“In some parts of the world we're treated as gods. Dya hear what I'm sayin'? Gods man.” The voice was confident, not really a surprise considering the content of his words. Franz could only discern a mullet hairdo of the wife-beating variety bobbing gently up and down as the man, well saturated on American beer, was talking in an animated manner to the bartender. The bartender, a middle-aged woman with a quickly fading facade, smiled back feebly, no doubt taken back by his forceful rhetoric.
They were in the cozy lobby-cum-pickup bar, Jean's Inn, in Montreal. Franz was in town for three days for a chess tournament that had gone bad. He had downed his third consecutive Jack Daniel's and due to circumstance and ambience attempted idle conversation with another perfect stranger for that divine purpose that's also known as passing time.
“Excuse me for eavesdropping, but I heard the reference of divine entities attached to your livelihood and I must admit my curiosity has been peaked. What is it exactly you do?”
The wife beater sardonically looked at the bartender who gently shrugged her shoulders. “Man, I'm a bowler and as I was telling lovely Sheryl here, in Malaysia, where I've just returned from, we're treated as gods, shit we're treated better than the ping-pong players.”
“You're a bowler?,” the bashful stranger asked with genuine curiousity.
“No. Not just a bowler. I'm the bowler. J.J. Jenkins at your service. Now you can match the name with the pretty face,” he lent his outstretched hand for the purpose of shaking. Franz took it and shook vigorously in a manner that he thought would be appropriate for a world renowned pin striker.
He hadn't heard of him. “Pleasure, Franz, Franz Wasserman. Chess player.”
“Chessplayer? You call that a sport?”
“A game. It's more of a game than a sport, even though rumor has it that it may be introduced at the next Olympics.” He attempted to break the ice and yet insinuate a certain element of self-importance and global involvement to his existence, but the result was less than convincing.
The self-assured pinstriker snorted in disgust and took out a Marlboro. He at least had the decency to offer one to the timid chess player who declined politely.
“I decided to quit a few months back, after a long talk with my acupuncturist who's been pleading with me for the two years to kick the vile habit. He bases his radical new approach by linking my 1st round defeats these past few years with a probable nicotin-induced oxygen shortage to my brain. My game has deteriorated so badly that I'm willing to try anything.”
Franz found himself extremely agitated as a result of the disappearance of the spiritual crutch and the benefit to his game was at best incidental. He was not willing to go much further with his chemical cessation before seeing a marked improvement in his intellectual performances.
Franz had been knocked out again in the 1st round of the Montreal Chess Championship, this time suffering a humiliating defeat at the hands of a 12-year-old prodigy. When the kid had given him his hand at the end of the match he had felt like taking a swipe at him. Franz could see the contempt in his eyes as his attempt at a Petrov defense had come crushing down as a pile of dominos as the prodigy gave a solid variation on a Ruy Lopez and defeated him in 17 moves.
Franz hadn't managed to earn a draw in even one of the games. He thought it rather prudent to not supplement the latter part to the conversation.
His thoughts wandered to Mincwitz (of the Mincwitz attack) who after a much less remarkable losing streak than his own leaped fearlessly under the unforgiving wheels of a tram in turn of the century Vienna.
“Where you from?” J.J asked matter of factedly, ignoring the tidbit of information the strategist had supplied him with.
“Prague. You?”
“Detroit.”
A cloud of silence insinuated itself between the two unlikely adversaries. The Czech noticed the flirtatious glances the bowler was giving the barkeeper who on her part was smiling back lackadaisically.
He couldn't help but feel like a third and thus unnecessary wheel. He resigned himself to sipping his drink and fixing an artificial smile on his pallid face.
“You like the nose candy?,” the seasoned veteran of pin domination asked rather out of the blue.
“Candy?,” the Czech skeptically replied.
“Nose candy, the white fellow, the brain tonic…coke.”
“Cocaine?,” he said in a little higher tone than desired.
He shushed Franz with his index finger. “Woah! Easy there cowboy…I got us a bit right here,” he motioned to the inside pocket of his red suede jacket in a semi-secretive gesture.
“You want to do cocaine with me?,” the board tactician asked with the innocence of a choirboy.
