To Be Logan

William Baron Hunt

Chapter One: Good Mourning

     The phone rings. My dreams shatter as I force my eyes open. With every ring comes a stabbing sensation in my temples, I feel as if my head is constricting with every obnoxious scream emanating from the phone.
     Staring at the ceiling, I curse the person who dares interrupt my much-needed slumber. Lying on my bed, I extend my arm over and pick up the phone. It's Tony, he asks me to work for him today.
     “What's wrong, Tony?” I ask, knowing full well what to expect.
     “Um, yeah dude, I am, like, totally sick,” he says in his surfer lingo.
      “Man, ask Ben to cover for you,” I reply, annoyed as hell. “I got hammered last night, and I feel really shitty myself.”
      “Oh, come on, Logan. I'll make it worth your while like I always do, bro. I'll drop the shit in your mailbox tonight.”
      “I dunno, Ant. Lifting bags and kissing rear-ends is the last thing I planned on doing today.”
     Asshole Tony. Classic of the scumbag to ask me to work for him an hour before his shift starts. Being very aware that he isn't sick, I accept his offer after painfully listening through the whole of his lame excuse. He is conscious of my financial distress; I am familiar with his half-baked pleas and harebrained schemes. Money is sparse lately, and he knows I am an easy target for his occupational freedom.
     At least there will be twenty bucks and a dimebag waiting in my mailbox when I get home tonight. Nothing like free weed and money for a thirty pack.
     Tony goes through a long and torturous thanking process.
     “Thanks dude, I knew I could count on you, man!” Tony says exuberantly as his sickness seems to miraculously subside.
     “Yeah, no problem.” My voice cracks as I rub the crusty shit from the corners of my eyes.
     “I owe you…” I hang up on him before he can finish his pathetic expression of gratitude. Little fucker.
     Searching around my night table for some cigarettes, my fingers wander upon a tattered paper box. I feel relieved to find some cigarettes to burn. Shaking the box, I soon discover the absence of the stimulants that should be inside. I can foresee the day of aggravation ahead of me.
     The anticipation of a smoke kills me. I really need one. Maybe she has some.
     As I roll over on my waterbed, my arm embraces air; there is a headprint in the pillow. She is gone. Another lay, another forgotten night of meaningless sex. Her sex drive has been driven; I am empty, teeming with countless beers and a bottle of bourbon. An unsettling feeling forms in the pit of my stomach.
     I get up and head to the medicine cabinet for some antacid. Reaching to grasp the mirror before revealing the medicine cabinet, I stop and stare intently at my reflection. A dismal, yet angry man stares into my eyes. He wants to break out of his prison and take over. I don't let him escape. I don't dare let him escape.
     Often times he whispers in my ears. His voice arrives and leaves like a series of passing winds. He tells me to do things, and gets angry when I fight him. The problem is he has been growing stronger, and I have been getting weaker.
     Ever since the episode
     I swing the mirror open viciously, and begin to pitifully search for my solidified saneness--my pills. Batting vials and bottles aside in a furious craze, I at last come across what will protect me from his angry nature, or more so his perverse sense of humor. I swallow the pill, and I feel confident that he will leave me be, at least for the next six hours.
     My head finds comfort with the little red pill, but the pit in my stomach deepens as I scrape around for the antacid on the floor. I pop two of them into my mouth, and chew on the chalky imitation flavors. Breakfast is served. Leaning over the cracked and toothpaste stained sink, my cupped hands throw cold water in my face; this will be my shower.
     My eyes have to adjust themselves a bit after I walk out of the sunlit bathroom back into the gloominess of my bedroom. I look across my room at my uniform hanging in the closet. The navy-blue outfit has a golden stripe going down each leg, and a matching golden braid on each shoulder. The uniform provokes the fiend, but the just-taken pill helps me keep my composure. Time to get dressed.
     My carpet is strewn with dirty clothes and empty beer cans. A journey awaits me. Skipping and maintaining my balance from the bathroom door to the closet, the mess reminds me of an obstacle course I went through in boot camp. I put on my pants, white dress shirt, and vest. At the top of my closet sits my cap; I fold the stupid-looking, roundish hat and place it in my back pocket. I hate the way the fuckin' thing looks on me. Out of clean socks and short on time, I grab a pair of dirty socks from last week off the carpet, and slide them up to my knee.
