he thinks, Burnt milk is unacceptable.
‘Just the soup then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Working tonight, are we?’
‘Yes.’ Room Service Boy wears his purple suit to prove it.
‘Club Card and Air Miles, please.’
‘I don’t – ’
‘No? Will this be all then?’ Banana Tray Hair expedites her customers speedily.
Room Service Boy nods in agreement.
‘Your total comes to $1.52 with tax. Do you need help out with that?’
Banana Tray Hair smiles at Room Service Boy again. The receipt for the soup belongs in his pocket. Not since his last time chatting with Banana Tray Hair has Room Service Boy heard so many questions in a row. All directed at him.
‘We are closing in ten minutes, shoppers. Please finalize your purchasing choices. Thank you for choosing Safeway, and have a good night, Soup Boy.’
His cheeks match his purple dickie bow tie. He imagines saying, ‘Now you have a good night too, Banana Tray Hair, ma’am,’ but his tongue congeals the words. The best he can do is a squeak of thanks as he shuffles toward the yawn of the automatic door.
Back across the parking lot, he wonders how many ways a person could be helped out with a can of soup. After the 437 steps to the hotel, Room Service Boy spins through its revolving Plexiglas door, bounds into the lobby and shouts, ‘Six!’
‘Get that soup to the kitchen at once – he’s closing soon.’ The Front Desk Man taps the receipts for the day into a tidy ruffle of a square. ‘It’s for the shut-in in Room 32. And don’t spill it either.’ Room Service Boy never spills.
Sliding on the wet kitchen floor with a tin of Campbell’s Tomato Soup in his hand, Room Service Boy eyes The Cook. The Cook grumbles about closing time while Room Service Boy squishes his soles back to the mat. With milk, he remembers, this soup is an excellent source of calcium. His lips move slightly when remembering, but not enough to cause a stir. He brims over all of the six possibilities put together, the six possible ways a Safeway shopper might be helped out of Safeway with a single can of tomato soup.
1 Banana Tray Hair pays for the soup.
2 Banana Tray Hair carries the soup to the hotel.
3 Banana Tray Hair opens the can of soup.
4 Banana Tray Hair cooks the soup.
5 Banana Tray Hair pours the soup in a bowl.
6 Banana Tray Hair delivers the soup to Room 32 without spilling it.
Of Room Service Boy’s six possibilities for being helped out with the soup, he deems Number 6 least plausible, since she would probably spill some of the soup, marring his impeccable record of food delivery. ‘The grilled cheese must be golden brown and cut to corners,’ he says to himself. ‘It’s my job,’ he repeats for assurance. The Cook doesn’t notice Room Service Boy’s lips moving at all.
§
The Tooth, the Whole Tooth.
Paper Boy woke before the sun warmed the room. He smelled of minty, waxy peaches as he writhed on the carpet in his blue underwear, all flossed up with nowhere to go.
Rick and Serge were sawing themselves to sleep.
He picked and frayed and broke the floss, along with one of his good straight teeth. A bottle opener freed his ankles, then his shaky fingers collected a thin line of red-and-white string. He found his pants and jacket beside the toilet. His soppy T-shirt was fit for the tub. He didn’t look in the mirror, and he didn’t look in the mirror of the Checker Cab he called from the lobby. He tried to erase the lines on his wrists. Silly doodles in red pen. Tracing gums with his tongue, he realized he’d swallowed part of a good straight tooth.
Paper Boy let out a crinkle, paying the cabbie slightly less than was due. Dollar bills, quarters and nickels. He felt thin and shy. Parched.
‘That’s enough, buddy. Don’t give me all your damn change.’ With a paternal glint, the cabbie continued, ‘Go wash your face, and maybe you should sleep some. It’s supposed to rain today anyway. Christ, boy, you don’t look so hot. Should I take you to the hospital?’
Paper Boy hid his wrists with the cuffs of his jacket. He left the cab door open behind him, and his voice box seized up. A broken crank. Without a thank you, he spat blood to the curb.
He was missing his watch, a good Timex, with a band that buckled. His rubbery muscles sprang and sprung toward the river. The Demerol in his veins numbed his legs from the knees down. After the cabbie stretched his strong arm behind the front seat to shut the open door, Paper Boy turned around to wave, to check if his wrist still worked. An elastic band waiting to snap a question. A pensive palm bent slightly.
‘You can’t wear a watch now anyway,’ he said to his wrist.
§
Hangnail for a Wink.
Between the creases of her pillow, Miss Lamp picks the sleep from her eyes. An itch on her cheek brings her left hand out from under her side. Congealed blood, skin and toilet paper drag along the polyester bedspread. She sucks in her cheeks like a lemon. Pins and needles tickle her immaculately shaved underarm, sewing themselves into the lapel of her collarbone. Her eyes blink wet.
‘That was smart,’ she says. ‘I need a band-aid.’
Leaning over the side of the bed, she reaches into her carry-on, beams at her manicure kit and zips slowly around its corners. It’s full of shiny picks, files, clippers, tweezers and scissors. ‘Security is blind,’ she says, pondering the possibility of hijacking an airplane with a pair of well-sharpened nail scissors. Just a glimpse of an emery board and her finger throbs like an eardrum at 10,000 metres.
She roasts germs from the tweezers’ steel limbs with her cigarette lighter. When the handles get hot she stops the flame with a lift of thumb. Hygienic. Wiping away the soot, she picks off five minutes’ worth of paper, skin and nail. Almost to the moon. Running her finger under the tap eases out a wince. ‘Water take me home,’ she sings, almost in key, dancing her blue toenails beneath the bathroom sink. Two of four Hollywood-style globes snap and hum.
Turning the cold tap left, she lathers up the one hotel soap cake not already in her travel bag and puts her finger in the bubbles. The sting brings a squint. The squint brings wrinkles. She holds the squint for certainty. She holds the squint to tally a census.
Fourteen. Six under the right eye and eight under the left.
The winking eye has one more wrinkle than the last time she checked. In a hotel room similar to this one, with a north-facing balcony, waiting for Campbell’s Tomato Soup, she counted thirteen wrinkles. Now it’s fourteen. It makes her twenty-three look twenty-three. Her winking eye deserves rest. With eyes barely visible in the bathroom mirror, she decides to not wink at Room Service Boys or pilots or dentists