“Whatever man…Sheryl gets off in 15 minutes, so I was thinking we head up to my suite and knock a few lines. You want in?”
Franz remembered Franticek from back home who used to dabble in cocaine. He always seemed to possess such a confidence, such a joi de vivre. It's true, he remembers not having seen him in more than 5 years. He heard that he stopped playing chess, but then again he had never been a promising player to begin with.
His thoughts quickly traveled back to the long rows of defeat he had suffered during the past two years.
“Sure…what the hell.”
----------
John John was the sole reception clerk that night at the inn. He was thinking that there must be more to the job than the occasional swiping of credit cards and the liasoning with the taxi company. This was already his fifth job of the year and he knew it was up to him to add some spice to it, or the journey to work-related fulfillment was apt to step into the sterile realms of the wanted ads. He sat behind the desk and scratched himself nervously – his slightly too tight polyester uniform was giving him a hard time. He looked in the mirror for the umpteenth time and fidgeted nervously with his hair. He noted to himself that the time was nearing for another trim. He knew the relation between self-hygiene/personal grooming and career growth. It was a direct and unidirectional one. John John was very good at putting himself in management's galoshes and many a time he would conduct dialogues between his plebian side and his patrician side. He knew what management wanted of its workers: devotion, loyalty, industriousness, self-enterprise and creativity were the essentials in ones quest to success and promotion. He possessed them all. The question, in his mind, was how to share them with the right people, how to show his hand in an off-beat and pseudo-casual manner without tipping them off about his overly ambitious disposition. He was smart enough to know that no one liked an eager beaver.
He noticed a Mexican couple approaching the desk. Lately a lot of Mexicans were coming up north, bypassing the States because of the generous exchange rate the dormant north was giving.
Their demeanour was akin to the North American one of a decade ago when they would go down South for the opportunity of basking in a dollar-friendly sun. John John noted to himself with satisfaction the curious correlation between a fluctuating currency and a national sense of pride.
“Senior, the TV is not wookin'…the speciaal channel is not wookin.''
“What TV isn't working?”
“Sexiiee Channel no wookin.''
“What room are you in?”
The couple exchanged confused glances but answered simultaneously, “109”.
John John quickly grasped the magnitude of the situation. He knew the importance of spicing up the sex life every now and then. He knew the people's needs. He checked the monitors in the central control room and saw that the wire from the VCR to television number 109 was dangling. He picked it up carefully and took notice of the faulty wiring that had apparently come into being. He made a mental note to file a fault report for the inn's temp-electrician who would pop in when his drunken stupors waned. In the meantime he improvised with some ducktape that was lying around and inserted the wire into its rightful socket.
“All set to go…don't you go doing anything I wouldn't contemplate.” he said with that knowing grin of a seasoned night clerk.
The couple didn't understand what he was referring to but from the tone of his voice gathered that the adobe had been laid for fiesta.
They made their way to the elevator in a fumbling embrace of mid-aged passion.
John John eyed them with humourous contempt and thought it better to not envision their intended carnal feast.
He returned his gaze to the mirror, passed his fingers sleekly through his hair and stepped out back for a smoke.
The night was cold and he felt each inhale grate on his lungs. Despite the discomfort, he continued taking deep, greedy hauls because it was a vital instrument in passing time. He was off at 8:00am and according to his watch he had another 6 hours to go.
As he smoked, he rolled his lighter around playfully in his non-smoking hand and mused about the plans he had been concocting until the gregarious couple so rudely interrupted him.
The more he thought, the more forcefully would he roll the lighter around in his palm. All his digits were involved in the process and his expression began to bear a pre-pyromaniac quality.
“How can I prove my worthiness?” The question rolled around on his tongue in much the same manner as the lighter.
“Solve a crisis,” he said in a barely inaudible murmur. It became a mantra. He repeated it more vigorously: “Solve a crisis”
What crisis?
Create a crisis.
How?
The why was obvious.
Unfortunately the inn was rather dormant at this time of the year and as patient as John John was he simply didn't have the time to wait for a real one to arrive at its convenience. It was in need of some form of a catalyst. He knew he must take it upon himself to be that catalyst.
