Waylaid by Ed Lin Page B

my head, handing him the key to Room 5. “Now do the both of us a favor,” the man said, working the key into his tight back pocket, “and wipe that mouth, okay?” He turned and left.
    I shook my head and read the name again. I would have thought Mr. Hendrickson could have come up with something better than “John Smith.”
    That’s when I realized that despite everything, I loved being behind the front desk. People did what I told them to. The President could come in and he wouldn’t get a room until he filled out a card and paid me.
    The hotel was a prison, but at least I was the top dog. Nobody came through until I got my bite.

It was December and the birds didn’t sing. Lonely old men stayed in their rooms, fiddling with the television reception. The sun never shone through the cloud cover that would roll in from the ocean. You looked at your watch and looked up to the sky, and you couldn’t tell if it was a.m. or p.m. The light that did trickle down turned everything a heavy gray. I was sleepy when I went to bed and sleepy when I got up.
    The few johns that came in lacked enthusiasm, acting like they were tossing pocket change at a pay-toll basket. They were a far cry from the anxious and sweaty men with shaky hands who practically humped the counter in the warmer months.
    I wasn’t feeling so hot to get laid now either. I’d read a joke about having to eat smelly pussies in the January issue of Gent, and it sort of churned my stomach when I thought of Lee Anderson finally opening her legs to me.
    Then there was December 7th. I used to worry about that. I heard “jap” a lot on television, backed by blackand-white film. I guess that’s where the other kids heard it, too. When they started tagging me with it, I took it as them calling me “fag” and took care of them accordingly.
    Vincent had taught me how to dish out shit when I had to.
    â€œYou ever knock a guy down,” said Vincent, pointing at the soft skin above my nose and between my eyes, “start jumping on him. Jump on his fucking knees and ankles, man. He’ll never walk right again.” I was already bigger than most of the other kids, but it never hurt to know how to shove the knobby end of your wrist into the throat or how to bring that knee into the gut. No one called me “jap” or just plain “chink” anymore to my face.
    â€œWhy did the Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor?” I asked my mother once.
    â€œJapanese, they were so cruel. They kill Chinese, burn some of them alive,” she said. “They fight on same side as Nazis.”
    â€œHow come the racists were on the same side as Japan?”
    â€œBecause they wanted to help Japan attack China and kill Chinese.”
    â€œTheir country is so small, how could they attack China?”
    â€œChinese fighting with each other.”
    â€œWhy were they fighting each other? You told me Chinese people were smart.”
    â€œChinese are smartest people in whole world.”
    â€œThen why did they turn communist?” My mother sighed and waved the question away like it was a hungry mosquito.
    â€œDon’t ask me that now. I have to clean rooms. Go do your homework.”
    â€œI did my homework already. I’m taking care of the office now.”
    â€œThen take care office.”
    â€œI’m already here.”
    â€œI’m going to clean rooms,” she said again, heading for the cleaning cart. “Don’t rent Room 6. Smells really bad. I think we have to shampoo rug.”
    Christmas vacation found me in a lethargy, fat from overeating and lack of business at the hotel. My mother gave me extra money when I went to the hardware store so I could pick up some stuff from Finemann’s Thrift Bakery on the way home. Maybe a cake or pie could add some holiday cheer to the season.
    They didn’t do any baking at the thrift “bakery,” but