Regrets

After finally getting the stubborn lock open, he flicked on the switch. He was greeted only by the flickering, melancholy buzz of a fluorescent light that was about to burn out. After a quick scan around the room, he tossed his bag on the bed and closed the faded curtains. Slivers of light from the neon outside found their way through the tears in the worn material. He cranked up the heat and flopped on the bed to gather his thoughts.

At one point, this motel used to be a respectable establishment that beckoned to weary travelers looking for respite from hours on the road pursuing business or pleasure. That was before the interstate came through. Now this stretch of road was a collection of cultural skeletons: boarded up store fronts, vacant supper clubs with broken windows, once full parking lots being reclaimed by weeds. The only signs of life were a gas station or two, the ubiquitous greasy spoon, the blinking neon of liquor stores, and a few strip motels all hanging on to whatever shred of their former glory they could grasp. The people who frequented them had much in common, yet spent their time alone, keeping whatever misery they were feeling personal, which is just the way most of them wanted it. Anyone who made an attempt to show signs of humanity was treated with suspicion and found himself an outcast among outcasts.

As he spread out on the lumpy mattress, he looked around. He took in the cigarette burns on the sheets, the mildew stains on the walls, and the ground-in dirt on the carpet. As he let all of this make its impression on him, one thought came to him: “This is the type of place people go to die, either by accident or on purpose.” Tonight he had decided that he was part of the latter group.

Glancing around, nothing greeted him with any kind of warmth or tenderness. He wouldn’t have had it any other way. Nothing was going to get in his way, not tonight. He turned on the television set and mindlessly flipped through the few channels that actually worked.

After a couple of minutes, he decided there was no sense in delaying the inevitable. Reaching over on the bed, he grabbed the bag that had been his only travel companion for the last few days of drifting. It bulged at the sides from the tremendous weight it carried, stretching the already stressed seams almost to their breaking point. Opening the rusty clasps, he began to empty the contents out onto the stained sheets in front of him.

First came the bottles. They were smooth and hard to the touch. He picked them up and lined them up on the bed. These were the most dependable things he had known for the last few years. They didn’t talk back to him, they didn’t leave, they didn’t die. Picking up one of the bottles, he broke the seal and breathed in the sweet, slightly woody aroma. He had been anticipating this first sip all day and it didn’t disappoint. As soon as the amber-colored liquid hit the back of his throat, he felt the burn that made him feel better. All his fears and regrets seemed to be things of the distant past. Images of the shy, overweight background figure from his past seemed to be a dream. The fear that he spent most of his life living in the shadow of was no longer an issue for him. Instead of motivating him, fear had crippled him for most of his life. As he watched people go on to live their lives, he stood on the sidelines and watched as one opportunity after another passed him by. He always stopped to ask himself “What if…” first, and he usually didn’t like the answer that came back to him; so he did nothing. His whole life had been him just settling. Settling for one thing or another, never sticking his neck out. It left him miserable, distant, and alone. Even when he got married, he felt it was just another instance of settling, a result of his fear of being alone. “Grab it before it passes you by and you are left a bitter old man.” He had listened to the voice in his head, yet the bitterness still showed up. Oh well, a couple of more sips and all of that will start to fade.

Next were well-worn copies of A Farewell to Arms, Walden, and The Catcher in the Rye, and a leather-bound journal, objects that he had possessed longer than anything else in his life. Each one was inscribed by someone long gone from his life, each one by his own doing. The books were barely held together by their cracked spines, and he gently paged through each one, glancing at passages that he could recite forward and backward. Holden, Thoreau, and Lt. Henry always seemed to speak to him directly. The journal was filled with countless beginnings and middles, but no ends. He had always harbored ambitions of being an author some day. He tried a few times with little success. Once again fear would rear its ugly head. If he really put his true thoughts to paper, what would people think of him? Would they judge him? Would they think him strange? Add another regret to the list. He felt he had something to say to the world but was afraid the world wouldn’t listen. As a result, he kept it all bottled up, slowly becoming more disgusted with what he saw around him and the feeling that he was powerless to do something about it.

Finally, it was his chance to act.