He returned to the front desk and quickly started going through the guest list. The inn was only full to 30% of its capacity. The entire third floor was empty except for the royal suite that was being inhabited by a certain J.J. Jenkins, professional bowler. He remembered the character in vivid colours; he had been given a rather auspicious tip the day before.
He was a dude, the bowler was. Eventhough John John wasn't interested in the least in the pastime he remarked to himself at the time that it was a great way to make a living. He remembered that the bowler had made certain discrete inquiries as to the state of the 'intimate channel' before checking in and was impressed when he discovered a bottle of hand lotion at his disposal near the imperial bed. He had let him know of his approval by dishing another generous thank-you: a crisp $10 bill (American). All in all he was what the establishment called a grata persona and his requests were to be punctually met. It was understood.
John John instinctively knew that he should light a modest fire on the third floor. He knew that it could achieve a double purpose. One would be that a fire put out on the suite floor would be much more appreciated than a fire, let's say, on the first floor that was usually reserved for economy packages. Second, the gratitude from J.J. Jenkins translated much better into dollars than the Hispanic gratitude of a mid-aged couple who were in the selfish throngs of auto-gratification.
He thought that the best way to ignite a small yet controllable fire would be with a negligently thrown cigarette contacting a polyester drape. He had to make sure the fire extinguishers set in the ceiling, wouldn't cut the party before it took off. He had to be the extinguisher-toting hero. The accolades would be his if he played his cards properly.
----------
Franz wasn't accustomed to such luxury. He humbly acknowledged that chess had lost its edge over bowling somewhere along the line. He couldn't pinpoint the exact time that it had happened but he sensed a certain envy at the plush resources that his kind but rather vulgar host seemed to possess.
Sheryl sat on the sofa and removed her shoes. She sat in a self-adoring semi-flirtatious way indicating that she desired to be treated royally by the two men. Franz was slightly ill at ease and his discomfort was recognizable to the other two. He paced furtively around the two rooms under the pretense of checking the imperial suite.
J.J was busy chopping the fine powder into lines and was momentarily rendered anti-social as he funneled his energies into equal substance distribution.
“My feet are just killing me,” Sheryl said as if to no one in particular. Her eyes attempted to capture Franz's but he turned away sheepishly.
“Franz, honey, how would you like to give me a foot massage?”
“A foot massage?”
She motioned him to come sit beside her on the sofa with an elegant tap on the patterned acrylic couch.
He obediently obliged and sat a comfortable distance from her. She pouted her disapproval and he moved a bit closer. Again she pouted and again he moved closer to her desired distance.
She elevated her once shapely leg but presently afflicted with moderate cellulite onto his corduroy lap and made an ever so subtle eye-to-foot gesture signaling it was time to commence the massage.
Franz had been brought up to serve and cater to woman's needs. He had grown up with three sisters and fatherless. But he had never exactly answered the definition of the man in the house. Truth be told, he found Sheryl rather attractive. Attractive in a common way but nonetheless attractive. He proceeded to knead her foot and as he studied her relaxed, care-free expression. He expanded his area until it covered a hefty portion of her inner thigh.
“Whoa there cowboy…,” Sheryl tapped him flirtatiously on the wrist.
“Excuse me…I got carried away,” Wasserman replied apologetically.
J.J raised his eyes momentarilly in an amused manner and continued to chop and part the powder laborously. “We'll be reaching our destination shortly ladies and gentlemen, your patience is sure to be rewarded.”
Franz got up and walked over to the bar and poured himself another generous shot of Scotch.
“Can you fix me one too, cowboy?”
He quickly fixed it and passed it to her silently.
He grabbed the remote control and switched on the TV. On came a moderately turquoise shaded production in Scandinavian in which a schoolteacher was depicted giving some extracurricular tutoring to two perky looking faded blondes with surgically enhanced breasts. A vertically challenged, slightly dark skinned individual was voyeuring from behind an Ikea-looking semi-partitioned kitchen. His inclusion in the production was no doubt a homage to the late 70's German sub-genre in which the little men were used more than sparingly for that ever so elusive kinky effect that's so popular with the European connoisseurs.
“I didn't know the television shows these kind of movies here.”
“You gotta pay a bit extra…but it's worth it,” J.J said as he reached a crescendo of final touches to the chopping. He brought the plate with the gleaming lines of the white guy to the glass coffee table in front of the other two and motioned them to snort away into an oblivious horizon.
