Mary Duchesne

I remember Room 843 in the old hotel downtown. I checked in there with this sense of euphoria. I had been promoted and the company sent me to a conference. I was their representative. Their representative! How special that made me feel. You know, it was the first time I had ever stayed in a hotel by myself, and when I arrived at the front desk it was like arriving at the threshold of life itself. Finally, I felt the power of birth and of what that meant. It was the 100th anniversary of the place, too, and there were all sorts of celebrations going on. I didn’t really participate, but I walked through the crowds, just so happy and pleased with myself. I was finally part of something that was bigger than my little world.

Later, I sat in the room, in the armchair by the window, and I thought about how many people had stayed here. Who were they? What were their stories? How many of them were still alive? Had any of us ever met? Had any of my lovers ever stayed in this room, our souls sent here for a reason, perhaps in exile or to rendezvous, before moving on to other destinations and stations in life? Would there be, or could there be, another Room 843 later on, where we would meet and catch up? Oh God, I hoped it was so.

Then I thought about this. This room I would always remember because of the intersection of my promotion and the hotel anniversary, one of those cross-stitches of life that make for a vivid memory picture. You don’t really remember life’s affairs until they are joined together at the edges, when the jolt of the joining is felt, and a seam of mental separation is engraved in the mind. So when I looked at the door, 843 was burned forever into my brain. But I wondered, who else would remember staying in this room? Probably no one. You would remember the hotel, of course, but not the room, not necessarily, and probably not. I tried to imagine these people. I sat in the chair and watched them. They unpacked, and dutifully hung their clothes in the closet, but hardly anyone ever used the chest of drawers. A chest of drawers in a hotel room is somehow thought to be unclean. They snacked on broken crackers brought from home or bought on the road or in the airport, and then wondered how the tap water would taste. They complained about the pillows. Why had hotels stopped using feather pillows? They called mom, and I eavesdropped. They made dinner plans, and I made up my mind to see if that restaurant was still around. It was German, so probably so. I saw a man alone, crying on the edge of the bed, and it made me sad thinking of my own lonely days, crying on the edges of beds. I saw a couple quarreling, and why that image stuck in my head, I’ll never know. What I did not see was a lack of humanity. With all its stains and bruises, its worn carpets and burnished door knobs and little-laundered bedspreads, not to mention that small greasy smudge of hairprint on the window pane, a hotel room cannot lack humanity; it can lack compassion, can often be cold and cruel, little more than a dying room, but it is never bereft of humanity, for, just as in the dying room, everyone leaves something of themselves behind. All these travelers, a hundred years of travelers, checking in and checking out, making sure they had everything and double-checking to make sure they had left nothing behind, and all in vain. I watched them close the door behind them and go on their way, without so much as ever once saying, 843. But that wasn’t me. That night I said it over and over again. I was not like them. I did not want to leave. I wanted to lock the door and stay in Room 843, forever.