The last object to be unpacked was a faded photograph in a beat-up frame of a happy, young beautiful woman holding a beaming girl in her lap. They were sitting by the shore of a pristine northern lake, the pines towering behind them and the sun intensifying the glow of their golden blond hair. The expressions of the two were remarkably similar, right down to the curl of the mouths in the most amazing smiles he had ever seen. However, looking closely at the little girl, he could see his own eyes looking back at him.

Regrets here? A few. Not enough kind words spoken, not enough stories told at bedtime, not enough gentle kisses. He ran his fingers across the broken glass in the frame and stood the photo on the nightstand next to the bed. He felt a pang of guilt and shame and had to quickly look away before his resolve left him.

He reached for the bottle and took a long, burning swallow. His eyes teared up and he coughed a bit, but it was a feeling he welcomed. At least this was something he could do and do well. As he was polishing of the second fifth, he heard someone fumbling with a key in the door of the room next to his. Somebody else was actually lonely, desperate, or miserable enough to lay his head down here tonight.

The thinness of the walls allowed him to follow the person through his actions. He heard a key drop on a table, the same static from the television fill the air, and finally what he thought were muffled sobs.

“Join the club,” he thought. “Nothing but the usual sounds in this place.”

None of this made much of an impression on him. He had steeled up his resolve and was determined to get something right for once in his life. With that in mind, he took another long, searing gulp. Things were getting a bit fuzzy, but he still remained focused on the task at hand.

He heard the sobs again from next door, this time noticeably louder, and clearly female.

“Here’s to you,” he said out loud as he downed another sip.

As he sat on the uncomfortable bed, the cries from next door continued to grow louder, and he now heard what seemed to be someone punching the wall that adjoined his room. His nerve bolstered with alcohol, he got up, pounded on the wall, and asked for some peace and quiet. The sounds persisted despite his request.

“Oh well, I can stand it if she can.”

He continued to take long swallows from the bottle.

Then, almost as suddenly as it had started, the sound from next door stopped.

“That’s better. Now I can finish what I came here to finish.”

He broke the seal on another fifth, made himself as comfortable as he could on the bed, and settled in for what he hoped would be a quick and relatively painless night. As he sat and stared at snow on the t.v. screen, however, the silence started to get to him.

“That’s it?” he thought. “I was expecting more of a show than that.”

As he sat there, now taking shorter sips from the bottle, he found himself waiting for a sound from next door, almost hoping for one.

“What is she waiting for?”

After about a half an hour, he got up from the bed and actually found himself putting his ear to the wall, even holding his breath so as not to distract from any sounds he might be able to catch. When nothing happened, he opened his door a bit. Nothing was to be heard except for the distant hum of traffic on the interstate, life going on as usual. He poked his head out of the door a little way. He was surprised at how cool the night had gotten. The cold air rushed into his faced, stinging his bloodshot eyes and clearing his head a little. He could see a thin beam of light coming from the room next door and shining on his car, which was at this point essentially an abandoned vehicle. The door to the next room was slightly ajar, and he slowly approached.

When he glanced inside, he saw a scene that didn’t match what he had heard just moments before. Sitting calmly at the table in the room was a woman, roughly his age, simply glancing out the window at the darkness

“Can I help you?” he asked.

There was no response.

“Excuse me. Is everything all right?” he said a bit louder.

This time the woman snapped to attention.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in. I am fine, thank you.”

Glancing around the room, he saw that everything was more or less in order. The room was basically a mirror image of his own, even down to the picture on the nightstand. There was one exception, however. Where his bed was teeming with empty liquor bottles, hers was filled with pill bottles that had yet to be opened.

He glanced back at her and voiced a simple question: “Regrets?”

A nod was the only reply she offered.

“Excuse me for a moment. I’ll be right back.”

He backed out of the room and went back to his own. Inside he took a slow glance around. He felt sick, but quite steady. He grabbed the open bottle on his bed and put the cap on. He grabbed the picture from the nightstand and the journal from the bed. He turned off the lights and went back next door. The woman had not moved an inch; he sat down across from her. He noticed her glance sideways at the picture, and a slight smile crossed her face.

He put the journal down in front of him and opened to a page.

Looking at her in the dim light of the room he asked her simply, “May I read something to you?”

As a reader and a writer, I am always fascinated by character studies. I think the human condition makes for some of the most interesting literature and is an inexhaustible topic. Hopefully that comes across in my writing.