The Tattooed Bed

…jackass says he got no rooms, even though the Vacancy sign's flashing through the glass, so I flash the wad of cash that I just lifted from Mr. Helmet. All this time, Personality Crisis is going through my head like a freight train can't stop for nothing I need a fix bad and for that I need four walls and Mr. No Tattoo's giving me the evil eye like he ain't never seen a junkie in his life in this rent by the hour flea bag LOVE HOTEL.

Sheeeiiit. Love by the hour. Ain't it a bitch?

His old lady, wife or mother, gives him the evil eye and grabs a couple of bills, slides me a key, says "Out by seven. Don't take nuffin'." And I'm outta there, music still pumping through my veins way it does when I need the junk bad. Number on the key is nine. All the way at the end of the hall on the first floor, behind the stairwell, my hands sweating so bad I fumble the key in the lock, throw open the door, collapse against it.

Fucking Taj Mahal, it ain't. Fucking tourist, I'm not. I make a beeline for the sink. Sitting on the edge of the tub, I cook up some sweet relief. As the smack hits my vein, the New York Dolls fly out of my head and go back to my chest where they're supposed to be. I got that tattoo twenty years ago. Marilyn Monroe's head, red pouting lips, heavy lidded eyes, crown of golden hair the words "NEW YORK DOLLS" in a banner flying over my heart. Now that was a great band. Not like the new age posers that came later and the techno punk and lip synchers. Helmet. What kind of loser tattoos that kind of shit on his body? I did him a favor killing him. Lucky for me, he was loaded. Didn't look it. Rich people nowadays will fool you. Dress like they live in their cars, but check their pockets and you find an iPhone and a titanium fucking Visa.

I'm starting to unwind, so I make myself at home, empty my pockets. Mr. Helmet's wallet, credit cards, the keys to his Prius—man, I wish I knew where it was parked—my knife, still covered with his blood. Reminder to self. Self, wash off his god damned blood and ditch his cards and car keys.

The old lady at the front desk's words still bug me. Don't take nuffin. Now that I'm getting more relaxed, I look around the room for something to take.

Man, this place gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ugly as sin. The wallpaper is so old it's worn through in spots and some of those spots have worn through, so there are three or four different kinds of faded, nasty, peeling paper visible. The bathtub is brown on the inside, and it ain't the red rust kind of brown. Floor's mostly covered with some kind of puke green carpet used to be shag before it caught mange and lost half its fibers. Table by the bed is covered with graffiti. Celine. Kay + Julio 4 Ever. Jesus Saves. Don't Sleep On The Bed.

What the fuck?

A bass beat starts up right about then. The walls of most love hotels are extra thick. That's why I pay more to stay at hotels with hourly rates. Must be someone in the stairwell. He'll go away soon.

Don't Sleep On The Bed. The words catch my eye again. I'm still sober enough to focus, so I look at the bed. Seems ordinary enough. Queen sized, with a headboard. I look under the bed. No monsters.

I lift my head back up. Suddenly, I'm dizzy. I lay my face down on the mattress. Is that leather? I run my hand up and down along the bed spread. Sure feels like leather, soft and supple, finely stitched. I chuckle. Now, I know what I'll take with me when I leave room number nine. I stretch out on the bed and sigh—

But what's this? The music's getting louder. Damn synthesized pseudo punk heavy metal. Is some head banger camped out in the stairwell? I struggle to sit up. I paid good money for this room. Not gonna let some asshole spoil it—

The bed is like jelly under me. A water bed? No, even softer than that. It bubbles up around me like lava. By the light from the bare bulb overhead I make out patterns in the leather. Words. Pictures. Virgin of Guadalupe. Dragon. Another dragon. "Mom." Celtic Cross. Tiger. Tattoos. They look familiar. Why can't I move my arms and legs?

The music is pounding in my skull. The bed has me cocooned all except my head. I scream. As my lungs empty of air, the cocoon tightens. I can't breathe. The leather bedspread moves to cover my face. Oh, shit! This part is freshly stitched, the edges still raw and bloody, decorated with the image of a bird cage looking piece of headgear on a chain with the word "HELMET".

I try to scream again. It's the tattoo from the man I just killed and robbed and it's smothering me. There's no air left. The bed and the music are eating me alive and the junk doesn't ease the terror—-

Next morning, the hotel owner found room nine empty. The tenant from the night before had left behind several thousand dollars in cash, credit cards, car keys and a blood stained knife. Oh, and one other thing. There was a new panel on the patchwork leather bedspread which had been handed down from the owner's wife's great grandmother, a voodoo priestess in New Orleans. Near the top, there was now a vivid full color image of Marilyn Monroe with the words NEW YORK DOLLS.

Find more by McCamy Taylor in the Author Index.

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