Sheryl took an experienced snort and as soon as the powder hit, a cocky smile took hold of her face and she collapsed back into the sofa in a sugar-coated arc of bliss.
Franz wasn't experienced with the narcotic lifestyle but he was a quick learner and as Sheryl had downed her portion he had studied her manner so as if not to embarrass himself with his virginal attitudes. He took the rolled dollar bill and used it as a bridge between the plate and his nostril. Upon feeling comfortable with the position the dollared straw had taken, he took a violent drag. He felt the cold powder rush up his nostril and make its way feverishly towards his brain. He felt a quick rush of adrenaline take over as his heart beat fiercely and he felt for the first time in months a sensation nearing happiness.
“Wow…this is good…I mean really, really good. My mind is lucid, my body feels strong…I feel sexy, I feel unboundable… It's as if my sexual spheres are rotating to their own tune.” As he said this he turned up the volume on the TV and let the room be surrounded and overpowered by the sounds of Swedish sound engineers who had enhanced the sounds of carnal pleasure into a climax of guttural screams as young Scandinavian women deviated from rigidly scripted plots with their own interpretation to the act of love.
Franz began a little jig as the sounds emanating from the speakers were sheer music that's sole intent was to stimulate his graceful gyrations.
“Is it hot in here, or is it just me?” He didn't wait for a reply as he sensually removed his denim shirt and threw it in the general direction of Sheryl.
His Kafkaesque body, white and undernourished, displayed an agility and ferociousness that the other two would have found near impossible to exist circa pre-stimulant era.
“Are you married Franz?,” Sheryl asked, cemented in the same position that she had occupied all night.
“Married? Are you crazy? Chess players don't marry…it's against the rules.”
“Against the rules?,” she persisted.
“Yeah baby, it's like bowling…we're like butterflies, here today gone tomorrow.”
“Yeah baby…like bowling…like butterflies.”
“Say Franz…,” JJ asked.
“Wait a minute…My nose needs some feeding.” As he said this he applied his nose, in a graceful and highly natural swooping movement, to the powdered plate with the generous assistance of Franklin’s rolled up portrait.
“That's much better…ya, you were asking JJ baby?”
“Franz Wasserman, is that Jewish?”
“Yes, I'm Jewish baby…but I don't practice.”
“You don't have to practice when you've got game, when you've got the gift. I'm the one who's gotta practice…practice becoming a Jew.” He took a brief, melancholy-tinged pause, refilled his nostrils with the grainy dust and continued with renewed gusto.
“Can I show you guys something?” he looked at Franz and then briefly at Sheryl. They both nodded him to go ahead.
He took his black turtleneck off forcefully and revealed a leviathan imprint of a lion, caged in a Star of David that trascended across his sternum and culminated over his lower left quadrant neatly stretched over his pancreatic area.
“Lion of Zion,” he stated proudly.
“But you're not Jewish are you?,” Franz asked.
“It looks like you should be cutting down on the powder,” Sheryl said slightly disrespectfully.
“Looks like you should learn a bit of respect when talking to a member of the tribe.”
She chose not to respond or rather chose to respond with another hefty snort of chemicals.
“I'm taking lessons with Rabbi Bernstein in Detroit to convert. In the meantime I lay my tefillin every morning and say the Sh'ma Israel. I'm going to get circumcised next month at Mount Sinai hospital in Toronto and maybe after that, who knows, I'll move to Israel. I hear bowling is huge over there, there's a big bowling center in Haifa. Can you guys imagine me bowling in the Holyland? Can you?”
“No,” They replied in unison.
“What made you think of converting?,” Franz asked.
“What do you mean think? It's pure feeling. My brain got nothing to do with it, just my heart. I feel that I've must've been a Jew in a previous life. The Jews are in great danger these days, their country's being attacked and they're being attacked everywhere. My Rabbi says that the scriptures forecast these hardships before the Messiah's coming.”
“Did you call me up here to talk about Jews and Israel or did you…,” Sheryl asked with subtle aggravation.
JJ looked at her for a second, measuring what response to deliver. “Have you ever been sandwiched by two members of the tribe?”
