The Car Crash Effect- Chapter Two

The young man sighed restlessly and fidgetted, uncrossing his legs and crossing them again in the other direction as he sank back into the curved, modern art style form of the lightly padded cream armchair. He pushed up his sleeve exasperatedly so that he could examine his watch once more. The harder he stared at it, the more inclined the minute hand might be to move, perhaps out of feeling awkward. It remained, however, precisely thirty-six hours until a short Mexican man would leave a blood red stain on blood red hotel room carpet.

One of the elevators made a sharp ping, startling awake the bell boy in his pressed red blazer who stood attendantly in position to meet the requests of guests as they checked in in a manner that encouraged as many tips as possible. When they could get away with it; newspapers were brought to rooms by the page.

There was a light hiss as the polished, gold metal doors slid smoothly open and a lone gentleman stepped out, holding the doors as they attempted to close until his dignity had had time to file out of the carpeted, velvet walled box after him.

The man; old but not elderly, strode past the bell boy; who optimistically held up a cupped palm for a tip, and sat in one of the vacant armchairs. (They were definitely the sort of chairs you sit in, rather than on). He had perfectly straight white hair, combed back and fine, a thick white moustache, wore a dark blue suit, jacket buttoned, over a white shirt and a blue and white striped tie in a windsor knot. Of course, none of this mattered, because as he crossed his legs commandingly and pored sternly over a (broadsheet) newspaper, his face focused, weathered and unwrinkled, the Texan man in the business suit at the reception desk bellowed obnoxiously into his cellphone, stroking one of his chins as the pretty, pale young red headed receptionist stroked his ego.

"We're so happy to have you back with us so soon, Mr. Tanner" she sycophanted sycophantically. "Will it be your usual suite?" she simpered on in her trill, Bible-belt accent.

"That's great, honey. No, no, he had it coming. I always say; if you can't hold on to your woman, someone else will. Am I right, or am I right, huh? Of course I'm right." Mr. Tanner snorted into his cellphone, giving laugh after nauseating belly laugh like some Confederate Santa Claus, speaking loudly enough that the entirety of the strapping, broad foyet, or better yet, the hotel itself, could join in guffawing at his unique wit.

He nodded provokedly in the direction of the pretty young woman behind the desk, cursing her inwardly. Damn the help. Did she not realise it was rude to try to do her job while he was on the phone at the head of her queue? He shot her a disdainful glare laced with all the Southern hospitality he could muster, and she seemed cowed.

"Rach, honey, that's fan-God-Damn-tastic. Y'know what? I'm just checking into The Monument now- Yeah, on business- I know I do, but hey; I'm a winner, not your husband. Yeah, ex-husband. But Rachel- shut up a second- come down here, Rachel- you can help me relax and enjoy your first three day weekend with a real man. Ok, your first three day weekend with a real man that you don't have to lie about. It'll be like Mardi Gras all over again. Forget the kids, shit, leave 'em with him, let him be grateful he got some custody. Fine then, send them to your parents' or a girlfriend's or something. You're coming here, I insist. I'll call Bryan from my room and have him book you a flight and stuff for tomorrow. Bye, sexy." He ended his phonecall as charmingly as he had held the conversation and gave the red headed receptionist the privelege of a second chance.

"Mr. Tanner; your friend Ms. White's recommendation means that your application to the casino's Platinum Club has been accepted this time" she said through varnished white teeth and cushioned, flawlessly crimson lips, never once breaking the smile that was the one condition of her employment. "Would you like to complete your membership now?" she asked almost too sweetly. "There's just one form to fill out."

"Whoo, you better believe I do, honey" Mr. Tanner whistled over-emphatically, slapping his abundant thigh in a manner that only a stereotypical Texan could. He gleefully remembered Ms. White as the scalp he was most proud of- she had been an amazingly enthusiastic screw and had a body that was worth breakfast, aswell as dinner- and silently cursed the pretty young receptionist for being a representative of the casino that was only just now honouring his considerable custom. "Why thanky'all... Lisa," he said to her, suddenly all chide and charm, staring intently at her own considerable custom that she had concealed somewhat beneath her uniform blue blazer in an attempt to subdue her sexuality gone awry (she really could have been a best laid plan, he thought) under the guise of reading the thick black block capitals of her name badge as she pushed an official looking sheet of paper towards him.

At that moment (because significant events always occur at "that" moment) the doors behind Mr. Tanner that separated the cavernous, richly furnished hotel lobby from the never ending roar of taxi cabs and Elvis impersonators' costumes outside parted. No one would have thought that the paper thin glass doors did much to prevent noise entering the lounge, but the sudden din that for those brief moments invaded a room in which the only previous noise had been a lone Texan's sense of self-importance was immense enough to attract the attention of everyone except Mr. Tanner- no matter how immense the noise had been, it was still dwarfed by his ego.

