Page 11 of Marcello

“Is there somebody who can take my bag for me?” I asked.

“No.”

Okay, then.

I walked over to the stairwell, which was marble and spiraled up the center of the building.

‘Marble’ makes it sound fancy.

It wasn’t. Just old.

The dingy stone stairs had been worn down in the center by centuries of footsteps.

Turned out, the stairwell was the nicest thing about the place.

As I lugged my suitcase behind me, every floor looked worse the higher up I went.

The hallways had threadbare carpet. Paint was chipping off the walls. Fluorescent lights gave everything a sickly pallor.

When I finally got to the fourth floor and opened my room, it smelled like the cleaning staff had lost a war against mildew.

If there even was a cleaning staff.

There was a twin bed that creaked noisily, an ancient desk with a rickety chair, and a single lamp on a scarred bedside table.

I immediately threw the comforter on the floor. I’d heard they were rarely washed in regular hotels; in a place like this, there was no telling what the hell was on them.

The sheets were rough and smelled like bleach, but at least they looked clean.

No used needles or dead hookers. That was good.

The bathroom was grungy, with a single enamel basin with exposed pipes underneath. The toilet was missing a seat, and the porcelain bowl had brown rust stains under the rim. The shower was the size of a coffin, and the plastic curtain was covered in mildew.

There was one towel, ripped at the edges and reeking of bleach, with a couple of faded brown stains.

I stared at myself in the mirror under the one naked lightbulb and thought, Well, if you needed an incentive to find a job, this is it.

Let’s get the hell out of this shithole as soon as possible.

4

After a lousy night’s sleep, I forced myself out of bed at 8 AM.

I wrestled with my emotions for several minutes, then finally checked my email on my laptop.

I immediately wished I hadn’t.

My mother had written me a frantic message.

Marcello, what happened?! You must call me immediately! Please don’t scare me like this! I’m frightened out of my wits – did you get in trouble? Did you do something you’re afraid you’ll get arrested for? Your father might be able to help. Whatever it is, we can get through it, but you have to let me know what’s going on! Please just call me, my darling! I love you – Mama.

I kept looking at that one line:

Your father might be able to help.

I wanted to write back, Papa’s the reason I’m IN this fucking mess –

But I knew that wouldn’t do any good.