Turn Down

The hotel in Minneapolis was not different from the hotel in Vancouver, which was similar to the hotel in Toronto, and had reminded him of the hotel in Cleveland, which was not as nice as the hotel in Cincinnati though it was nicer than the hotel in Miami. Aside from small matters—the quality of soap provided in the bathroom, the presence or absence of a tiny tumbleweed of dust and hair in an overlooked corner of the lobby, the attractiveness of the person at the desk—they were all, these hotels, the same. They shared an essential hotelness: that neutral, clean smell, the long, windowless hallways, the inoffensively hardy potted plants, the ding of the elevator and the whirr of the vacuum cleaner hard at work somewhere off in the distance.

Welcome back, the girl with the horn rimmed glasses said. She could see that he’d been there before. The computer told her everything about him.

Thank you, he said, reflexively. This was the fourth time he’d stayed in the hotel. He said it again as she handed him the little paper folder that contained the room key.

He didn’t need the boy to carry the bags, nor did he need him to show him the way. There was only one bag, and only one fourth floor. He’d manage.

This room was identical to his room the last time he’d stayed there. He couldn’t say for sure that it wasn’t the very same one. He was not good with numbers. In fact, he’d type the room number into his cell phone and leave it there for the duration of his stay, since the key was not a key at all, just a plastic card that communicated with the computerized lock via some complex system he did not understand, and if he didn’t write down the room number he’d find himself back in the hotel at the end of the day, his bag, which held his computer, weighing uncomfortably on his shoulder, feeling greasy, tired, hungry, and find that he was unable to remember what room he was in, and he’d have to go back to the front desk to ask, and the girl at the desk would be friendly and professional about it but deep down, well, wouldn’t she wonder about a man who didn’t know where he was going?



There were problems, of course, because nothing is perfect. The bathroom had these odd, modern sinks that were nothing more than a porcelain shelf. You were supposed to appreciate the artistry of it, and it was beautiful, but you couldn’t brush your teeth without splashing water back up onto your chest. There was a television in the bathroom if you wanted to watch television while you shit. He left it on while he showered, but it was hard to hear with the sound of the water on tile echoing around him.

During the day, he thought about whatever hotel he was in a surprising amount. He did not have anyone to go home to, after a day of these meetings, of driving not-that-familiar highways (though in the end, they were all so similar). But he would go home to a room that had been cleaned, with varying degrees of loving attention to detail. He looked forward to the squared off sheets and fluffed up pillows, to the mini bar’s replenished supply: those potato chips that come in little cardboard tubes, those chocolate chip cookies inside the pretty white box, those ice cold bottles of water, those dollhouse sized bottles of vodka (his favorite), whiskey (his second favorite), and inoffensive California wine.

He looked forward to the fact that the trashcans had been emptied, the ashy remnants of toothpaste wiped from the sink, the toiletry kit placed parallel to the mirror above. He always kept his toothbrush stowed safely—visions of the maid with toilet-dirtied hands. He enjoyed seeing his shoes lined up in the corner, enjoyed seeing the coasters straightened on the bedside table, the one bearing the tiny, complimentary bottle of water, though he’d try to stop at a store in whatever city he was in to buy bigger bottles of water, because he hated being so thirsty and then drinking $40 worth of bottled water, though his company never complained.

He’d sit in the fluorescent conference room of the day, eating yet another dry sandwich (salty meat, limp lettuce, hard roll), and think about going back to his hotel and untying his tie. He’d listen in on those long group phone calls, as someone far away stammered through his remarks on some subject or other and think about unlacing his shoes and washing his face. He’d gaze out of the window, mid-thought, as he typed a response to someone and he wouldn’t even see the outside, a place he couldn’t get to anyway. Most days he didn’t go outside at all. But he’d think about folding his dirty shirt and underwear and placing them in the bottommost drawer. He’d think about ordering dinner from room service, or having a drink at the bar, or reading the complimentary newspaper that would be waiting for him when he got back.



It was Fall, and it was cold. The Minneapolis clients made a lot of jokes about the weather, at their own expense. The days were over early, and it was almost truly dark by the time he’d leave the office. He was an expert at declining invitations—there was more work to do, there was a conference call on West Coast time, there was something vaguely personal that needed to be done. He’d offer these explanations with an embarrassed mumble, an apologetic shrug, and whoever had asked him to whatever, drinks, dinner, sometimes even a visit home to meet the spouse, was placated easily because they didn’t really mean it. Nobody wants to be friends with anyone, after all. They want to go home and do the same things they always do.