“Technically you're not a member of the tribe…,” Franz said with serious deliberation.
“Fuck technically, my semen is Abraham's semen, my blood is Jacob's.”
“That sounds better,” Sheryl said from her altar of self-indulgence.
“You haven't answered if you've ever been sandwiched by the Hebrew clan?,” Franz persisted in a persistent tone.
“Actually I've taken part in El-Al Gang-Bangs that take place right here in the inn…but never in the Royal suite”
“No way,” JJ seemed impressed.
Sheryl began undressing calmly and the others also removed their remaining garments until all three of them remained stark naked. The two Heebs walked over to the canapé and inserted the seasoned veteran between them.
----------
John John left a message on the counter announcing that he would be back in 10 minutes. Not that he thought any of the guests would need him at this time, but he had to cover his ass. He smoked Winstons and he had no intention of using them to set the fire. He couldn't afford to leave them at the site on that rare chance that an overly ambitious detective with a slightly higher than average intelligence would stumble upon the incriminating evidence. John John was a thinking man, he always had been. He sauntered over to the all-night convenience store on Rue De Parc and purchased an inconspicuous pack of DuMaurier Extra Extra Extra Light's. He quickly unwrapped the pack and removed a slim one and smoked it hastily as he walked back. The taste of the smoke was utterly unsatisfiable and he tossed it half way through.
As he entered the front door he noticed the Mexican couple waiting impatiently by the front desk again - their passions somewhat quenched from their previous visit to ground zero.
John John approached them from the client's side of the counter.
“Bon Jour…what can I do for you at this time of the night?,” he asked in his ever-present jovial bonhomie.
“We are hungriee an no one answered for room service,” the man informed the ambitious night clerk.
Were his plans of crisis genesis and solution not already ossified, John John might have considered this a suitable opportunity to display his skills at crisis management. But, as it were, their predicament fell on deaf ears.
“This ain't the Ramada Inn…kitchen closes at midnight,” he said in reference to the larger and hence more culinarily flexible inn across the street.
The couple appeared devastated, as they no doubt were in need of some protein supplements as a result of their excessive and most likely uncharacteristic fleshly workout. They exchanged irritated glances between themselves. Then the woman asked, “Eez there anywhere open to eat somfin'?”
At this point John John's plan ceased to be amorphous and began to form into a tangible and flawless plan. His well masked hostility towards the grating couple funneled neatly into an outlined plan of immaculate brilliance. He had to suppress his brimming grin from pouring outwards but the warmness that it created caressed his inner organs in an almost sensual manner.
“There's a great Tex-Mex restaurant open 24/7 right around the corner on Sherbrooke…I treat myself there on occasion.”
He gave them the exact instructions and after a brief secondary explanation saw them ambling away in their own unique brand of Mid-aged Latin romance towards the destination.
As soon as he calculated they were out of range he took the master key and entered their room. The TV was still on – muted bull fighting.
John John's voyeuristic side got the better of him and he started to take a look around. The handcuffs weren't really a surprise, nor was the rope. He admitted freely to himself that he was slightly caught off guard by the Salsa jar, half-empty on the bed and the curious stains that it had left on the sheets. But hey, he was known to indulge every now and then with some tahini, so who was he to judge the gastronomical accessories they chose as accompaniments?
He quickly reminded himself why he was there in the first place and took the pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and planted it underneath the bed. He took one last cursory look and made an elegant exit. Next stop was the aforementioned third floor. He took the stairs as always. It was good cardio plus he had claustrophobic tendencies and avoided the elevators for any journey that didn't exceed 25 floors.
He blocked the smoke and heat detectors with rags that he took from the cleaning maid's service room. This wasn't an all too laborious task as there was only one on the entire floor. After this essential step had been addressed he retrieved one of his own smokes and tested the efficacy of his job. He put the fag out against his shoe and placed the stub in his pocket.
He then cautiously walked towards the royal suite and placed his ear against the door. John John could discern the bartender's nasty language. He smiled as he envisioned the rowdy bowler giving it to Sheryl. His smile widened a notch as he made out a third voice, with a European accent, within the melee.