     Another day, looking pretty much typical. Before heading out the door, I check my pants for the Vorterol. It is there.

* * * * * * * * * *

     It's 6:30 in the morning. I am tired. I am hung over. I am on my way to work.
     Walking on the sidewalk is always a chore. Frequently, I find myself tripping over uneven slabs of concrete brought up by unearthed tree roots. My fancy black dress shoes have scuffs on them from days of previous encounters with dislodged sidewalk. Why do people plant trees between the small two-foot area between the walk and the curb? Trees DO grow. Fools.
     I rub the scruffy stubble on my chin between my thumb and index finger as I continue on my way. Making a scratchy noise, it reminds me that I have forgotten to shave. Didn't have time anyway. I reach into my pocket and pull out an aspirin. Without water, I pop it into my mouth and jog my head backwards. The white tablet gets stuck in my throat a bit before I can gather up enough spit to slug it down. After eight more blocks of tripping and fumbling, I find myself advancing upon the origin of my despair.
     Through the towering black cast iron gates and beyond the small rolling hills leading to the rustic manor house, the shy yellow sun peaks above the back of the mansion as if emerging from its hiding place. I look at the golden orb, and I want to puke. I should be sleeping, embracing the darkness fabricated within my dreams. Instead I am cowering in front of the morning's first light, rejecting the burning red star's idea of a welcome.
     Stay hidden. For God sakes, stay hidden.
     The mansion illuminates from behind, almost blinding my still tired eyes. Feebly attempting to block the overwhelming brightness with my hand, beams forcefully poke through my fingers as if telling me to go fuck myself. But I am not ready for sunlight, not ready for fake happiness. It is too early in the morning. Mumbling to myself, I tell the sun to fuck off in return.
     I am exhausted still, when will I wake? I place my hand on the gate and stop dead in my tracks; exhausted, hungry, and nicotine-deprived, I ponder the day ahead of me as I blankly gaze at the old mansion in the distance. The driveway, winding for a quarter-mile, seems to slither through the hills like a snake in water. As sunlight pours over the roof and floods the landscape, the countryside's fall colors seem to come to life. Flowers and shaped shrubberies spread throughout the front of the mansion like a virus, the bright colors and perfect profiles of animals reveal themselves as beams awaken them from the morning darkness. The perfectly green grass sparkles as light bounces off beads of morning dew. How beautiful.
     I am not primed for beauty. How sickening.
     Running my frigid fingers through my oily, unwashed hair, I realize that I sometimes fail to admire the landscape's beauty. Quickly, though, I snap out of my trance. Suddenly remembering that work sucks, I realize prettiness is of no value on a workday. This headache, the result of mixing hard liquor and wine, intensifies upon the thought of kissing ass for a whole day. Swollen eyes finally begin to open a bit, and I focus on the foundation of the concrete columns, the roots of my misery. Nagol would topple them.
     My eyes slowly climb up one of the four seemingly endless stone pillars. Standing strong and upright, they proudly suspend the leaf-covered roof above. Standing weak and hunched over from a long night of boozing, I can barely support the bell cap in my hand. As I think of the tale of Atlas, I shake my head and laugh to myself. How am I supposed to lift baggage in this condition?
     I am no Atlas.
     As I slowly proceed up the driveway to the front doors, I take a deep breath and dig around my pocket for a mint to conceal my liquored breath. All the searching through my pockets is dreadfully arduous and grueling, but I am motivated to find it. As impatience begins to take hold of me, my fingers push the Vorterol aside and finally wander upon a lint-covered mint. I wipe it off and savor it, being that I have not eaten a thing since last night's dinner party, except, that is, for a Vorterol and a couple antacids.
      Exhaling, cold breath engulfs my face, and then dissipates as a gust of frigid wind takes it away. I look at my watch. It is 7:05; I am five minutes late. Richard better keep his queer mouth shut. Expecting the inevitable, I gape at the doors and organize myself for yet another magnificent entrance. I am not equipped for pretend concern. I wish I had my flask. Some vodka would ease the pain.
     The elaborately carved and inlaid mahogany doors squeak slightly from the aggressive breeze, as if accompanying the distant rustling of the fallen leaves. Brass rails and handles are laden with fingerprints, a collection of greasy markings and fossilized germs. Must have been a productive morning. I wonder if there are any early checkouts as I walk in.