The Minneapolis client always wanted to send a taxi in the morning and call a taxi in the evening but he usually declined. Though his bag was heavy, and that part of the city wasn’t all that pedestrian friendly, he preferred to walk. He’d almost never see anyone walking, even though there was a college nearby, and two tall apartment towers. He shifted his bag from one shoulder to the next and crossed the street against the light because there were no cars coming. The sky was purple, the street lights turning on. The air was dry. He could see his breath.

He passed a parking lot, mostly empty. He crossed another street. There, one of the city’s sky bridges, part of a system of tunnels designed to carry you through downtown without having to step outside into the notoriously wretched winter weather. The city was beautiful but quiet, the occasional passing car making it seem even more artificial, as if he’d wandered onto a film set. There was no one else, not even passengers waiting at the bus stop on the corner. He turned onto the block where the hotel was located. The impossibly young uniformed doorman was waiting outside: a beautiful face, an ugly tie. He pulled the glass door open.

Welcome back, sir.

He smiled and went into the lobby. There was a fire, but it was a gas fire, and those never seem to give off any heat. You need the smell of smoke to feel warm.

He passed the desk on the way to the elevator and the girl called out to him.

Sir, I’m sorry, excuse me.

He stopped, turned toward her.

Sir, I’m so sorry, but we’ve had a bit of a problem on the fourth floor.

A problem on the fourth floor?

A problem on the fourth floor. She nodded gravely but she was smiling. It’s something we expect to have cleared up very shortly, hopefully within the hour. In the meantime, I’ll ask you not to return to your room.

A problem on the fourth floor, he said. That sounds serious.

It’s not, in fact, but well, we are sorry for the inconvenience.

It’s not a problem, he said. The truth was that he wanted to go up to his room, unlace his shoes and take off his socks, hang up his jacket and take off his tie, wash his face and brush his teeth, unbutton his shirt and lie down on the bed, turn on the television and order some room service. It’s not your fault, he added.

I appreciate your understanding, the girl said, and clearly meant it. Maybe some previous guest had yelled at her about being unable to go up to his room and take off his shoes. Please, won’t you be our guest at the hotel bar? I’ll come and let you know the moment it’s all clear up on the fourth floor.

That would be fine, he said.

Wonderful, she said. And if you’d like to leave your bag here, please do. I’ll look after it myself.

I think I’ll do that, he said. He handed the bag across the desk, which was really more of a counter. It’s heavy.

It’ll be right here waiting for you, she said.

The bar was past the fireplace and inside the restaurant. Between the restaurant and the lobby there was a small, beautiful room, with sofas upholstered in black velvet. The beautiful room was empty. The beautiful room is a metaphor, he thought, and laughed to himself.

There was a woman with red hair sitting at the bar. The bartender wore a black polo shirt, and he looked like he might have been of partial Asian descent. He had a very bright smile.

Good evening sir, the bartender said.

Good evening, he said, taking the seat a respectful four stools away from the red headed woman.

The bartender filled a glass with ice and water, set it on top of a little black napkin. The room was very white, but the napkins and the man’s shirt were black, because someone had decided that this color scheme was chic and hotelish.

What can I get you this evening? The bartender cocked an eyebrow up inquisitively.

He ordered his favorite drink. There was a television mounted to a bracket on the wall. There was a commercial on.

The bartender placed a glass of vodka before him. He sighed as he picked it up, though he didn’t mean it. It was reflexive.

The woman with the red hair fidgeted in her chair, ate one cashew from the bowl in front of her. We can talk, she said. We can talk.

No, no, he said. I left my book in my bag. Which is at the front desk. Because I can’t go upstairs.

Fourth floor, huh? She raised her drink in salute. Me too.

This is on us, sir, the bartender said. Fourth floor.

What book are you reading? Or, what book would you be reading if your book wasn’t in your bag at the front desk but was here with you at the bar? And do you always read books at bars?

Hm. Lots of questions, he said. The book I’m reading now is O Pioneers, by Willa Cather. And I do not always read books at bars, but I do travel a lot for work and I tend to bring a book with me everywhere I go because I’m often waiting, in airport lounges or conference rooms, and a man can only check his email so many times without going insane. So I like to read.

