I pour chemicals into the indoor pool, just like Eddie said to, then kneel by the damp edge and pull out a test strip. It turns different muddy purple colors like a junky mood ring. When I’m through, he’s still at the front desk reading the sports section under the protection of the lobby Christmas tree, a genteel fake Douglas fir. It’s 12 feet tall, covered in warm white lights and herald angels.
The hotel is the oldest West of the Mississippi, a Victorian building with tiled floors, a large Spanish courtyard, and a wooden bar that, I'm told, was visited by Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders.
Tonight an elegant older woman is sitting on one of the overstuffed lobby couches, wearing wool pants and holding a highball. She reminds me of my old Aunt Alba, who I used to pick up from her beauty appointments.
Her presence makes me feel conscious of my own overgrown hair and wet knees. All I can manage these days is working long enough hours to achieve immediate and dreamless sleep.
I feel like a useful ape, which I suppose is how I like it.
As I walk up to the desk, Eddie pulls his attention away from the paper and looks right through me. Finally, I’m identified.
“You got anything else that needs to be done?”
“Hey man come here.”
I know just how this is gonna go by his shit eating grin.
“Look at this…”
He points to a photo of a strong-looking female point guard for the Silver Stars.
“She’s nice right?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Hey, have you seen that extra box of pens?”
Eddie’s rectangular glasses are still pointed down at the handsome basketball player, laser focused.
“No – maybe Paco took them.”
All the people that died at the hotel — and there are more than a few — are known to the staff by name.
Paco Cordero didn’t wake up one morning in 1935 on the third floor. He was a rancher, and a drunk, probably ‘cause he was a widower.
Eddie laughed like an uncle.
“Alright, take your break, it's winding down.”
I grab my thin jacket. It’s darker and colder in the courtyard, where I like to smoke.
Before heading out, I pace around a little, checking to make sure all the indoor plants have been watered, touching the soil.
I’m first alerted that something is wrong by an ancient screech.
I turn to see that the woman on the couch is now on her feet. Something is flapping around the room. And one of its wings isn’t right.
It crashes into the tree, knocking down an ornament.
Then it hits the window like thunder, leaving holy marks.
I sweep the staircase and saltillo tile, then squint through the white lights, before catching a clear sight of a bleeding Inca dove. Somehow, it found its way in.
There is no one else in the lobby, except for the woman who looks like Aunt Alba, clutching her leather bag to her chest.
And Eddie, who gestures at me to do something about it.
So I chase the broken bird around for a while, until I’m really sweating, until I’m sort of laughing and dizzy, opening my cheap jacket like a net.
When it lurches at me wildly I don’t flinch.
Later, when I finally take my break out in the courtyard, I let myself think about Celeste. Her brown hair on the day it happened, her loveliness.
-- Camille Sauers is a writer from Texas with work in the Infrarrealista Review and Hobart. She co-hosted the podcast Texas Overture.