     I never know what to expect next at the Old Hammond Manor. As a reasonably experienced bellhop, I have learned to rely on my senses to aid in determining the type of day I am going to have. Based on what we see, hear, and smell, us bellhops can ascertain what type of people we will be dealing with, and what their tipping habits are. Most people are cheap bastards.
     As soon as I came in to cover for Tony, I just knew I was in for another long and unrewarding day of hard work. The job of a bellhop is not that much different from that of a garbage man's. For one, I never know what type of shit I am handling until I am knee-deep in it. And two, instead of taking the trash out, I let it walk in through the front doors.
     I proceed into the lobby with an upright walk, one suitable for a bellhop; it hurts just to keep my back straight. My nose cringes as I inhale the first round of air. It has the slight aroma of mothballs and the more prominent odor of cheap perfume. I find it ghastly and offensive. I pray to myself that it is not the remnants of another bingo shindig, even though I already know it is.
     Every last one of the green apples have been greedily pilfered from the two wicker baskets sitting on the registration desk; all that remains is the damp cloth that kept them fresh. A browning core left behind by a hurried guest patiently waits to be picked up and disposed of; it would remain untouched for hours to come. I catch a quick glimpse of the coffee stand positioned in front of the big picture window displaying the gardens, and see that most of the sugar packets are gone from their holders. There is still plenty of coffee left.
     My senses have not failed me; it is the work of cheap old women, otherwise known as purse-stuffers in the bellhop handbook. Senior citizens not only smell funky, they fail to understand the current value of a dollar to boot.
     “You are late again, Logan!” I hear momentarily after entering the lobby.
     I would rather hear chalk squeaking on a damp blackboard than hear Rich's voice.
     He annoys the shit out of me. His lisp and feminine walk, paired with his bullish temper and constant nit picking, really gets me going. Richard really provokes him…
     Nostrils flare and teeth grind. I remind myself to settle down and take three deep breaths. Relax, Logan.
     “Tony did not give me a lot of time to get ready, but I got here as soon as I could.”
      “Didn't Tony tell you that we had fifty early check-ins today, in addition to our regular business volume?” he says in his obnoxious tone, “You were supposed to be here a half hour early to help out!”
     My eyebrows dip downward and eyes blaze; routine breaths turn deep. Veins pulsate in my neck and forehead, ready to burst. Keep him behind those bars, Logan.
     “Richard…I had just under an hour to get here. Cut me some slack!” Richard knows I don't like him. If I weren't so cool with Mr. Hammond, he would have fired me a while ago.
     “Just because you are covering for someone does NOT give you the right to come to work late, Logan!” Richard rants on and on as a foul smell hits me hard. I search around the lobby with my eyes, trying to locate the source.
     “BlahBlahBlah, Blah Blah Blah,” Richard's words have no meaning to me. I am too preoccupied with the odor to even pay attention to this annoying jerk.
     Jesus, it is making me nauseous. However, nobody else seems to be affected by the smell, so I just assume it was the stink coming from my clammy, over-partied, and over-worked body. I haven't showered for about two days, after all. The smell dissipates just as quickly as it arrived, then I return to the bitch-fest Rich has in store for me.
     As I think about strangling Tony for his brain failure, my blood pressure begins to climb. I rub the back of my neck and bite my lip, as if ready to unleash on this pretentious fag for putting the blame on me. Putting on a counterfeit smile, I apologize for being late.
     I begin to wonder about the effectiveness of my medication, it has been just over an hour since my last pill. Maybe I should pay Dr. Andrews an earlier visit this week, just to be cautious.
     Why the hell did I agree to cover Tony's shift again? The irresponsible piece of shit, he always pulls a fast one on a Sunday morning, sticking me with a sixteen-hour workday. It is bad enough I have to work Sunday nights; I should be sleeping away the hangover this morning. He once again calls out of work with one of his countless excuses, while either Stanley or myself agree to cover his scruffy ass.
     It is my fault for being a broke alcoholic, and Stanley's fault for being just plain slow in the head.
     Tony was the most reckless of the bellhops. Working in Tony's world means disappearing from the front desk for a good hour and smoking a joint until either myself, or one of the others, track him down. How he has managed to stay employed here for seven years, I have no idea.
