Marcella slipped out a side entrance of the Mohawk Inn and, wanting to imagine herself as a burglar for those few moments, tiptoed for Rodrigo’s car. She touched the unlock icon on the purloined key fob, guided her dingy backpack onto the driver’s seat. As if it might provide a hint as how to proceed, she glanced in the direction of the illuminated sign at the motel entrance, where a russet-colored Mohawk Indian had his bow drawn, arrow aimed. In the light provided by the sign, a Hospitality Supplies delivery van. Marcella would be the first to admit that as thieves went, she was not a well-focused one. She closed the driver’s side door in a measured way and found herself moving in the direction of the van. The back doors were open, and the delivery guy held boxes over to a Mohawk employee in a brown, polo-style shirt, a young white kid with a blonde afro. The kid stacked them onto a two-wheeler. “Are those the little bottles of hand lotion and shampoos?” she said.

Neither responded.

Then, through the glass entrance doors of the lobby, Marcella spotted Rodrigo in his jeans and bare feet. It would be ridiculous for her to try and make a run for it. He halted, waited for the doors to slide open and while still a few strides away, she underhanded the fob, which he caught at belly level. She produced his wallet from her back pocket, tossed it over. “Nothing missing,” she said, “Go ahead and check.” He thumbed through plastic cards. Two were all scarlet with the number 308, and that had her curiosity. He widened the currency slip though it only held a US $20. “Give me a ride to the train station?” Marcella said. Then, then the doors were sliding closed behind him.

The motel worker and the delivery guy were watching.

“Any freebies?” she said.

“Mess up my inventory,” the delivery guy said.

So, she headed for the Chevy to retrieve her things. She wouldn’t have gone far in the car, perhaps over to Hamilton, ditched it in a public lot, called the Mohawk, left a message for loverboy as to its whereabouts. Might’ve used the credit cards once or twice, at places where one could pay with a quick swipe. Soda, sandwich, mints, aspirin, toothpaste. From outside the Chevy, she could see the motel employee carting the boxes inside. Hospitality Supplies pulled away.

She returned to the entrance and through the glass doors spotted the blond-afro kid carrying a steam tray across the lobby. Backpack over her shoulder, she swept past the unoccupied registration desk. Who ate for free, places like this had rules. Anyway, she wasn’t some vagabond, she had stayed here last night. In the dining area were a few two-person tables and windows with a view of the highway. Two steaming trays, one with scrambled eggs, the other, potatoes. Under a clear plastic shell, bagels. A sleeve of whole wheat bread. Toaster oven, pitchers of orange juice and milk, boxes of individual cereals. The eggs were made from liquid and cooked to look like brain matter. She chose potatoes, two pastries, juice, and coffee. She considered the speeding cars on the QE 403, felt she would probably get to Hamilton today, anyway. Find the public library, a park nearby, a place to nap, sleep for an hour or two or three. Occasionally when people encountered her like this, they’d give her money. Airports were viable. Earlier this week she’d spent two days and nights at Pearson, dozing, washing up, charging her phone, sitting outside the security checkpoints, and going on a passenger’s luggage and how gloomy or pleased they seemed, tried to imagine where they were headed. On a rumpled Wendy’s paper sack, she’d written:

Montreal

Reykjavik

Rome

Buffalo

Yukon Territory

Last night, Marcella encountered Rodrigo. Disheveled, he stepped into a Tim Horton’s in Burlington, which is where she happened to be. With his coffee and mound of Timbits, he took a table catty-corner to hers. Ate like a stray. Then, they began to talk, and he had a story to tell. Marcella listened, invited him to join her.

