The Hotel del Sol

The hotel parking lot was empty but for a semi advertising Setting Sun Produce, and the senator’s Buick. The senator sat in a chair by the open window, plugging and unplugging the cork of a bottle of Glenlivet. 

Every few seconds the senator would look out into the dark parking lot. Then he would check his watch. After looking out the window one more time, the senator smelled the cork and set it on the table. He then removed the cardboard cap from the glass, placed it on the table, and rested the cork inside. As he poured the scotch, headlights illuminated the room.

“You’re late,” he said as he opened the door.

“I had another appointment,” said the young man.

“Drugs?”

“Funny,” he replied.

“You want a drink?” said the senator, lifting bottle from the table.

“I don’t drink anymore,” the young man said. “I told you that last time.”

“Last time, last time. There’s always a last time, and a next time. Times they are a’changin’.”

“You’re in a good mood tonight,” the young man said, sitting down on the bed.

“Why shouldn’t I be? You’re here finally” said the senator and closed the window and curtains.

 “I had an appointment. I told you.”

“What kind of appointment? One like this one?”

“You’re my only ‘this kind’ of appointment.”

“Good. So, what, a job interview?”

“Something like that, yeah,” said the young man, eying the bottle on the table.

“Take off your jacket. Stay a while,” the senator said, turning up the glass and walking over to pour another.

The young man took off his jacket and folded it next to him on the bed

The senator said, “You want it now?”

“Now’s fine,” said the young man. “Sure.”

The senator walked across the room to a small dresser and opened a briefcase. He pulled out a thick envelope and tossed it to the young man. “Count it if you want.”

“I trust you,” the young man said, stowing the envelope in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Trust is a funny word,” said the senator.

“Hmmm.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just hmmmm. How’s whatsername?”

“Whatsername?”

“Don’t make me say it, Bill.”

“Oh, we’re on a first name basis? Since when?” asked the senator.

“Since when weren’t we?” said the young man.

“Whatsername is fine.”

“She ask about me?” said the young man, glancing at the bottle again.

“Let’s not do this,” said the senator.

“You started it.”

“Oh, and just how did I—”

“What would happen if this got out?”

“This?”

“This,” said the young man, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. “This. The seedy hotel off the interstate, the exchange of money, the…well, who knows what else?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“A senator. A boy with a history of unlawful behavior. A secret meeting.”

“Oh, don’t be disgusting,” the senator said, making his way back across the room to his bottle. And as for who started it, I think we both know—”

“Why are you ashamed of me?”

Silence. The senator filled his glass to overflowing, set it down, and slumped into the chair. He leaned forward and took a sip. He looked up at the young man who had moved closer.

“You don’t understand. You’ve never understood. My life is my reputation. You want to know what would happen if this got out? If you got out? They would end me.”

“Quit being so overdramatic. Do you love me?”

 “Why do you do this to me?” said the senator, peeking out the window.

The young man turned and walked into the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror, squinting and staring into his own eyes. “Why can’t it be like it was? Before her? Before jail? I loved you.”

“I love you, too,” said the senator.

“No,” said the young man. “I loved you. I can’t do this anymore,” he added.

“Can’t do what?”

“This. Meeting like this. The money, the secrets, the lies.”

“I have never asked you to lie.”

“Bullshit. A lie is the absence of truth, and there is no truth here. As long as they don’t know, we’re both lying.”

“So, what, you’re going to tell?” asked the senator.

“No. I’ve been dead to them. Now I’m dead to you. No meetings. No money. No lies.”

 “I do love you,” said the senator.

“Maybe,” said the young man, “But we both know you love your position more. I can be okay with that.”

“And you’ll disappear?”

“Yeah.”

“And I won’t see you again.”

“Yeah.”

“And I won’t know whether you are alive or dead?”

The young man poured a splash of scotch in his glass. “That’s what my appointment was about.”

“About what?”

“Don’t worry.” He breathed into the glass.

“What do I tell her?”

“I don’t care. Tell her truth for once.” He licked his lips and turned the glass up. He stood up and walked to the door.

“I meant what I said,” said the senator.

“I’m sure you did,” said the young man, and he opened the door. 

As he turned to walk out, the senator said, “William.” The young man stopped. “Take care of yourself.”

“Don’t worry. My father taught me how to do that well,” he said and closed the door.

The senator walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. Then he turned and sat down, poured himself the last of the scotch from the bottle, and dialed his phone.

“It’s me…I had a late meeting. I’m leaving an a little bit…With nobody. Nobody you know…I’m calling now, for Christ’s sake…no I’m not drun—” The call had ended. He pulled his wallet out, and opened it. Tucked behind his driver’s license was a photo of a young boy, twelve or thirteen. He looked at the photo, rubbing the young man’s face with his thumb. “Goodbye, William,” he said, dropping the photo onto the floor.