The Farrago Hotel
The Weary Traveller
Short fiction series: Chapter 1-Scene 1
He almost missed the Uber sitting alongside the far curb. His last name was scrawled on the darkened window of the nondescript sedan in what looked like white shoe polish.
‘Timothy’ looked as if a third grader had written it. The ‘o’ was disproportionately small and lopsided, and the ‘y’ looked more like a ‘v’. Macon Timothy was almost too tired to care, even if he discovered an eight year old behind the wheel, as long as the kid could drive.
I hope this chucklehead’s got a driver’s license, Macon thought, then resigned himself to taking the ride ordered for him no matter what the circumstance. He shuffled toward the charcoal gray Malibu with the tinted windows, his carry-on bag in one hand and a briefcase in the other.
When he got within a step or two of the car he heard the trunk lever release. He caught it with his elbow and pushed it open far enough to drop in his bag, but kept a hold on the shiny silver briefcase. Inside the trunk, Macon noted the standard size of it had been cut in half by what must have been a false back wall neatly covered in the same stock carpet. Gratefully, the idling car pointed towards the possibility of air conditioning. Anxious to get out of the oppressive heat of the sun, Macon slammed the trunk lid and returned to the sidewalk.
The driver’s window came down a quarter distance revealing a glimpse of the driver’s blonde hair and a set of penetrating, green eyes.
“Mr Macon?” a young woman’s voice skimmed lightly over the noise of the airport’s busy pick-up terminal like a skipping stone thrown over a pond.
“Macon Timothy,” he corrected, opening the back door directly behind the driver.
“Nope,” the girl said sharply.
Macon withdrew. “Nope?”
“Front seat, if you don’t mind. I like to see my passengers, you understand, and we can talk,” Cachemera said, with both authority and hospitality.
It was a useful trick Macon had never been able to master. Like telling someone to ‘Go fuck yourself,’ with a smile on your face, which he’d heard the British were very good at doing. But she wasn’t British, and what she really meant to convey was that she’d be keeping an eye on him.
“Okay,” Macon said smoothly. “You do that, Ms Cachemera, watch me very, very closely, but we won’t be chatting, because Macon Timothy is about to disappear into an overdue rem cycle,” he replied.
Detecting a measure of paranoia in his driver, he studied the young woman with the mulatto skin tone and curly hair. She looked all of sixteen years old, but he knew she had to be at least twenty-one to drive for Uber. Her green eyes had a firm edge he instinctively knew he would not argue with. He’d sit wherever she told him to.
Nearly stumbling, he moved around the front of the car toward the front passenger door. Macon felt her looking him over too. Standing in the street, he grabbed at the door handle like it was an escape hatch. Locked. He glared at the dark tinted passenger window waiting for her to realize he was locked out.
Only his weary face stared back.
Cachemera scrambled for the door locks and hit the electric window first then found the power lock button and jabbed at it. “Um. Sorry ‘bout that, Mr Macon,” she mumbled.
“It’s Timothy, Mr Timothy” Macon said, almost under his breath, out of habit.
“Oh, okay, if you wanna be formal, you can call me Ms Cachemera,” she replied rather curtly, emphasizing the ‘Ms’.
“No, you don’t understand. It’s ‘Macon Timothy’. I’ve got one of those names that confuses people, you know, the whole last name for a first name, and a first name for the sir name,” he sounded exhausted, even to himself.
“Oh, okay then, where we going today?” Cachemera said, deciding she’d just call him ‘sir’ if she needed to address him at all, she didn’t need his life history.
“Farrago Hotel,” Macon said, and shoved the card with the hotel’s address toward her.
“Keep it — I been there… plenty,” Cachemera said, trying to keep her voice as neutral as possible.
“Good,” Macon said, while pulling his seatbelt into place and surveying the best place to rest his head.
Cachemera took a long look at her passenger. Nice shoes, clean clothes, except for a mustard stain above the third button of his pressed shirt, and about twenty pounds over weight.
“Why not get a different hotel?” she couldn’t help herself, she’d blurted the question which was supposed to stay in the form of a thought.
Macon snapped forward and looked at the woman-child.
“Why? Is there something wrong with the Farrago? My wife personally booked the room for me, she said I’d get the good, long rest I needed.”
Cachemera couldn’t explain it, but something about her fare felt off. Either he was oblivious to the sort of hotel the Farrago was, or he was being coy with her. Or… his wife knew exactly what went on at the Farrago, and she’d purposely put her husband in a Farrago suite, and in the crossfire of his very own personal moral dilemma.
Either way, she didn’t like making a guest of anyone unsuspecting as he seemed. She’d talked more than one naieve fare out of staying at the Farrago, but if her parents found out she’d done it again, well, she didn’t want to think about what they’d do to her this time.
“Um, oh no, it’s not, I mean there’s nothing wrong exactly. I guess it depends upon your personal perspective, it may be just the right accommodations for you. You’ll have to be the judge of that,” she said, putting the car in drive and easing away from the curb.
Cachemera had a few more minutes to decide the fate of her fare since the exit to the Farrago wasn’t for another ten miles. She chewed on her fingernail and her options while she drove.
“Listen to me, miss, Macon interrupted her silent debate, unless you’re going to tell me the Farrago Hotel is in the throws of a recalcitrant bed bug epidemic, I intend to be in my suite by 6 pm, eating a light supper, then bed by 8 pm. Now, what is your problem with this hotel?
“No bugs, nothing like that…um, problem? I don’t, well, that might be too strong of a word, sir…,” she said, losing the thread of any sort of coherent explanation her voice trailed off the exact moment she surrendered her conscience. “Farrago Hotel it is then,” she nearly whispered.
Satisfied his destination was no longer in question, Macon leaned back, closed his eyes and intended to nap for the duration of the trip.
