In room eleven there was an old snapshot with serrated edges taped to the mirror above the dresser, a photo of a dark-haired woman, her eyes closed and her head tilted slightly back, standing in a dark angle of shadow. Outside the shadow the sun was shining on an impossibly bright pastel world and a street lined with vintage automobiles.
On top of the dresser was a rusty tacklebox, full of corks, keys, paper clips, and pencils; a bottle opener, screwdriver, fingernail clippers, pocket knife, and a few bucks in change. The drawers of the dresser held a disorderly sprawl of socks, underwear, tee-shirts, and a few pairs of slacks. Just inside the door was a clothing rod on which was hung a handful of snap-button western shirts, a blue windbreaker, a plaid wool jacket, and a nylon parka.
On the bedstand were several pairs of fine sunglasses and an assortment of baby food jars, each of them blooming with an almost lovely green mold. Under the bed we found six pairs of shoes –sturdy, plain, solid browns and blacks– and a shoebox full of old photographs of horses. There was a battered leather suitcase stuffed with scandal magazines and paperback westerns.
The man had a small refrigerator, inside of which were three ketchup bottles, eight cans of Budweiser, and an opened can of cling peaches.
He also owned a nice Stetson Stratoliner cowboy hat and two pairs of worn boots. There were no paper documents, no letters, wallet, or checkbook; no reliable identification and not a single photograph of another human being other than the woman on the mirror. Were it not for a battered old Rawlings Enos Slaughter model baseball mitt with a name written along the fat thumb in black magic marker the man would have died entirely anonymous.
The mattress was now stained with blood black as motor oil, and there were random splashes on the wall and bedstand that were dusty as powdered tempura.
Leave a Reply Cancel reply