tricky part. I have done a lot of research about New York City, but I didn’t dare research Burlington’s geography, in case there was some tricky way for Gary to track Jill’s computer traffic. In Burlington, I know nothing but the hostel.
I score a free map and two brochures from the station’s information desk. The hostel is less than three miles away, and I have literally nothing else to do. Satisfied that Gary hasn’t trailed me this far yet, I heave my duffel over my shoulder and head west on foot.
_______
An hour later, drenched in sweat and Burlington’s humidity, I’m not impressed. The hostel’s glass door, complete with press-on sticker letters, is sandwiched between a Salvation Army and a repair shop. The T is half missing, so looks like a H OS ¯ EL with a really high hyphen. Through the door, I see only a narrow, tall staircase.
It is remarkably quiet. I almost feel like I shouldn’t be here, like I’ve entered someone’s house uninvited. At the top of the stairs, a pock-faced receptionist is absorbed in her magazine.
Here we go.
I open my wallet and put my cash on the counter. “Hello?”
She doesn’t look up. “Do you have a reservation?” Her British accent gives me flashbacks to Doctor Who marathons with Jill.
“I don’t.”
“I’m sorry to say we’re booked full tonight.”
She keeps talking, but I don’t hear a word of it. Shit. Shitshitshit. What Would Jill Do?
“Excuse me? Sir?” Now she’s looking at me.
Shitshitshit. “Sorry. I missed that?”
“I would be happy to call one of our hotel partners if you’d like.”
“Yes. Sure. Yes, please.”
Half an hour later, the gist is that every available room is too expensive. If I only needed one night, no big deal, but I can’t exactly drop two hundred bucks on a bed for a single night. Because what will I do if I need a second night in Burlington? Sleep in the street?
This girl is apologetic. “It’s this jazz festival. Loads of places are booked up.” She looks at her computer. “Now, if you have a relation who can host you tonight, we have a bed available tomorrow night.”
I have literally no relations, let alone one in Burlington. What can I do for the next twenty-four hours? This is a special kind of insult—when I finally have the money to do what I want to do, that thing still isn’t available to me.
She cranes toward me, her eyebrows raised in hope. “Sound good?”
I guess. I mean, I should take that bed before someone gets it, too. “Yes. Yes, please.”
“Name?”
“Xan—Graham? Graham Bel! One ‘l’ in Bel.”
“You got the last bed for a week, mate.”
That’s okay. My call to Jill is tomorrow night. If all is well and Gary is caught, I can leave Sunday morning anyway.
“Oh, wait,” she says.
I don’t want to Oh Wait.
“We have a cancellation.”
Oh, thank god.
“For Sunday night. Will you still be in Burlington then?”
God, I hope not. “Maybe? I’m not sure. It depends?”
Check-in is not multiple choice. She says, “Let’s book you in, and you can cancel if your plans change.”
“Thanks.”
“No worries.”
In minutes, we’ve sorted the paperwork and I’m on my way again.
_______
Heading down the stairs to the great outdoors, I convince myself this is okay. Gary is a close-range weapon kind of guy: knives, skewers, his own hands. He doesn’t own a gun.
I don’t think he owns a gun.
Shit.
No, it has to be true. For Gary to kill me, he will have to get close. Very close. I’ll see him coming. As long as I stay out in broad daylight in the company of other people, I will be safe.
But I’ll stay inside as much as possible.
Stay in public places. Don’t let him get close.
About three thousand silent repetitions later, I push open the door and walk into the world. Burlington is very, very busy.
It’s nine o’clock. I’m very, very hungry.
Curt’s Deli, where the girl at the desk recommended I have dinner, is just three doors east of the
I score a free map and two brochures from the station’s information desk. The hostel is less than three miles away, and I have literally nothing else to do. Satisfied that Gary hasn’t trailed me this far yet, I heave my duffel over my shoulder and head west on foot.
_______
An hour later, drenched in sweat and Burlington’s humidity, I’m not impressed. The hostel’s glass door, complete with press-on sticker letters, is sandwiched between a Salvation Army and a repair shop. The T is half missing, so looks like a H OS ¯ EL with a really high hyphen. Through the door, I see only a narrow, tall staircase.
It is remarkably quiet. I almost feel like I shouldn’t be here, like I’ve entered someone’s house uninvited. At the top of the stairs, a pock-faced receptionist is absorbed in her magazine.
Here we go.
I open my wallet and put my cash on the counter. “Hello?”
She doesn’t look up. “Do you have a reservation?” Her British accent gives me flashbacks to Doctor Who marathons with Jill.
“I don’t.”
“I’m sorry to say we’re booked full tonight.”
She keeps talking, but I don’t hear a word of it. Shit. Shitshitshit. What Would Jill Do?
“Excuse me? Sir?” Now she’s looking at me.
Shitshitshit. “Sorry. I missed that?”
“I would be happy to call one of our hotel partners if you’d like.”
“Yes. Sure. Yes, please.”
Half an hour later, the gist is that every available room is too expensive. If I only needed one night, no big deal, but I can’t exactly drop two hundred bucks on a bed for a single night. Because what will I do if I need a second night in Burlington? Sleep in the street?
This girl is apologetic. “It’s this jazz festival. Loads of places are booked up.” She looks at her computer. “Now, if you have a relation who can host you tonight, we have a bed available tomorrow night.”
I have literally no relations, let alone one in Burlington. What can I do for the next twenty-four hours? This is a special kind of insult—when I finally have the money to do what I want to do, that thing still isn’t available to me.
She cranes toward me, her eyebrows raised in hope. “Sound good?”
I guess. I mean, I should take that bed before someone gets it, too. “Yes. Yes, please.”
“Name?”
“Xan—Graham? Graham Bel! One ‘l’ in Bel.”
“You got the last bed for a week, mate.”
That’s okay. My call to Jill is tomorrow night. If all is well and Gary is caught, I can leave Sunday morning anyway.
“Oh, wait,” she says.
I don’t want to Oh Wait.
“We have a cancellation.”
Oh, thank god.
“For Sunday night. Will you still be in Burlington then?”
God, I hope not. “Maybe? I’m not sure. It depends?”
Check-in is not multiple choice. She says, “Let’s book you in, and you can cancel if your plans change.”
“Thanks.”
“No worries.”
In minutes, we’ve sorted the paperwork and I’m on my way again.
_______
Heading down the stairs to the great outdoors, I convince myself this is okay. Gary is a close-range weapon kind of guy: knives, skewers, his own hands. He doesn’t own a gun.
I don’t think he owns a gun.
Shit.
No, it has to be true. For Gary to kill me, he will have to get close. Very close. I’ll see him coming. As long as I stay out in broad daylight in the company of other people, I will be safe.
But I’ll stay inside as much as possible.
Stay in public places. Don’t let him get close.
About three thousand silent repetitions later, I push open the door and walk into the world. Burlington is very, very busy.
It’s nine o’clock. I’m very, very hungry.
Curt’s Deli, where the girl at the desk recommended I have dinner, is just three doors east of the
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