     Then again, who would want to be a bellhop for seven years?
     He is going to pay when it is my turn to get “sick” at the absolute last minute. I will make damn sure I am “sick” when some cheap-ass Europeans are booked. Where are you going get money for your marijuana cigarettes, Tony? Surely not from an Englishman, I can tell you that.
     Why won't Richard just get rid of him? I mean, for God sakes, Tony walks around like he has had a number of lobotomies, and Richard saunters around like he had a number of aenimas. Maybe Richard has certain favors performed for him when Tony comes back stoned from lunch break. Lord knows Tony would not remember anyway. My brain begins to formulate the image, and before the disgust takes hold of my face, Richard snaps me out of it with his high-pitched vigor.
     He reprimands me once more, turns his back to me, and heads back to the concierge desk with that limp-wrist strut of his. I would love to put my wing-tipped shoe up his ass. Oh, wait a minute; he would like that, wouldn't he?
     I look at my watch; it is 7:10 in the morning. I put on my cap, tip it to the side, and put on my poker face for the day. There is only one thing I can do to make the day go by fast. Get to work, Logan, get to work.

* * * * * * * * * *

     Around brunch time, the hotel starts to bustle. A flurry of activity erupts within the lobby and spreads to the hallway leading to the Oak Room, where meals are being served. People meet their friends and family in the main lobby after emerging from their temporary residences, eager to fill their stomachs with Chef Sydney's masterpieces before departing for their homes.
     Everyone is busy. Stanley is breaking a sweat while heaving bags in and out of the hotel, his large belly beginning to take its toll on his lungs and legs. Summer has a lineup of guests at the registration desk. The glare of the computer screen illuminates her milky-white skin while her fingers pound on the keyboard. I am constantly helping new arrivals upstairs to their rooms, while Richard attends to the concierge desk with that annoying smirk on his face.
     Eighty-five pound bags line the foyer as my eyes begin to burn from the sweat pouring off my brows. My forehead produces beaded droplets as if sprayed by armor-all. The tendonitis in my wrist flares up like a brushfire. What do I have to show for it? A pocket full of fucking quarters and the beginnings of what feels like a hernia.
     The lobby is typically packed with a good deal of senior citizens on a Sunday morning. They stay for breakfast before departing the hotel. After they finish with brunch, they swarm out of the Oak Room like angry bees out of a hive. I am like the beekeeper with a hole in his suit, often sprinting out of the hotel with my arms flailing in all directions, screaming at the top of my lungs.
     “Where is the bathroom?”
     “Why are there only three elevators in the hotel?”
     “When can we book our next stay?”
     Hmmmm, maybe it is in the direction of the huge sign with an arrow saying “restrooms”. Let me see, did I build the mansion? Do I work at the registration desk?
     Their requests often sting me. Get these bees off me.
     I try to maneuver around them with my cart, but they horde around me. They are everywhere. Old people suck. They are too slow to walk behind, and too hard to get in front of. And if, by chance, I happen to succeed in getting around them, they stop me with stupid questions. A claustrophobic angst takes hold of me; there is no escaping their needs.
     What I really want to do is knock the walkers right out from under their hands, then rip their false wigs off and have Richard mop the floors with them. And, if time allows, cleave the false teeth from their mouths and apply it to their asses, for all the times I had to kiss theirs.
     I approach my potential victim, honing in on the bottom of the cane. Preparing to kick the walking stick out from under him, we make eye contact. Unexpectedly, his innocent eyes help me in realize that this is not a fantasy. Sighing, I halt my childish daydream and ask him how bingo was last night.
     “How was bingo yesterday? Did you come out a winner?” I really don't care about bingo.
     “Oh, oh, well yes, I did happen to win last night, thank you,” his wrinkly prune-like face says in a gravelly voice.
     “And your day, sir?”
     “Huh, what about it?” he confusingly and defensively inquires.
     “Your day sir, how was it?” I say, raising my voice. I can give two shits about his day. Being fake is my job after all.
     Suddenly, I hear fingers snapping behind me before I can wait for his response. A middle-aged woman, laden in her dead animals and shiny rocks, rudely awaits my attention. I turn around and glance at her clammy make-up masked face with a bogus look of care. I recognize her from previous visits; she is a friend of the Hammond family. Ms. Snyder often comes around this time of year. Come to think of it, I see more of her than I do of the Hammonds.
