Misery Tales From the Front Copyright 1994 Dave Laird Copyright Reserved 1996 by Philistine Press Copyright Reserved 1998 by Johnson-Barlow Copyright Reserved 1998 by The Free Press, Inc. George awoke, and knew almost immediately that it was going to be a dreadful day. The gray slate sky all tattered with raindrops made it so, and, as if that were not enough, it was his day for physical therapy. He realized with a start there was the distinct sound of snoring coming from immediately outside his door. That meant someone had passed out in the hall, either close to or in front of his door. You could always tell when it was getting close to the end of the month. The winos, bums and general riff-raff from the other old hotels along West First always seemed to sneak past the night manager at the Anderson, after they had spent their monthly allotment checks on rotgut wine, instead of paying their rent. Steeling himself for the inevitable, George slipped his feet from beneath the paper-thin cover on his bed, wincing a bit as the tired old springs gave forth with a massive unharmonious squall. Slipping on his slippers and a robe, he wobbled over to the streaky window. "Damn, rain," he muttered, watching the steely gray clouds drifting lazily over the city. Two stories below, he could see the pedestrians scuttling for shelter, like so many cockroaches in a suddenly-lit room. It had been raining for nearly three days, not the constant, abrasive rains that scour the dirt from the air and leave everything glistening and new, but an inattentive, lazy rain that did nothing but make people's lives more miserable than they otherwise would be. He splashed some cold water from the sink beside the window onto his face, and decided to forgo a shave. Rather, he would get dressed and go down the street for a cup of coffee before it was time for him to leave for his appointment with his physical therapist. He long since had learned to live with the fact that he would never work again. It was nearly twenty-five years ago next week that he had been chasing a VC down a leafy jungle trail and was shot repeatedly by unseen snipers somewhere along his path. His memories of laying in various Army hospitals for several years were pale, by comparison, with the more vivid, recent memories of his twice-weekly visits to the physical therapist's office at the VA where, despite all the medical evidence to the contrary, they cheerfully insisted that he would be ready to return to the workforce almost any day now. Angrily pulling on his best pair of denim jeans and a reasonably clean sweatshirt, he decided to investigate the source of the snoring that sounded like it was right outside his door. It was Harry, from across the hall, snoring up a storm right in front of his door. Harry often did this, passing out in a doorway or even in the middle of the hall, for that matter. He'd go tie one on, and get so drunk that, although he could remember which hotel he lived in, even which floor he was on, he nearly always forgot which room was his. After a few bad episodes of waking the entire hotel up pounding on doors, trying frantically to get his key to work, he'd learned his lesson. "Harry! Come on man, it's time to go home." The drunken old man tentatively opened one horribly bloodshot eye, as he lay in a sodden heap on the threadbare carpet. Feebly, he tried to focus his sight, to see the source of the voice which commanded him, but could not. The eye closed once more. "Harry! Goddammit! You're asleep in the middle'o my damned doorway," he said forcefully, nudging Harry's prostrate form with the tip of his foot. "Come on, man. You're snoring loud enough to wake the whole damned hotel." Harry managed to get both eyes open, beet-red and puffy from the previous nights' drinking, and with a few more nudges, was able to keep them that way long enough to get to his feet. After a few minutes, mostly spent wobbling back and forth in George's doorway, he managed to totter off across the hall in the general direction of his room, muttering apologies the entire way. The rest of the day was like the weather--sullen, uneventful and miserable. The physical therapist worked him over extensively, as if making up for some unseen slight from the past. By the time George returned to his room, late that afternoon, he was moving through a cloud of pain. Arriving back at his room, he fell across his unmade bed, his head pounding, his limbs in an agonizing firestorm of aches and anguish. He awoke disoriented, with a bad taste in his mouth, as if he had been kissing someone with pickle juice on their lips. Realizing he had no conception of what time of day it was, he staggered to the window in the hopes that he could tell approximately what time it was by looking outside. Across the street, at the Greyhound Depot, the flashing yellow neon sign flashed "Good Eats" over and over again, ever four seconds, but aside from that he still had no idea how late it was. The night lights of the city twinkled, and he could see, looking down at the pavement, that it must have stopped raining. He had never eaten over there, at the Greyhound Bus Depot. Not only were the prices too high for his meager budget, but the Brinks Guards that patrolled the parking lot tended to chase him off if he sat for more than three minutes in front of a cup of coffee. "Good Eats" pulsed hypnotically into his room, over and over again, until he finally turned on the tiny bedside lamp and looked at the wall clock that hung over the bureau. Midnight. As suddenly as he had awoke, he felt an overwhelming desire for a woman...any woman. Once, several weeks prior, he had spent the night with the woman who lived down the hallway on the right. From that time forward, she had let him know by subtle hints and signs, that if he wanted to return at some point in the future, she would be amenable to a repeat visit. On the spur of the moment, he quietly let himself out of his room and tiptoed down the hallway to her door. He could see, by the sliver of light shining from beneath the door, that she possibly was still awake, and softly he knocked on her door. "Who is it?" "It's me, George, from down the hall in 202." She opened the door just a crack, and looking at him, opened it just wide enough for him to squeeze by her. Although her room smelled vaguely of the old hotel itself, there was the aroma of perfume and musk in the air which tantalized his nose, toyed briefly with his senses and dissipated almost as fast as he had identified its presence. She came to him in a rush of arms and lips, sighing with small guttural sounds as she quietly kissed him. They made love quietly, cautiously, as if they were making love for the first time once more. Later, as they lay silently together on the squeaky bed, George held her in his arms while she lay facing away from him. As the flashing yellow "Good Eats" sign pattered on the faded old wallpaper above where they lay, he suddenly realized that she was silently crying, that tears were cascading from her eyes onto his arm which lay beneath her head. "Good Eats" flashed once, twice and then three times more before he realized with a start, that he wished he knew how to cry.