Won’t you take me home? Who: Ronnie (Narrative) When: Present Rating: Cinnamon Roll Status: Complete
In the middle of my room, I did not hear from you
Well I need a little sympathy
Coffee’s almost ready!
Mr. Coffee coughed a bit of steam as it percolated from the vanity counter. Next to it, the little bottle of shampoo shimmied in the cadence of its people. Little black pupils rocked against ivory and plastic before the googly eyes fixated upon the sole occupant of the room optimistically.
It was the best joke, the fondest memory. Mr. Coffee never disappointed.
Ronnie lay on the carpet next to the bed. He stared up at the ceiling, watching it spin. A left arm lay sprawled, the right cupping the neck of an empty bottle of Jim Beam as if they had been competing in the ring for the title belt.
Enthusiastically, the percolation exclaimed another morsel, You’re such a good friend! Most people just ignore me.
“Cool, cool. You keep doing you, man.”
Ronnie wasn’t speaking with anyone specific, mostly the coffee maker. He couldn’t remember why he’d started it.
In spite of the capricious percolation, the quiet settled around him like a thick dust. Even the ritual stomping of feet or snap of shouting from next door - he found relief in the silence. There wasn’t a vibration haunting his core. This is what lonely sounds like.
But oh he drowned.
Who knew a queen sized mattress was another place to lose what little oxygen was left in your lungs? Merciless, silent, cold. Who knew that no matter how much you flailed and struggled you couldn’t break free?
The Bible in the drawer by the bedside had an unpeeled price sticker on the hard, front cover. It bore the aroma of fresh printing as if it lacked the experience of the sagging chaos of used bookstore shelves. Nineteen ninety nine for King James.
It struck Ronnie as odd, and amusing, as each crisp page bearing the good word remained untouched. He wondered about the necessity of replacing it, and then remembered he was in a motel room. Those always came with a Bible, for better or for worse.
Like a laceration made with a careless blade across new skin, the opened flap of his haphazardly packed duffle bag emptied a crumpled tee shirt onto the floor as if to offer its own essence in exchange for attention.
The walls were bare except for the usual decorations - a piece of art that contrasted with the decor by an artist nobody would know right away, old punctures from attempts to repurpose the illustrations, peeling wallpaper. No calendar dare attempt to pull the room together. Ronnie wasn’t sure what day it was, what time it was. But that didn’t really matter. Here, it was always happy hour.