Writing for Fun
November 2020
Hotel Paradise - Lynn Gale
Hotel Paradise was nothing like the name suggested, a gloomy back-water dive in a run-down part of town. The neon sign over the door flickered and buzzed like an angry bee.
I pulled up my collar against the icy wind, which seemed determined to bite into my bones and crossed the deserted street.
I pushed open the paint peeled doors and stepped inside.
The first thing that hit me was that this place felt old, very old.
Taking her photograph out of my wallet, I kissed the smiling image, then patted my breast pocket, checking the ring was safely contained within.
Tonight we will start our new life together.
I approached the desk; the receptionist had his back to me; the first thing I noticed was the slicked-back hair gelled to excess.
‘Excuse me…’ I began.
He spun around like a gunfighter about to shoot.
‘Have you seen this woman?’ I asked the craggy-faced man with sharp hooded eyes; I showed him the photo.
He pushed his face into mine, ‘I’m looking at you kid, who wants to know?’
I knew his face’ but where from?
‘We arranged to meet here,’ I said, doubt creeping into my mind.
When did we make this arrangement?
He looked me up and down, then pressed a small button on the desk.
A slim bellboy suddenly appeared, adorned in a red jacket white fedora and one white glove.
‘Can you show our guest to the Fountain room please Mike.’ He nodded towards me.
‘Sure, follow me please,’ the bellboy said in a soft high singsong voice.
I fell in behind him as he began to dance to a rhythm only he could hear.
He suddenly stopped, tipped his hat and began to lean so far forward it defied gravity.
This was surreal, am I dreaming.
Mike pushed open the large glass doors etched with strange symbols and gestured me to enter. I walked into an enormous, brightly decorated room that seemed to go on forever—filled wall to wall with drinking, dancing, people having the time of their lives.
How was this possible? such a room could not fit inside this small Hotel.
On a revolving stage in the centre of the room a skinny girl with a big voice, bigger bee-hive, and covered in tattoos belting out a duet with a hip-shaking guy in sunglasses and a white sequinned jumpsuit.
A manic looking drummer, arms and sticks moving so fast they were a blur accompanied them, along with several long-haired guitarists.
A tall man with a crazy thin moustache added the final brush stroke to his canvas; I sneaked a look at his masterpiece, melted clocks in a strange landscape.
Why do these people feel so familiar?
I began to search for her; she must be in here somewhere.
Pushing my way through to the bar, I passed a bear of a man holding court, his entranced audience rocked with laughter at the speed of his impressions and one-liners, his contorted face adding to their amusement.
Then I saw her, standing by the bar, she waved me over.
‘You made it,’ she sighed.
‘Can I get a Vodka Martini?’ I asked the tall sharp-suited bartender.
‘Will that be shaken or stirred?’ he asked in a smooth Scottish accent.
‘I know you,’ I said nodding at him, ‘I’m sure I do.’
A large crowd stood in silence as the police winched a car slowly and carefully out of Cona Lake. The search was over for the runaway lovers.
They found a diamond ring in the driver’s pocket.