     “How are you today, Ms. Snyder?” I ask in a tone my job requires me to use.
     “Bellboy, fetch my luggage from storage and bring it to Cedrick immediately” she declares in a snobbish tone. “I simply must not be late for my lunch arrangements!”
     You simply must need my foot in your ass, I think to myself delightfully. I turn to Cedrick at the door and nod him a friendly hello. He looks at me and winks in return; he understands my pain.
     I imagine he was in my shoes once, but there is one big difference between he and I. I would kill someone before I was a slave my whole life. A bellhop with dignity is a dangerous thing. A bellhop with a demon on his shoulder is something far worse.
     “Fetch”…for some reason that word just stabs me in center of my eyeball and twists. It tortures me, almost as if it suffocates me until my last breath of air. If there was a top ten list of rules concerning etiquette to bellhops, the first rule is never say the richie-bitch, upper-class word of “fetch”.
     What, am I some sort of household pet? Not that they even care if they come across as being offensive, they look at me as a dog anyway. Richard prefers to call our position a “professional servant”, more like a glorified slave if you ask me. At least a professional servant, like a butler or a chauffer, gets treated with some sort of respect.
     “May I have your baggage tags, madam?”
     She shuffles through her lipstick red purse that matches her high-heels. No luck. After continuing to search through the pockets of her road-kill jacket, she looks up at me with an irritated mug on her face. I don't like it when guests look at me with reproachful eyes, especially when their own stupidity creates their own discontent. It never fails; I am somehow responsible for their irresponsibility. The irony kills me.
     “I don't know where I put them. Can't you just go get them?”
     This dog wants to rip her leg off.
     He wants to rip her leg off.
      “Well, Ms. Snyder, I am going to need your help finding your bags since you don't have your stubs,” I say smiling with my unauthentic lips.
     “I am not going back there, I can imagine how filthy it is back there,” she arrogantly spouts.
      “I assure you that it is quite spotless, my lady. There are hundreds of bags stored, and it would just take a moment for you to point them out for me.”
      “You should know what my bags look like, I use the same ones every time I am here!!!”
     I bite my tongue and struggle to maintain my composure. The Vorterol continues to act as a leash, holding him back. However, like every leash, it can break when the tension strengthens. I am the owner tugging at the leather strap; he is the brutish animal ready to chew through it at any moment, pulling me in all directions, salivating over the pure thought of breaking free of me, turning on me like a wild animal.
     She follows me into the luggage compartment with her stuck-up walk and points me in the direction of her bags. There are three of them. Judging by their size, they have to be about seventy-five pounds each. The fact that they are on the top rack does not make me any happier to be here than I already am. Stan put them up there; I figure he should be the one to get them down, too. I walk her back out to the lobby and tell Stanley to get the bags down from the rack.
     While Stanley and myself see guests to the curb with their luggage, taxicabs pull up underneath the canopy in the middle of the semi-circular driveway. Slowly but surely, the lobby empties itself of geezers and their smelly luggage. They are called farts for a reason. Jeez.
     The last cab leaves, and I let out a sigh of relief in anticipation of a moment of silence. The corporate coke-sniffers should be getting here within the hour. They really dig special treatment. A real good bellhop can make a lot of money off these losers. I keep a separate amenity drawer of my own hidden in the storage room closet under a loose piece of wood. I have everything for the corporate client. Rubbers, rolling papers, a deck of cards, cigars, coke complete with blades and mirror, a variety of weed, phone numbers of hookers, you name it.
     The sound of a door slamming loudly catches my attention, and I turn around to see Stan closing the trunk of Ms. Snyder's ride. Stanley looks at the palm of his hand with a shit-eating grin as Cedrick pulls away in the shiny-black Cadillac; I could kick a field goal through the space between his two front teeth.
     Stanley works for room and board; he lives in the attic of the mansion, which was converted into a bedroom. Mr. Hammond took him in as a favor to an old butler of his, Harold Mead. Harry worked for him for years, and was a family confidant and dear friend. When he became fatally ill, he was left with no one else to take care of his son. His dying wish was for the Hammonds' to take care of Stan. So they took him in, in exchange for some menial labor of course. Stanley Mead lived at the Manor since he was ten years old. He still lives here at forty-five years of age.
