Karma at the Charlie Hotel

Louella Lester

         I only heard about the room because I was volunteering at the soup kitchen, not because I cared much about helping others, but because it got me a free meal without waiting in line for hours. I happened to be spooning out mashed potatoes near Barb, a dive hotel owner’s daughter, who was there to fulfill a requirement for a college course. I overheard her saying a guy had been found dead in the hotel the night before, though he’d met his demise almost a week earlier.

          I’d worked the meals with Barb a few times and she always tried to chat me up. I’m not a bad looking guy, I try to dress well, no matter my situation, and I think she thought I was maybe someone just temporarily down on their luck. Unlike drinking or drugs, a gambling addiction is not so obvious. I sidled over to Barb and asked if she wanted to go for coffee later and she agreed.

          At the coffee shop I spun a tale about a vindictive ex-wife leaving me and child support payments that used up all my savings after I was laid off. After about thirty minutes I mentioned that I’d been evicted and was desperately searching for somewhere cheap to live. “Oh, it’s like this was meant to be,” she giggled, “I know where you can get a place, as long as you’re not too squeamish.”

          I’ve never been the type who’s grossed out easily, so I wasn’t much bothered about living in a room where someone had just died. And, with winter coming, I was desperate. I used the last of my cash to pay for her latte while she phoned her dad. I moved in the next day.

          The room was on the top floor and when I poked my head out the window, which I was leaving open to air out the strong smell of bleach and the underlying odor of death, I could see Charlie Chaplin, the hotel’s namesake, in a mural perched at an angle just under the roof line. It faced my window, and it was one of those paintings where the subject’s eyes follow you no matter where you go. Those eyes didn’t look happy, like you’d expect with a comedian. I could swear those eyes moved, maybe giving me a warning. Now, that gave me the creeps, but I had nowhere else to live.

          Barb kept texting, making it clear she was interested, and I could come over to her place any time. She wasn’t my type, but I hadn’t had sex in sometime and I also felt I owed her a thank you screw. So, I agreed to go to her place for supper the following weekend. I figured by then her volunteer stint at the soup kitchen would be done and I wouldn’t have to see her anymore. Best laid plans, eh?

          I was in no mood for company as I stood waiting for Barb to buzz me into her condo, I’d just lost pretty much all of my most recent employment insurance money betting on what turned out to be the final game in the World Series. But a free meal wouldn’t go amiss.

          It turned out the pasta sauce was great, but the conversation was dull. She spoke of shopping trips to New York and Taylor Swift concerts, and I fake-listened. Later, in bed, I thought about my high school sweetheart to get into it. I made sure she’d climaxed and was snoozing, before I carefully sorted through her jewelry box, selecting dusty pieces from the bottom, that she’d likely not notice were missing, then I hoofed it to the door.

          She kept texting and I kept making excuses until she backed off a bit, then one night I was shocked when I arrived home to find her sitting on my bed. She held up a master key. “I have a bit of pull around here. I hope you haven’t eaten, because I brought you some yummy soup.” Behind her, out the window, I could see Charlie’s eyes, but I didn’t heed his warning. I had to pay her back later, in bed, but at least it cost me no money. After that, she arrived every couple of weeks to exchange meals for sex. Until, last night, when it ended for good.

          Barb showed up with a chicken casserole and when I was halfway through the meal she spoke. “So, I went through my jewelry box today, some pieces are missing.”

          “Oh no", I said, “do you have a cleaner or something?”

          “No, I don’t, no one but me has been in my apartment since you visited.”

          “Barb … what are you saying?”

          She pulled out her phone. “Do you want to watch some video from the teeny tiny camera I have set up in my bedroom. I hadn’t looked at it in sometime. Have now.”

          I felt sick, really sick, as I apologized, and told her I was in dire straits. Asked her what I could do to make up for it. “Oh, you’ll pay for it, just like the guy who lived here before you.” She close-mouth smiled as I slid off the bed, clutching my stomach.

          “Surely you’ll be caught,” I whispered, “if a second person is poisoned in here.”

          “Poisoned? Oh, he wasn’t poisoned. He died in a hanging accident, choked while he was jerking off.”

          I writhed on the floor, dying, shouted for help, but the loud music from the bar below drowned out my voice. I clutched at her leg, which she pulled away before gathering up the casserole dish and utensils and wiping down everything she had touched, then she left as I took my last tortured breath.

          I’m lying here, now. Eyes wide open. Waiting for someone to discover my body. I’m staring at Charlie who’s staring back through the window, and I swear he’s shaking his head at me.