Lisa, the young man with the watch, the old man with the dignity, the bellhops and the receptionist at the other end of the desk, however, all watched a man of about thirty who looked as if he'd come straight from a Mathletics club meeting advance across the room, thanking God with each step that none of them had noticed him first struggle to open the door in the wrong direction upon his arrival. He had a minimalistic black hold-all in one hand and a chip on one shoulder as he strode dramatically up the red carpet that ran from the doors to the front desk.

His cheap shoes were scuffed and fastened with velcro, and his white socks showed where his creased cotton trousers were fastened too high. His green-on-white polkadot shirt wouldn't have looked so awful if he had had shoulders, and his bow tie suggested that it was probably tucked into his underwear, which were probably a pair of small white Y-fronts. He wore a cheap seeming, generic black, woolen overcoat, had bowl cut hair and bifocals. He kept his gaze on his feet as he stepped humbly beneath the decadant chandeliers, heart clammy and palms pounding.

Beyond the red carpeted region designed to make guests feel like celebrities, the floor was tiled in large white and small black diamonds in sequence, and extended some thirty feet left and right. The tiles; buffed and polished each morning by a soul who truly worked for their minimum wage, dimly reflected the elaborate designs on the towering ceiling. On the back wall were the two sets of frameless glass double doors, and the obligatory set of automatic doors with their peeling "DISABLED ACCESS" sticker. To the right was the lounge area; fitted with its urns complete with ferns, bureaus complete with beiros, piles of files and chairs of chores (neither of the two gentlemen seated looked particularly staff-friendly). To the left, perpendicular to the rarely attended to public lavatories and a couple more ferns, were two ten-year-old vending machines.

The reception desk spanned the middle third of the front wall, and was manned (or rather womanned) by two uniformed receptionists, armed with computers, paperwork and telephones, seated on pivoting chairs of mundane blue in front of numbered mailboxes that corresponded to various hotel rooms and departments and a board from which hung keys to available rooms. On either side of the desk was a symmetrical, golden doored elevator, each guarded by a symmetrical, golden trimmed bell boy.

The awkward looking man made his way tentatively to the corner of the reception desk. He observed the receptionist at the other end giggle obediently at the shoulder-prodding jokes of a bulky, swollen man whose narrow eyes were creased and whose body was rocking with guttural laughter after having announced something or other about his hat being made from cowboys.

He watched her pass the man a blue ball-point pen with "The Monument" stencilled in silver on the side, logically chained to the desk so as to prevent stationery theft from negating the casino's obscene daily takings. He gazed longingly at her seamless, glacier-white cheeks, her petite, rounded nose, her gleaming scarlet halo and her glittering smile. He watched her lips move, seductively, and realized she was speaking.

"We just need some basic administrative information for our clientelle database, Mr. Tanner" she cooed.

He desired nothing more than to ask her name so that it would cease to be inappropriate of him to declare his undying love to her.

Aroused from his trance and aroused, he turned to his own receptionist. He gazed shortingly at her furrowed, pockmarked, mottled beige face, her ropey noose of matted, graphite grey hair and her disinterested frown. He watched her whiskered lips move repulsively and realized she was speaking.

"Can I help you, sir?" she rasped in a voice that sounded like cigarettes.

He desired nothing more than to ask the other receptionist her name so that it would cease to be inappropriate of him to declare his undying love to her.

"Could I get a room for seven nights, please?" he finally answered, shocked at the sound of his own voice and crushingly humiliated at how high he thought it had sounded. He cleared his throat.

"Name?" she demanded.

"Ryan Masters" he told her timidly.

"Single or double, basic, premium or honeymoon?"

He scanned her face suspisciously, thouroughly, trying to determine whether or not she was offering options to cruelly mock him.

"Single basic" he responded after satisfying himself that she didn't care enough about him to mock him.

"That'll be four hundred and twenty dollars, Mr. Masters" she sighed. "I'll put you in room one twenty-eight." She handed him a small golden key, hanging from a large rectangular block of red acryllic plastic; labelled on one side with the digits "128" and embellished on the other with "The Monument Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas" in gold caligraphy, below which was the hotel's emblem- the three solid pillars and tetrahedral roof of a Roman villa. She waited impatiently for Ryan Masters to take the key- she was anxious to end her shift and take a cigarette break.

"Thankyou" Ryan Masters sighed, taking the key and handing her an unambiguous, small-name credit card. He was at first startled to feel his bag taken and wallet lightened by the bell boy who had materialized to his left. He waited impatiently for the receptionist to max-out the balance of his credit card- he was anxious to get to his room and masturbate.

His discomfort was interrupted and intensified by more of the Texan's louder-than-necessary humour and jowl-quivering laughter as he filled out the dream-receptionist's form.

"Ethnicity? Well, from the people I saw on the news during that Hurricane Katrina shit, I'd say New Orleans is a pretty Ethnic City, am I right?" he chuckled monstrously. "Matter of fact, I don't trust a white guy from New Orleans!" he spluttered on.