Part XLI: Honey's And Edna's Attempts At Seduction

Harry Guakomoli had just been handed a briefcase with a shitload of cash. The case also contained government-issued identification for both himself and a fabricated individual, Elijah Tenenbaum. Our hero walked away from Dinah and her busted Monte Carlo gripping the case's handle with his right hand while the pine box that contained his life's mementos was awkwardly pressed between the left arm and side of his torso. The Guak needed a better container for his shit. And a new place to live. And some clothes. But the loud rumbling in his gut told him that getting some sustenance is his system needed to be his top priority. Our hero was fucking starving!

As if on cue a black woman in her late forties ran out of Honey's Sweet Eatin's. She headed toward him, her plain powder blue linen dress clung to her body which skirted the line between curvy and fat. A stained greasy apron that was once white was tied loosely tied around her waist and flapped as she ran. Her thick curly hair was held in place with a hair net.

"White boy! White boy, hold up!" the woman called out to our hero as he walked away.

"Huh?" muttered The Guak as he spun around.

"I don't know what your beef was with the bald one," she answered. "But you just made Honey's fuckin' day. Year even."

"Oh, yeah?" asked The Guak. "Is that sarcasm? 'Cause I'm sorry about your restaurant."

"Oh, hell no!" Honey exclaimed. "This shit hole's been a curse! Nothin' but misery! But now the insurance company's gonna cut me a fat check. Maybe your ICE friends will too. Hallelujah!"

"Anything to help the working folks," The Guak responded.

"I owe you so much, baby," Honey purred as she stepped closer to our hero. "Maybe Honey can take you back to the pantry and properly show you her appreciation?"

Instead The Guak accepted a bunch of soul food on the house: ham hocks with black-eyed peas, hush puppies, chitlins, and cornbread. And a bottle of cherry Coke to wash it all down. Our hero sat down on a sidewalk bench and scarfed down his meal. While he ate a kit of pigeons surrounded him attempting to grab scraps of food that hit the pavement or, better yet, steal the grub from his hands. The Guak growled as they landed. Pigeons are stupid things, but even they trembled at the low menacing rumble that emanated from our hero's throat. The winged rats knew The Guak was not to be fucked with.

After our hero was fully sated he embarked on a journey to find lodging. Sure he had only been awake for twelve hours after a months-long slumber, but fucking shit up was tiring work. He wanted somewhere close.
During the mission to find a residence The Guak came across a military surplus store and beside that a thrift shop operated by nuns. Our hero purchased a drab green duffel bag and tossed the pine box. He then procured some clothes: mostly t-shirts, socks, underpants, jeans, and pullover hooded sweatshirts. Old habits die hard. Even for thousandaires.

The Guak was getting sleepy. Ass-kicking and a tummy full of soul food will do that. He saw a hotel advertising daily and weekly rates. It was named The Resplendent Auberge, though there was nothing resplendent about it, and the establishment was more of a glorified flophouse. This was proven by the half dozen or so scantily clad women selling their flesh in front of the building in the early afternoon. One of the ladies directed a sales pitch toward The Guak as he approached but stopped herself; the combination of bandages affixed to his face and neck and the menacing glower upon his countenance forced her to wisely reconsider.

The Guak entered The Resplendent Auberge and one look at the lobby one could determine that the hotel had seen better days and probably had not seen a good one in quite some time. The wallpaper was stained from constant exposure to tobacco smoke; the shag carpeting was frayed and stained from God-knows-what. Hanging from the walls were framed autographed photos of some of the hotel's more "famous" guests: star of the stage Uta Hagen; Family Ties' Marc Price; Nightranger singer/bassist Jack Blades; gay masseur-turned-porn star Bobby "Bobby Cummings" Dunning; James Watt (United States Secretary of the Interior 1981-83); the guy who played Oliver in The Brady Bunch; the second yellow Mighty Morphin' Power Ranger; and Sammy Davis, Jr.

Seated behind a counter protected by a bullet-proof was a frail white woman in her late sixties. She inhaled deeply from a long slim cigarette, her fingertips orange from the nicotine.

"I want a room," our hero stated to the desk clerk.

"For the week, night, or hour?" she asked in a bored tone.

"Fuck it. Let's make it a week"

The woman opened a manila folder and pulled out a sheet of paper. She grabbed a cheap plastic pen that was nestled behind her ear.

"Name?" she asked.

"Umm..." our hero thought aloud, not wishing to use neither his real name or new alias.  "John Smith?"

"Ain't that somethin'?" the clerk replied. "There's twenty other residents here with that exact same name. You assholes should start a club."

"I could go with John Doe," said The Guak with a shrug.

"Don't do me any fuckin' favors."

The woman filled in some blanks on the form.

"Rent is $150 a week," she began with a robotic regularity that comes from the saying the same thing a thousand times. "Plus $150 security deposit. The room comes with a double-sized bed, two pillows, sheets, a blanket, towels, an easy chair, a small table with a plastic chair, a small fridge, and a microwave. The TV is color and comes with a remote. You get seven channels and an option for pay-per-view skin flicks, but for you to order those a credit card must be provided. If you're expectin' the internets you can forget it. None of that fancy shit here. Cash or charge, honey?"

"Cash."

"I need $300 and your signature."

The clerk placed the form and pen in a small metal drawer that was also accessible to The Guak. Our hero signed the form "John Smith" and returned the paper and pen to the drawer along with $300 in cash.

"Welcome to The Resplendent Auberge," said the clerk as she slid our hero a key into the drawer. "Room 214. If you're gonna stay with us after the first week rent is due every Sunday by noon. No exceptions. Save your fuckin' sob stories for your priest and bartender. I'm not interested in bullshit excuses. Though if you ever find yourself short some week I think we can work somethin' out."

The woman smiled a toothless grin. She slowly, seductively, drew her tongue along her gums and cracked lips.

"I just threw up in my mouth. A lot."

"The offer's always on the table, big boy. You take care of Edna, and Edna will take care of you."

The Guak decided it was best to consider the conversation over and walked away duffel bag and briefcase in tow. He made his way to the second floor. The hallway was heavy with a bouquet of tobacco, narcotics, and cheap perfume. The sound of hip hop was damn near deafening, and our felt its bass pulsate through his feet and legs. He found 214 and let himself in. Not surprisingly the room was in shambles. The carpeting and walls were of similar condition as those in the lobby.

The sheets were stained with various bodily fluids, and The Guak attempted to mentally rank what fluid he would rather sleep in, but they all sounded horrible. Our hero could not decide. He did his best to put it out of mind as he stripped down to his underpants and crawled into bed. The siren call of slumber grew louder and louder in his head until The Guak fell into a deep sleep.