NEEDLING

GOOD REST

Didn’t sleep a wink last night. When I’m awake I have no energy. When I should sleep, I find no rest. Been here at the hotel since 7AM. Rough. Only one maid, twenty-eight rooms (nine of which were filled with Italians – nothing against Italians but they live on a different time-clock than the rest of us… their own personal time zone… if you don’t believe me, try out the Italian railroad system…) a dozen breakfasts in the rooms, and all of them at the same time…

Last night: lights off at 00h45 after a few beers with some friends. The lights were back on at 4h45 after waking up half a dozen times.

I’ve tried going to bed sober, partly intoxicated, and completely plastered. Doesn’t make a difference. When I’m completely plastered, I blank out for a few hours. The next morning I go into denial lying to myself that what I’ve experiences was actually sleep. When I’m partly intoxicated, the buzz keeps my mind going like a blind rat pumped on adrenalin, and I end up surfing the net trying to calm down or zoning on late night tv. When I’m sober the best I can do is doze off in that halfway sleep where I can hear myself snoring, and all I get from it are dull limbs and heavy internal organs.

Tax sheets for last year are due by the end of the month. They’re somewhere gathering dust and wine stains underneath my futon. I don’t care about the tax fill-out forms, though, and that’s not what I’m loosing sleep over. It’s rare I do anything about them before receiving minimum half a dozen threatening letters from the Trésor Public. And then I usually take my paper work in a loose pile to the Trésor Public office rather than fill out the forms myself, and I give them to some clerk telling him I don’t understand anything and could he please fill out all the little boxes and check marks and numbers and calculations for me. I’ve only been in a tax-paying bracket once in the past seven years, so they can’t charge me late fees or anything.

Twelve hour shift yesterday. Yikes. Eleven weeks and one day till the end of my contract. Will I last till the end? Will I be able to keep smiling at all these people qui me prennent pour un con?

Yesterday, this guy comes in.
“Do you have a room for the afternoon?”
“We don’t rent rooms for the afternoon, sir. However, I’ve got a couple of room I could rent you for the night.”
“Just a few hours.”
“We don’t rent rooms by the hour, sir. The room price is Such&Such, you can stay here one hour, three hours, or for however long you want, as long as you check out by twelve the next day or pay for another night. That’s up to you, but we don’t rent rooms by the hour.”
“Not even a couple of hours? I just need to have a little rest.”
(A little rest, I say to myself, what do you take me for? An innocent moron?)
“Like I said, sir, our price are what they are. There’s plenty of other hotels in the neighborhood, I’m sure you’ll find cheaper prices, but then again, you get what you pay for. It’s up to you.”
“I just want to rest, you know, I’m real tired. I need to rest for a little bit.”
“I understand, sir. A hotel is a great place to rest. Doesn’t change the price of the room.”
“Well… let me… uhm…” he walks away looking out the window, following his gaze, makes a phone call standing on the sidewalk, and disappears for fifteen twenty minutes before coming back.
“Okay, I’ll take it,” he says.
“Cash or credit?” I ask as if I didn’t know.
“Cash.”
He pays. I give him a room key. He sits on the couch by the front desk. Twenty minutes later, a nice looking well dressed late twenties and obviously a call girl, walks in.
“Bonjour, Madame,” I say thinking this guy’s about to experience a good siesta.
The man talks to her in a familiar tone. Acting a little like he’s trying to make me think she’s not what she is.
“Bonjour, frangine, tu vas bien?” He says to her.
I don’t say it, but as they walk past me, him in a hurry to get to the elevator, her giving me a nice smile, I want to say: “Enjoy your nap, sir.”
Less than two hours later, they’re back downstairs, and they both leave never to be seen again that day or night.

Last night after work I had a couple of slow pints before the end of happy hour at the Horseshoe Pub. Never in my life would I walk into such a place. Cheesy, kitche, rude barman and waitresses. Rude, that is, to a person who looks and dresses like I do, and who obviously never steps into those kinds of places. My Irish buddy whom we’ll call Sean insisted though. The pint was cheap and chilled. That's why he insisted, he being as broke as I am. When happy hour was over, we crossed the street to the Family Bar where the pint is cheap all night long. Met up with other friends who are moving back to Quebec in two days. A goodbye beer. Mindy walked in for a pint – she didn’t finish her pint so we shared it between the remaining glasses – before going to her graveyard-shift telephone-calling job. Sorry for her. Tele-survey work all over the USA. Those jobs aren’t just going to India I guess.

Then back home unable to sleep, unable to de-stress, unable to forget this hotel for a few hours of much needed rest. I need a rest. Maybe I should have asked that call-girl for her number. Maybe she can give good rest. I happen to know a hotel where I can get a good deal on a good clean room.