got a room for you. You want Little Vegas, Hawaiian Waters, or Cleopatra Tubs?”

“Which is cheapest?”

“We rent by the hour. How much you got?”

From his jeans pocket he pulls crumpled bills, places them on the counter. Five dollars.

I nod. Escort him from the office to the suites out back. Unlock the door to our premiere suite: Hawaiian Waters.

“You can stay ‘til noon tomorrow. There’s a mini pool inside big enough for three strokes.”

A smile blooms his face. He sighs, steps into the room.

“Merry Xmas, miss,” he says as I close the door. “Tonight, I swim!”

Miss. Sweet. I walk back to the office. Sadness seasons my sudden bit of Christmas cheer. Tonight he swims, but tomorrow, I know, he’ll continue to sink.

Back in the office, I shut off the radio, then crouch and rummage through shelves under the counter. Under a stack of my ex’s Playboys, I find it. Still in the plastic sack from the book store where I bought it last January. I take it out, toss the plastic bag, and place it on the counter. It still smells new and fresh. Test Preparation for GED. I open to page one. DSS

 

Marie Anderson of Western Springs, IL. a law school dropout, has had her stories published in numerous magazines, and is a married mother of three young adults.

This story likely fits thousands of women, but has a hopeful ending. To keep these good stories coming, donate here to Downstate Story.