What a day that boy had! Driven all the way up to Toronto from Livonia, Michigan, to meet with a girl, Leslie, from the Bumble app. She was from Madoc and had taken a Rider’s Express bus and they each had reserved a room for the weekend at the Ruby Hotel in downtown Toronto. They hadn’t wanted to rush things, but who knew. They’d agreed to meet in the lounge on the ground floor. Rodrigo checked in, went down to the club, and over in a corner booth, there was Leslie. She looked like she did in the photos, the Zooms, bouncy blonde hair, green eyes. They applauded a jazz trio fronted by a middle-aged woman who tap danced and played a devil’s clarinet. Rodrigo and Leslie had their drinks. He began to feel that Leslie was a guy (thick hands, rippling forearms) and for a time he didn’t how to ask—-because what if he was wrong? Finally, Rodrigo had enough whiskey in him to put it out there. Leslie confirmed, said, how would you not know that? Right away, Rodrigo began apologizing for his previous narrow sexual experiences and said he wasn’t that attracted to guys, and he was attempting to stay cool about it, not to be a freaked-out asshole, and Leslie said, You want to try? Rodrigo didn’t know how to respond, excused himself, and darted out to the lot across the street, got in his Chevy and drove off. He wanted to clear his head, but instead got lost, wound up all the way out here. He didn’t feel betrayed, just unlucky. He knew any Bumble app date could result in smoke, but he felt a connection with Leslie and allowed himself to get his hopes up. If the circumstances were better, he might be able to go for Leslie, regardless of gender, but not right now, it was all too much for him.

Rodrigo apologized for monopolizing and asked about Marcella’s story. She felt herself smiling, though doubted she looked happy. What did she need to tell him exactly? It was near midnight, she was from Hawley, Alberta, and in her twenty-two plus years had come to lose faith in the world. She asked what else he’d like to know, and he said whatever she felt like telling him and she said that was all, that was enough. She wanted to know if he was heading back to the Ruby Hotel, she bet it was a nice place. He didn’t know how to get back there and was too tired and drunk to figure it out. The Mohawk sign was visible from where they sat, just down Service Road, and she gestured to the illuminated figure with the bow and arrow. Rodrigo worked at a car wash in Livonia and had blown up his bank account for this weekend getaway. In the motel parking lot, Rodrigo and Marcella grabbed the two bottles of champagne from the trunk of his car. They checked in, laid in bed together, tuned into cooking competition shows on the Food Network. They decided to take off their shirts. Maybe it was the natty condition of her bra or that she just looked too flabby and pale. He slowed. He kissed her hand and said he said he wanted to lay back for a second and in the next moment, he’d turned on his side and was sleeping. She sat on the edge of the bed, kept the sound low, refilled her plastic cup with champagne, and watched young chefs competing for a prize of $25,000. Their challenge was to build a gourmet meal around a bologna sandwich.

#

Marcella forged ahead with her plate of potatoes and pastries. She glanced in an absent way at a booth occupied by two middle-aged women, each with a wide, ruddy face, shining black hair. Sisters from Flin Flon, on holiday, she decided. Marcella thought about the champagne from the night before, how peaceful it had made her feel. She caught someone entering the dining area, Rodrigo, in his jeans and massively wrinkled Chaps button-down from the night before. She spotted him and then he saw her, and subsequently turned his attention to the stack of plates. She proceeded with her cruller. Like the night before, he occupied a table diagonal to hers; he’d also gone the potato-pastry route. She said, “Those eggs, huh?” He could leave without her, that would be fine. After breakfast, she’d locate the ladies’ room, wash up, especially behind her ears, at the back of her neck, and under her arms. Brush her teeth. Outside again, she’d snap on her aviators, see about getting to that GO train station. She could walk, she could walk all day and it would be fine. How did she look in the morning light, now that he was sober?

He said, “Hope I didn’t snore.” He spoke in a non-hushed voice and the women at the booth steered their eyes in his direction.

“No,” Marcella said, spearing her final potato. “Not at all.” Then, she said, “Sorry. About . . .”

“Forget it,” he said. The women turned back to their own conversation. Marcella felt it was rather clinched now, he’d drive her to the train station. Where to then, where?

“You headin’ back to Toronto?”

For a minute, he worked on his breakfast. “I guess.”

“Leslie’s there, right?” At this point, she felt he looked regretful, that last night he’d said too much. In a surprise move, he stood, lifted his plate plus his cup of coffee, and took the seat across from her. He drew in a breath, let his shoulders drop. His dark hair was a big tangle. All his stuff was at the other hotel. She said, “Maybe I’ll go with you. The Ruby, that sounds like a nice place.”

He said, “I didn’t try anything with you last night, did I? Anything like, inappropriate or whatever?” He guided his eyes in her direction.

“We talked about it,” she said. “But no. You were a gentleman.”

“My father snores like a fuckin’ chainsaw, his father was even worse. . . I can drop you somewhere.”