He reminded himself what was the purpose of his presence on the third floor and proceeded to light the DuMaurier cancer stick. He took a few forceful drags until the tip was aglow with a strong orange luminance and casually flicked the butt onto the carpet. It set ablaze instantaneously and John John momentarily, like Moses in front of the blazing bush, was transfixed. He returned to his senses, unlike Moses, and saw the fire begin ascending the imperial suite's door.
The noises from within came to an abrupt halt and John John could hear their conversation being channeled to nervous questions about the smell of fire and the sudden elevation of temperature levels.
He grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall and began spraying the foamy substance with the expertise of a New York fireman post 9/11.
The entire hallway was dense with smoke and John John, who hadn't taken into account his asthma, was wheezing heavily and his eyes were watering to the point of near blindness. He could feel the onset of a panic attack but he knew he must remove the incriminating rags from the ceiling before making a retreat. He could feel strong heart palpitations and an odd creeping sensation down his left arm that's more fearsome than shower hour for the residents at Aushwitz.
JJ Jenkins, bowler par excellence, burst out of the room like a 70's TV cop, with only a towel for decency. Not far behind him was Franz Wasserman, naked, eyes ablaze from the throngs of another adrenaline rush. They almost stumbled over the passed out night clerk who had chosen their front door as his spot of demise.
JJ bent down and put two fingers on his Jugular and checked for a pulse. It was faint, but it was still perceptible. He dragged him by his feet into the smoke-free room and asked Sheryl if she had any experience in mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She said she did and as she neared John John's cyanotic mouth she gasped as she suddenly recognized him.
“It's John John.”
“Jeezus it's…,” Franz began to say as he reentered the room.
“Jeezus?Jeezus? I thought you were Jewish...,” JJ picked up from the spot he left off before the sandwiching had begun.
“So was Jeezus,” Franz answered back but trying to avoid a theological debate.
“Can't you use a different expression? Like Moses, or Jacob or Isaac.”
“Moses…It's the night clerk. What's he doing here?”
Sheryl immediately applied her mouth with its rancid aftertaste of residual protein onto the victim's. Maybe it was her highly oxygenated spurts of air, maybe the horrific halitosis or even perhaps her erect nipple as it rubbed rhythmically against John John's breast. Either way, as the cardiac victim's eyes opened, ever so slightly, his first vision was the three naked, semi-familiar adults huddled over him.
John John permitted himself a cautious smile.
----------
The Montreal Police were quick on the scene and they proceeded with a swift and effective investigation. Senior detective, Jean-Luc LePen, closed the inn and firmly requested the guests to not leave the hotel until… well until he had a lead. He was the one who shortly after his strict instructions found the butt at the scene of the crime. His hunch told him that he was looking for a DuMaurier smoking arsonist.
Luckily there weren't too many visitors. He instructed his team of four to search the rooms extensively.
'We found this in room 109' junior detective Mechamps proudly announced as he introduced the red pack of cancer agents to his superior.
----------
Senior Vasquez and his wife had never been in a position like this before.
“They look as guilty as sin,” one of the junior detectives said to his group of peers who collectively nodded their agreement sadly with the harsh verdict.
“We only eat at the corner…,” the plump wife pleaded her case.
“We don't smoke….”
“I've checked out their alibi …no one answering their description has eaten there tonight,” junior detective Lafleur acknowledged.
The couple looked at each other with mounting alarm. Seniorita Vasquez could no longer bear her persecutors accusing and inquisitive eyes. Tears erupted like a geyser from her rounded eyes. She spontaneously rendered herself into an animated lump of dough. Sênior looked on with that embarrassed look that men are known to adopt whenever their spouses break into public displays of hysteria.
They began bickering violently in Spanish and throwing mutual accusations in the air as the 4 astounded law enforcers looked on amazed. Sênior gave her a flat palmed backhand to the face. Apparently it was enough of a gesture for senior detective LePen to intervene and take the couple downtown for further detention.
After having prevented a great tragedy from happening, John John was awarded three days off. When he returned to work a beautiful yet unpretentious pseudo-Rolex watch awaited him atop the night counter. Attached to the watch was a touching note typed and signed by the Hotel manager.
To: John John Jacobs.
In recognition of your selfless devotion and your boundless commitment to customer service we are honoured to grant you with this token of our appreciation.
Sincerely yours,
The Management
The End
