HOTEL - 3 Stories, Evelyn J. Steward [best finance books of all time .txt] 📗

Hotel - 3 stories

a) Jenina pushed open the glass doors. A blast of cool air surrounded her, embalmed her body like meringue around a Baked Alaska. The sun outside roasted the pavement, heated the breeze like an oven. Her arms were beginning to burn. Red raw was no colour for a dancer. The refreshing icy blast cooled her down instantly; it even smelled cold. As she walked across the diamond chequered mezzanine, the "Jewels of the Madonna" rang through her mind, a waltz-like theme that had set her alight. It was an old ballet the Company she danced for were resurrecting. She had hoped to be chosen as one of the leading ballerinas. It was not to be, but she felt up to the small but important role they had chosen her for.
A group of tourists were lined up at the dark oak-coloured check-in desk. They were noisy and their cases and bags were strewn higgledy piggledy for some feet behind the jostling crowd so that Jenina was forced to wait at the back. She was only five foot two, small for a dancer which is why the Director would not give her the lead.
She was so tired, she just had to get her key and go lie down. Rehearsal had started at eight that morning. As the music played over and over in her head, she danced her way across the foyer, the crowd parting as she pirouetted on point with elegance and style all the way to the desk. It was a dream in her head. If only it could be so, she thought as dizzy, she collapsed onto the marble floor.
One of the tourists heard the thump as Jenina hit the marble. Turning, the woman called loudly for silence. As if by magic, the group stopped talking. "This girl has fainted. Send someone for some medical aid immediately," she commanded. A valet was dispatched to bring the Hotel doctor.
On his arrival, the doctor examined Jenina. "Just a case of heat and exhaustion," was his prognosis.
The staff carried her to a lounge seat and a cool drink was brought. "Are you feeling better?" asked the woman tourist.
"Yes thank you. I am just tired from a gruelling rehearsal that's all."
"Good!" stated the woman. "Now back to the check-in everyone."

Words 384
Hotel no. 2
b) Snow blew in under the porch roof and blasted the outer doors of The Embassy Hotel. A shiny black limousine, its roof covered in a layer of frosted ice, glided to a halt in front of the hotel. The doorman swiftly walked through the entrance and with a smart salute, opened the car door. Lady Marie Druthers drew her faux fur tightly around her and elegantly stepped out of the car. Walking under his large umbrella, she made her way to the sliding doors.
Once through the outer partition, he ushered her through into the foyer where a crowd of revellers were milling around the desk. The ornate columns were Victorian in style, lots of opulent reds and greens. The atmosphere conveyed a sense of belonging with its Italian marble floor and richly gilded statues. Pots of ferns hung green and flowing from every alcove and the tang of citrus, from the full size lemon and orange trees that marked the entrance on either side of the foyer to the banqueting hall and the main lounge, was overwhelming in an understated way..
Her black court shoes clicked as she crossed the marble and headed through the crowd of people who drifted apart as she passed through their number like a shoal of fish divides when something larger tries to catch them. They were not, after all, waiting to check in but lounging around for more of their number to arrive before going in to dine.
Her glance surreptitiously took in their gay costumes as she passed silently by. She remembered the first time she had entered this hotel. Not by the front entrance as the wife of a rich man but as a washer upper in the sweaty kitchens below stairs. But that was so long ago now. One day she just might venture downstairs again. One day. Just to remind her that though she might have money and power since her husband died and left her in charge of the Company, humility cost nothing and everyone is the same under the skin. Just a bunch of flesh and bones.
Words 350
Hotel no. 3
c) The sun-bleached wood was cracked; paint had peeled from most of the wooden frame of the double doors that led into Motifs Motel entrance. The square patterned black, red and white linoleum was scuffed and scored. Over the decades the colours had worn away down the centre of the foyer where women in high heels, kids in loafers and men with desert grit on their shoes had walked in from outside dragging their sad little cases across the once-bright hall.
Frederick Benton looked at his wrinkled, veined old hands as he placed them on the scoured glass of the door and pushed. They were as old as the motel, he mused as he pushed harder and almost fell inside as the door suddenly gave way to the pressure.
There was a crowd filling up the foyer, he would have to queue up to get a room. Funny, he thought, never dreamed it would be so busy nowadays. Way back when it was the busiest hotel around. Vegas had grown up around and over it long since. Removing his wide-brimmed hat, he shook out the sand that had collected along the brim and under the ribbon. Didn't matter if the wind blew or not, sand always got in somewhere.
The doors leading out to the lines of cabins were painted in garish colours that had faded over time so that they were a shadow of their former glory. Benton didn't care, he had hated the brightness in times past, now they had mellowed and he preferred it that way. He shuffled along as the people in front melted away. The bright metallic fitments were not so much faded as corroded over the years, pitted by sand storms every time the front doors were pushed open.
His case, tan leather forty years ago, was now dog-eared, scraped, faded and worn. It carried all his possessions, few though they were. Finally he placed it up against the check-in desk and asked for a room.
The wind blew and sand beat on his weather-worn face. He closed his eyes against the storm, then opened them. The Motel was a shell around him, long since burned down. Frederick Benton sighed that deep sigh of the forgotten and his essence faded into the jagged pieces of real estate.

Words 386
© Copyright Evelyn J. Steward. March, 2003

Publication Date: 06-30-2011

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