“Take me to Toronto, that’ll be fine. The Ruby Hotel, I’d like to see a place with a name like that. I won’t hang around, be on my way.”

“You’re not much of a bandit,” he said. “You need to watch yourself out here. I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“Last night you talked about catching a train.”

“I did, but now I want to do something else.” In the moment that followed, she had a vaguely familiar feeling, this sort of tit-for-tat with a guy wasn’t odd to her. In the next moment, she felt helpless, on the verge of sobbing. Outside, the Saturday morning traffic was sparse. “Hmm,” she said. “When are you going to contact Leslie again? You should text him.”

“What do you know?”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing . . . Come on. It’s the right thing to do. You said that last night. Did Leslie seem like he was into you?”

“Yeah. But I was who I said I was.”

“See?”

“Why couldn’t he just be a woman? Jesus Christ.” He sat back in his chair, then tossed his wadded paper napkin at the plate.

“You are interesting,” she said.

“Okay, okay. I’ll give you a lift. I don’t want to keep her, him, waiting all day. Get going.”

“I want to wash up.”

After he swallowed, he said, “Wait for you outside.”

As it turned out, one needed a room key to unlock the lobby bathroom, so Marcella returned to the breakfast room to see if Rodrigo was still there, and he was, typing out a text. “Just drop it off at the desk on your way out,” he said. She returned to the door of the ladies’, swiped the key. In front of a sink mirror, she pulled off her top and used wet paper towels on her shoulders and under her arms. Would the Ruby Hotel have a shower or a bath? She sniffed at the back of her right hand, then her left. Her hair, flat and oily. No wonder, she thought.

Did she lose track of time? She’d only been in here for five minutes tops, yes? Had Rodrigo already taken off? It didn’t matter, of course, if he had. She hadn’t lied, she found him intriguing. And just because he was American didn’t necessarily mean that at any moment he’d go flying off the handle. She patted her cheeks with her palms, pulled on her top, grabbed her backpack, shoved off. Without breaking stride, she frisbeed the room card over the counter at the unoccupied registration desk. Rodrigo’s Chevy was parked where it was when she’d had that notion about stealing it, and she could see the back of his head on the driver’s side. Feeling self-conscious, she quietly took the passenger seat.

He said, “Four-oh-three east, right?”

“Yes sir.” She stayed profile to him. “Head straight for the skyline.” She liked how it sounded.

They followed the service road, and she appreciated how the sun felt against her cheeks and on her forearms. They went by the Tim Horton’s they’d met the night before and she pointed at it with her thumb in a get-a-load-of-that-dump gesture. The car radio was tuned into 96.3, classic Canadian rock. It powered out Triumph’s “Say Goodbye.”

“There’s your ramp,” Marcella said. It was not difficult to imagine Rodrigo sailing east from Detroit on the 401 the afternoon before, music jamming, visions of a gorgeous, sparsely clad Leslie prancing through his mind. The idea of him like that pleased Marcella, so much so that she wanted to reach over to squeeze his hand. She sighed instead, said, “What’s it like to live in America? I mean, I’ve been there. Chicago, Detroit, of course. I keep thinking about taking my traveling show beyond the Ambassador Bridge . . . What are you thinking about over there? Leslie? Come on, you can talk to me. I’m completely objective. Relax.”

He drew in a long breath, let it out. “What would you do, Miss Objective? Say the man you fell for was a woman?”

“Hasn’t happened as yet,” she said.

“But . . .”

“Hang on. Well, suppose you were a woman?” She eyed him up and down. She smiled.

“Still no good, Leslie prefers guys.”

“Happiness is hard to find.” It wasn’t as light as she wanted.

His phone sounded, the ringtone like an old-fashioned landline. “Read it for me, please,” he said.

Marcella said, “He texted back. Still at the hotel. Gonna take a walk along St Patrick. Get a coffee at, hah, the first Tim Horton’s.” She showed him the screen. He squinted. He accepted the phone, tucked it under his thigh. “Redemption? Revenge?” she said. “You gonna kick his ass or something?”

Frowning, he said, “He deserves better than that. I don’t want it to end badly.”

They were leaving Mississauga, approaching the first of the exits for Pearson. “I overnight in airports,” Marcella said, “you should know that about me. For days at a time, I mean.” She picked at a fingernail. “That one is quite nice. I rather enjoy watching people. Seven-forty-sevens sailing against the sky. Where’s the strangest place you ever slept?”