     “Logan, look what I got!” he says as he proudly shows me his tip. “I got a whole dollar from that nice lady you told me to help,” he happily announces. Staring at me with his lazy eyes, he awaits my approval. Patting him on the back, I smile and let out a slight snicker.
     Yes, I do laugh. Even a die-hard pessimist like myself can express some sort of amusement. Besides, I have a soft spot for the big goon, plus he spared me the degradation of receiving a one-buck tip for lugging three frigging body bags to a limousine. Stanley isn't the brightest crayon in the box, but he has a heart of gold.
     I look at him, envying his simplicity. I wish I could be as easily gratified and self-amused as a retard. Contentment and happiness is short lived within someone such as myself. The lives of the mentally challenged must be ecstasy if a dollar is bliss. I think I would gladly give up the ability to keep the saliva in my mouth for the opportunity to be truly satisfied.
     My smile soon retreats from my face, however, when I stumble upon the realization that soon it would be stretch limousines pulling in, not beaten-up cabs. As Stanley whole-heartedly asks me what's wrong, I tell him to never mind. He shrugs his shoulders and walks inside with his uneven stride.
     Like I said, contentment is short lived within someone like me.

* * * * * * * * * *

     The selection in the associate cafeteria is repetitive and revolting. I always have a hard time keeping down half the shit I eat here. A crooked and dusty sign labeled “Employee Emporium” hangs above the outside of the doorway into the lunchroom, a regal-sounding word to describe a shithole of an eatery. I grab a coffee and laugh to myself as I pass all the lowlifes that are stuck eating the employee mush. It pays to have some friends in the kitchen.
      “Come on in, Mon!” Syd energetically bellows at me. His pitch-black complexion and ash-gray beard is brushed with flour. Watching him practice his art is a marvel to behold. Syd watches the clock as he meticulously adds ingredients to his splendid concoction. A marvelous aroma playfully surrounds my head as my nostrils dance around my face.
     “Hey, Syd. Where's the jackass?”
     “He is making sandwiches near the salad station, mon,” he laughs, “You know how much he loves to make sandwiches!” That's Syd for you, always smiling and always sarcastic.
     “Thanks, Syd. Don't work too hard, eh?” I considerately let loose as I walk off to find my best friend.
     Steve has been like a brother to me for years. We raised hell in the elementary school playground, teasing girls and climbing jungle gyms. We had the time of our lives in high school, going out on double dates and throwing paper airplanes in detention after school. We enlisted together, weaving in and out of beat-up black tires and eating the worst food of our lives.
     “What's up, kid?”
     “I hate making sandwiches,” he says with a bitter face.
     “Well I like eating them, so hook me up.”
     “How was the shindig last night? Are we gonna have to do some cleaning up as usual?” he asks as he hands me a sandwich.
     “If I remembered I would have let you know already. I feel like shit, so it must've been pretty damn kick-ass,” I brag with a full mouth of roast beef.
      “Yeah, sorry I couldn't be home for the party, Log. Sydney was short on help last night.”
      “I understand man, trust me. Guess who decided to call out again?”
      “Ha, ha. Tony is a riot. I gather he leaving us a little something for later tonight?”
      “Yeah, that asshole.”
      “Come on now, Log, the guy isn't that bad. He has the best weed around, the FREE kind, plus we need the money for the rent anyways.”
     “I guess you're right, man.” I still want to hurt Tony, bad.
     “So how is Gina, stud?”
      He had to ask. She is the woman I love; she is the woman I hate. One second she is all over me when I don't want her buggin' me, the next she is ignoring me when I want to spend time with her. Bitch.
      “Gina is good, Steve. What the fuck is that smell?”
      Steve lifts his arms and sniffs. “I know I have been putting in some long hours, but it isn't me!” he spouts jokingly.
      “Syd should go back to what he was cooking earlier, whatever crap he is throwing together now smells like rotting eggs!” I forcefully assert in an aggravated fashion as Steve stares at me strangely. “It smells like shit!”
      “Are you alright? You are looking kinda pale, and your eyes are bloodsh...”