A great answer. She ate another cashew. I’ve never read Willa Cather. I mostly read spy novels.

She’s wonderful, he said. You should give her a read.

I travel for work, too, she said. I live in New York but I’m here every other week for the next seven months.

That’s a lot, he said.

My last stint was in Tokyo, she said. One week on, one off.

You must have a hell of a carbon footprint, he said.

I probably do, she said. Another cashew.

What do you do?

I’m a doctor, she said. I work as a consultant for a pharmaceutical company based here in town.

A doctor, he said.

A nephrologist, she said.

And what do you do exactly?

I can’t tell you. She finished her drink. Sorry.

He nodded. I’m not supposed to tell you either.

They sat in silence.

The bartender had disappeared into the kitchen. Now he reappeared. Can I get you another Christina?

The bartender removed her dirty glass, chose a fresh one, filled it, and set it in front of her.

Thanks, she said.

The bartender nodded at him. His drink was still full. He’d only taken one sip. Can I get you something to snack on?

Christina nodded. Can we have the cheese? And those beet things?

Of course.

We? he asked.

It’s on them, she said.

That’s true, he said. I forget that, you know, when I’m traveling. I forget what things cost. I forget about paying for things, the way I do in real life.

Nothing has any value, she said. I know. I was in London, this was a couple of years ago, and I was in this hotel, a lovely place, right in Covent Garden. And I had breakfast, you know, every morning before I went in to my meetings. Nothing crazy, yogurt, some cereal, a pot of coffee which wasn’t that bad considering they’re a tea culture. Like that. Maybe once I had toast and eggs, maybe, I don’t know. But then I’m checking out, and the dining charges. Hundreds of pounds. Hundreds. On yogurt and a couple of blueberries.

I believe it, he said.

She shrugged her shoulders.

Something on the television screen caught his attention. The volume was turned down, but there was the word: BREAKING. What’s that? he asked. He pointed to the television and sipped his drink.

Shit, she said. Something bad. Good news never breaks.

That’s true, he said. Can we turn it up?

Lucas! she called.

The bartender appeared, bearing a large plate with red and golden beets sculpted into elaborate shapes, set atop dollops of puff pastry. He put the plate down. Sorry, he said.

No, sorry, she said. I was going to ask you to turn up the volume.

Lucas picked up the remote control and jabbed at it, slowly filling the room with the sound of the television.

Shit, she said.

There was a voice on the television, explaining something about a shooting.

Lucas shook his head. It’s never good news. He placed two white plates and two bundles, black napkins wrapped around a fork and a knife, onto the bar.

Thanks, Christina said. She turned to him. These are so good.

He unwrapped his flatware, draped the napkin over his lap.

The voice on the television was explaining that someone had opened fire inside a shopping mall in Iowa. It was unclear what had happened, whether anyone had been hit, or killed, whether there was one gunman or more. A reporter was interviewing someone speculating on whether this had any connection to terrorism, while a camera inside a helicopter delivered a shaky shot of a mall, seen from above. A mall, seen from above, doesn’t look like much of anything.

These beets are delicious, he said. They were. Sweet, not oily, cool. The pastry was flaky, salty. There was goat cheese, too, and it was smooth, mild. He picked up another one, the entire piece, confection, whatever you’d call it, chewed slowly, deliberately. He ate alone so often he tried to be especially mindful of his manners when dining with someone else.

Guns, she said. She frowned at the television. We see this so much it’s like we don’t feel it. We don’t care. Bang bang. Then everyone wrings their hands and says how could it happen, why did it happen, then we forget and a couple of months later it happens again. Some freak from Korea snaps and kills what fifty people? Then it’s just like… business as usual.

Guns, he said.

I don’t care, she said. I don’t know what to care about, what not to care about. This whole thing is ridiculous.

Lucas stepped out of the kitchen once more. Cheese, he said. He set a plate of cheese down on the counter.



He had two more glasses of vodka over ice. They did not talk much, watched the story unfold on the television. There was one shooter. He was twenty-four. His name was Tyler something. Tyler was a name only someone in their twenties could have, he thought. He was a student at a community college. He was considered bright. His neighbor spoke about how normal he seemed.

The girl from the front desk came to tell them that they could return to the fourth floor now. The situation had been, she said, resolved.

I’ve already sent your bag up to your room, she told him. I apologize again for the inconvenience.