“I lived in this car last year,” he said. “Pillow and blanket in the back seat.”

Upon examination, she felt the backseat of this Chevy had more than enough room for someone to curl up. The next classic tune was “One More Colour.” She said, “Ooohh, Jane Siberry.” She swiveled around, reached for the volume, paused in case he wanted to stop her. He didn’t.

#

The Ruby Hotel occupied the corner of Queen and St. Patrick. They parked in a lot across from St Patrick and then stood on the sidewalk, waiting for traffic to clear. They stepped side by side to the entrance. The ground floor of the brick, four-story building was a cocktail lounge. On the corner stage, a seated man played a steel guitar. They stood near the staircase and listened to geared-down version of U2’s “Beautiful Day.”

“Pretty,” she said, applauding, at the end. “Leslie somewhere?”

“Up one,” he said. “Lobby.”

They ascended the stairs and Rodrigo held open the door. As if by magic, a hotel lobby appeared before her. Oriental rugs, hardwood floors, registration counter all the way across the room, mural-sized smoked mirror behind it. Leather-covered furniture and, from a couch to their right, someone stood, and this was Leslie, it had to be. Tall, slender, round shoulders, wonderful lemony hair in a ponytail. Rumpled shirt and all, Rodrigo moved in his direction. He and Leslie nodded to one another. They shook hands awkwardly, uncomfortably. They embraced, politely. She was fascinated; disappointment could lead to so much worse than this.

Rodrigo beckoned for her, and he said, “This is who I was telling you about. Marcella, this is Leslie.”

“Oh, hi, yeah,” Leslie said. They shook hands, too. She felt Leslie’s firm grip and coarse palm; a strong hand that had done some work.

“We were just downstairs, listening to the music,” Marcella offered.

“Roddy says you’re on the road a little bit. I’ve been there.” Leslie tapped between his small breasts.

Stymied, Marcella couldn’t find words. I’m fine, I’m good, all right, a okay. But it could sound defensive.

Rodrigo rocked up and down on his heels, had his hands shoved down into his pockets. “What you been up to?”

Leslie said, “This and that.”

“Yeah. Well, um, Mar, Les and I are going to hang out for a little bit . . . here’s the key to the room.” From his wallet, he produced one of the 308 cards. "All yours, do whatever . . . my stuff’s up there.” She thought he was ready to joke, Don’t steal anything.

All she could manage to say was, “Thanks.”

Leslie was gesturing, “Elevator’s . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” she said. “Well, see ya. Good luck.” She headed for the steel doors feeling rejected somehow. Of course, inside the elevator the walls were floor to ceiling mirrors. She touched 3, tried to stay objective as to her reflection, threaded her fingers through her hair, stared up at the lighted ceiling. The hallways had strawberry-colored carpeting; not ruby red. Room 308 was a couple hundred square feet at best. On either side of the knock-off flatscreen were framed black-and-whites of the hotel from the 40s, one taken from across Queen Street; the other, from St. Patrick. On a fold-out rack sat Rodrigo’s suitcase. Two clasps, beat-to-smithereens leatherette covering, something found at a Goodwill. Inside it were laundered clothes, a couple of paperbacks, detective novels. Nothing to steal, she thought. Her own clothes felt itchy and terrible, and it wasn’t a moment before she was out of them. On the bathroom counter were Rodrigo’s toiletries, and it was surprising to her he hadn’t run up here to clean a little before meeting up with Leslie.

Two room keys? She imagined him, checking in, asking for two, just in case he and Leslie really went for each other. She thought about Leslie, who she’d just met for the first time, and how he hadn’t been wearing any make-up. If the guys got to know each other more, it might’ve been a great match. She felt her heart sink.

When she felt the warmth of the shower water it was all she wanted to know. She used the contents of the complimentary shampoo and then the conditioner. The surface of the towels was a bit on the scruffy side but overall, she felt so clean she didn’t feel like putting on any of her nasty old clothes and in an impetuous act extracted a pair of black butt-huggers and a gray t-shirt from his suitcase. She sat on the edge of the bed, which had reddish, clay-colored covers. The Not Exactly Ruby Hotel.