     Gina's a bitch, Logan, and you are pathetic. Go ahead, wallow in your misery,
     while you ought to be swallowing it. You do everything for her and she gives you
     nothing but a migraine. Listen to me, Logan, listen to me!!!
     Let me…

     “…ogan, Logan! Snap out of it, dude. Why are you acting so weird?” he hesitantly laughs, “God, I must have really missed out on one seriously good time.”
     “What are you talking about, bro? I am fine!” I unconvincingly murmur as I rub my head and lean against the stove. I am beginning to wonder if he is right about her.
     Dr. Andrews said that this “Vorterol” shit should be helping me get better, not worse. Going with this new stuff is beginning to look like a mistake. Medications aren't the first choice of treatment when it comes to borderline personality disorder, after all.
     But I trust Dr. Andrews, and she said that this new drug came highly recommended from her fellow shrinks. I remember when good old-fashioned therapy used to be enough. Not anymore, I guess.
     “I gotta get back to work, Log. Are you going to have the energy to sling back some brews at the Cellar tonight?”
     “Of course I am, I need to unwind a little before I head in for the night. Have you talked to Eric or Billy?”
     “Not yet, but I'll call them before I leave. I know Eric mentioned hangin' out earlier.”
     “Sounds good, Steve. I will see you later,” I yell as I head back to the lobby.
     As I approach the lobby, I see Richard talking to Stan behind the desk. Rich looks like he is pissed; Stan must have fucked up again.
      “What's going on, Richard?”
      “This…this…this…idiot put the wrong bags in the back of Ms. Snyder's car! I just got a call from Cedrick, her driver!” Richard bellows. “Now we have to pay to get them shipped to her because of this buffoon's incompetence!”
      I look over to Stan and see the shame in his eyes as Richard continues his flamboyant bitching. He lacks the pride to stand up to Rich, as well as the brainpower. But I don't.
      “Rich, Stan forgets things, you know this. Making him feel bad is not going to help the situation.” I pat Stan on the back as I defend my slow friend.
      “I didn't ask for your opinion, Logan!” Richard is clearly getting loud with me, and I don't like it one bit.
      There is that goddam smell again. It reeks of sulfur. Catching me off guard, I lip off to my boss.
     “Well maybe you would like Mr. Hammond's opinion then, Rich.” Looking him straight in the eyes, the corners of my mouth curve slightly upward, and my eyebrows dip. Holy shit, I am getting smart with my supervisor, and I kind of like it.
     Richard begins to get flustered, clearly perceptive of the undertone of my statement. Stanley is a lackey in Richard's eyes. Stanley is like a son to Mr. Hammond, he was practically adopted by the family, after all. What the hell is the fag going to say to that?
     “I am sure Mr. Hammond would say…that mistakes happen,” he mutters in disappointment as he bites his tongue. “Stanley, go see if the cigarette trays need cleaning.”
     He turns to me and looks at me harshly before he starts writing in the logbook. Mr. Hammond would fire Rich on the spot if he saw him taking to Stan in such a manner, and Rich knows it. It is good to have the upper hand over my immediate supervisor; blackmail is always a good line of work to fall back on when the guest services biz gets old.
     The early afternoon rush has come to an end; my collar is browned from sweat and I am pretty sure the humble beginning of a blister is forming on my foot. I figure now is a good time as any to grant myself a quick occupational leave of absence and smoke a cigarette. My favorite spot to relax awaits me.
     As I walk through the hallways leading to the terrace overlooking the courtyard, I search my pockets for my cigarettes. Upon finding them, I am immediately glad that I ripped some off from the amenity stand earlier today. Tony always steals Visine, so why shouldn't I treat myself to some self-help items? Cigarettes and lighter in hands, I walk outside through the back entrance of the mansion. No one can bother me here.
      Here exists a whole other world, separate from that of heavy bags, unrelenting people, and ostentatious faggots, a world where no one is around to bug me with his or her petty requests. While I lean up against one of the stone lions overlooking the marble stairwell, my lungs fill with the nicotine that I so desperately require to get through the next half hour of my life. The cherry at the end of my cigarette blazes red while I kick a pebble down the steps reaching out toward the fountains and circling shrubberies. My pocket begins to vibrate. It's my cell phone. Looking at the caller ID, I see it is Gina. I am bothered, and I wonder what she wants.