He said a good evening to Christina, left a ten dollar bill on the bar for Lucas, walked back through the beautiful empty room to the lobby, past the desk, and rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. It was not evident, walking down the hallway to his room, what the situation had been.

He waved the little plastic card in front of the little sensor on the door, heard the little tiny click, and pushed the door open.

The housekeepers had been in for turn down service. The lights were on, but dimmed. The air conditioner was humming, and the room was freezing. The feathery duvet had been pulled down and folded neatly, an ice bucket placed on the desk. The clock radio was on, playing a tune he didn’t recognize. His bag was sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed. He did not understand the ritual of turn down service. The housekeepers had already been in to clean and disinfect the room, make it feel like no one had ever been there. Then they had come back and left all this evidence that they’d been there. It made no sense.

He unlaced his shoes and slipped them off. He took off his socks, folded them over one another. He removed his tie clip, his tie, his belt, and put them in the top drawer of the dresser. He turned on the television. More news of this newest massacre. He flipped through the channels until he found a film, one he’d seen on a plane somewhere, about a man and a woman falling in love. He picked up the telephone, ordered room service—a green salad, a veggie burger, a glass of red wine, a pitcher of water. He always asked for the pitcher of water.

He unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt, sat on the bed, and started unpacking his things. His laptop, the power cords, his phone charger, the yellow legal pad, the folders and binders of the client’s papers. He wanted to take a shower. He could taste the vodka, or not quite taste it. There was a sense that alcohol had been in his mouth. He wanted to take a hot shower and brush his teeth and forget about guns and paperwork.

There was a knock at the door. Room service, someone said.

He opened the door. It was a young man, a boy really, with an olive complexion. He was wearing the same black polo shirt the bartender had been wearing.

Good evening, sir, he said.

Hello, he said.

The boy stuck a rubber wedge between the floor and the door. I’ll just get you all set up here, he said. You had the salad, the veggie burger, and a glass of the Vacqueyras, is that correct?

Sure is, he said. He tried to busy himself with his papers.

He unfurled a placemat on the surface of the desk. He set down a covered dish, removed the cover to reveal the salad. He placed a napkin, a fork, a knife, and two tiny shakers of salt and pepper beside the plate. There was a small dish with bread, containing a smaller dish of butter. There was a circle of wax paper on top of the butter. There was another covered dish. He lifted the cover to show him the burger, the pile of French fries, then replaced it to keep it warm. This he set next to the placemat, off stage, waiting in the wings. There were tiny glass pots: ketchup, mayonnaise, mustard. There was the glass of wine. He peeled a piece of cellophane from the lip of the glass. There was the pitcher of water, its sides slick with condensation.

Can I get you anything else sir? the boy asked.

He shook his head no. The boy handed him the tiny leatherette portfolio that contained the receipt. He proffered a pen, clicking the little silver button at the end as he extended his arm.

Thank you, he said. He scanned the receipt, added on a few dollars as a tip, then closed the portfolio, handed it back.

Thank you sir, the boy said. He knelt and pulled the doorstop from underneath the door. The door swung. It was very heavy. He stopped it with the cart, which was half in and half out of the room. You’re sure there’s nothing else?

He looked at the boy. He had very long eyelashes and very dark eyes. There was a shooting, you know? he said.

I heard, the boy said.

This fucking country, he said.

I like your shirt, the boy said. He reached for his arm, pinched the cotton of his shirt, not touching him, but rubbing the fabric slowly. It’s so nice.

He wished he could feel the boy’s fingers, which were so close, but not quite touching his body. He wanted to hold the boy, kiss his throat, smell his hair, and feel warm, and alive, and loved. He wanted to fuck him, yes, but more than that. He wanted to feed him, slice the veggie burger in half and watch him as he ate. They could take turns dipping the French fries into little puddles of ketchup. They could lie in that huge bed, already turned down for them. He would smell the boy’s semen and sweat and not think about the air conditioning, and how cold the room was, or the fire in the lobby, and how fake it was, or conference rooms in Minneapolis, Palo Alto, Dallas, wherever. This room could be their world, neat, tidy, white, with plenty of water to last them through the night. There were no shooters here, no madmen with guns. The sink was imperfect, but it was clean. A place for everything, and everything in its place.

Kiss me, he said to the boy, but the boy had already left the room, pushing the big empty cart down the dark hallway of the fourth floor.