Marcella faced drawn red curtains, imagined they looked out to the neighborhood, other storefronts, and rooftops. She tried to imagine Rodrigo and Leslie, taking a walk or something, openly and honestly talking. You aren’t who I thought were going to be . . . but it was my fault for not seeing or understanding something . . . or for having unreasonable expectations. They would try to be kind, but it would be painful.

She lay on her side. The pillow needed fluffing. A coolness came over her body, a chill. She wasn’t catching something, she was tired and because she was lying down in a hotel bed, she could allow herself to feel this way. Acknowledging how exhausted you were could also make you aware of how close you already were to caving in, giving up, going home, and living the rest of your life with a defeated spirit. For worry of falling asleep too deeply, she didn’t want to slip under the clay-colored blanket, but then she did.

#

She was awakened by the sound of a voice but didn’t open her eyes until she recognized it. Rodrigo, over by the stand that held his suitcase. Then, she sat up and did this so quickly, he swayed back, put up his hands.

“What?” she said. She felt like a child.

“Taking off,” he said. The case was closed, and using the handle he lifted it from the rack.

“I’m wearing your clothes,” she said. She immediately began to pull off his shirt.

“No, no, whoa,” he said. “It’s all right. It’s okay.”

“Lordy! How did it go with Leslie?” He didn’t answer. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know, afternoon. There’s a clock there, by the bed . . .” He stood on his tiptoes. “After four, a few minutes.”

“Where’re you goin’?”

He frowned, and she got it, enough with the questions. “Back to Michigan. Leslie said he was going to walk to the bus station, I offered a ride, but he didn’t want it . . . The guy at the registration desk, he said technically speaking it was too late to cancel our rooms, but we explained the switch, and he was pretty cool, refunded Leslie’s room and then Les split that with me . . . so, you have this until the morning.”

“You want to hang around? Toronto’s . . .”

“I didn’t come here to . . .”

“Why are you being nice to me? If you want to fuck me or something, that’s okay . . . why didn’t you try last night?”

“I’m not mad at anybody . . .”

“I haven’t had sex in three months. Three.” She held up her fingers. “I was starting to get ideas about that stick of deodorant of yours.”

“It’s not you, all right? I just got some shit I need to figure out. I thought I was in love.”

When she spoke again, she said, “There’d be too much pressure now.”

“Right. Well, lookit, I’m gonna go. Here’s the other key.” He paused, as if pondering his options. She felt like blurting out, Yeah, you’re a great catch, you were living in your own car last year. You work at a car wash. Feeling crushed by this wave of smallness, she waved, hand by her shoulder. Without another word, he turned, stepped for the door, closed it behind him. She hung her head. This wasn’t the way to end things, and she could have been grateful. He’d been really good to her, and for no reason at all. There was still time to run after him, but she stayed where she was. She wouldn’t want to come off as desperate and needy, even though he was mostly a stranger.

She underwent a not unfamiliar, unpleasant spell of self-assessment. She despised such moments. She knew that she could come to hate it all, every breath she took. She needed to ride out the dread that made her feel like everything, every hope and chance were already gone. Her equilibrium would return, she just needed to stay calm. Strong. She would become curious again. That was the only way out.

Stop! She patted at her temples with her palms. She bowed her head, held it in her hands and would not look up until she felt settled and ready to appreciate where this day had brought her.

Yes, in a while, she could head down to the registration desk in the lobby and ask for more toiletries, say that somehow the person who’d cleaned the room had forgotten to do that . . . there was free cable . . . could she sit in the lounge tonight, charge a beer to the room, listen to the jazz music. She’d sleep in this room, and when she awakened in the morning, she’d feel anxious as to where she was because that was always the first reaction. The panic would subside, she’d settle down. Then it would be time to plot the next move. She’d have those complimentary toiletries, the ones with the hotel logo. Perhaps the Ruby would offer a free, hot breakfast. Before departing, she’d add a fresh clean room towel to her case.

It was all so simple. One could rest, but not get so tired as to give up. That wasn’t going to happen to her. She had to wipe her eyes. Then she was ready.

Ruby

by Andrew Plattner

BIO: Andrew Plattner has a forthcoming chapbook, Son of a Jockey, a journal, with Blue Cubicle Press. His novel-in-stories, Stymie, was published earlier this year by Mercer University Press.