The Memory Hotel:
The room for the dying
by Kenny Wilson

Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: An old man remembers.

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The old man sighed, as so often, before he read the welcome sign, and as so often before he read it for a second time.

Welcome
Welcome to my magnificent memory hotel,
the care home for dreams and more.
The magnificent memory hotel.
Short visits are safest.

Then using the quietest, the most desperate, and saddest of voices the old man said, "I suppose he would say that, wouldn't he?" Of course, no one heard him, but he heard himself. The old man then reluctantly pushed open the far too familiar entrance door.
 
The waiting woman – In the beginning there was the end. There is a place in here, where maybe someone else waits. The sick old lady coughing, sitting by the smoky fire. She has seen and felt many things, been touched by so much.

“Let me tell you your story,”
she rasps,  with a toothless grin.
“Let me tell you of days to come.
Let me tell you of days done.
Let me tell you of fortunes
to be made or to be lost.
Let me tell you of fate.
Let me tell you of waiting.
The waiting for you.”
 
I close my eyes.
I cover my ears.
I wake up screaming to a new day.
Still somewhere she sits.
Still grinning.
The waiting woman.

Beyond the door is the reception area. Nothing grand but nothing tawdry either. Behind the desk is the first of the familiar faces. The face of the Check-in-clerk.  The clerk was good at his job. He knew his customer well. His eyes were blazing and piercing. They could and would stare deep into your own, if the clerk so desired them to. He could strip a soul into the component parts in seconds. However the old man was not afraid or bothered by this, because clerk and he never met eyes, never. It was a guilt thing, and a long standing arrangement. The clerk rarely spoke to the old man now but they knew each other well. Bounded together by too many truths, and it hurt. This arrangement of course did not extend to other occasional visitors. The others were fair game. The clerk had plenty to say to them. He would, using minimum language and time, judge, condemn and hang. The old man approved of this part of their complicated relationship. He just did not look in to his eyes.
​

“Run from here. Run for your life. Run for your sanity.”
Some signs are rarely adhered to. Especially invisible ones.

​The old man heard footsteps and turned to see another familiar and smiling face. Of course as it was on every visit, all the faces were familiar and known to him. This particular face though belonged to the Bell Boy. How old was the Bell Boy? It was hard to guess, he could be anything between 17 and 70. Always smiling, always optimistic, and always with his hand ready to accept a tip or a surprise. Was it a worthwhile occupation? Who knows? Perhaps only the Bell Boy could say and perhaps only then at the end of his days.
 
As the old man shuffled along the ever familiar but unfamiliar, ever changing corridors, he passed several of the hotel maids. Again familiar faces, again smiling, each greeting the old man with a laugh and a wave. All of them willing to help.
 
The maids,
applying sticky plasters
to fix broken bones.
An aspirin
to heal the broken hearts.
Of course,
everything with smiles,
everything with song.
 
“Let me heal this and that.
Let me clean the mess.
Let me make things better.
Like it was,
in the days that never were.
Step outside a while
and I will do my best.”
 
Should the old man wish for a drink on these visits he had several bars he could retire to. They sold all manner of drinks from tea and coffee to hard liquor. None of these bars, however, could provide the friendly chat of a bartender because they had none. The old man had to serve himself, but the drinks were nominally free, and if he was hungry there was always the restaurant.
 
Waiters
The smiling waiter brings in the junk.
Steaming hot or horribly cold.
Whatever,
he will still expect me to eat.
smiling waiters still expect their tip.
Nothing is ever free,
even pennies that fall from heaven.
 
And of course there are the motel rooms, so many of them. Each one his, the old man's. Sitting in a hotel room can be a lonely experience especially when there are always the 60 different channels of television and room service.
 
Room service
On the very closed circuit TV
an advert for every occasion,
an advert to soothe every insecurity.
Commercialised lies about a perfect life,
the key an “If only you had.....”
Commercialised cynical dreams for sale,
For you,
if you don't have your own,
or if you prefer ready-made.
All contained within a glossy catalogues too.
Created to make your life complete,
all numbered and boxed up.
Just join the dots.
Ready to use, ready to shine?
All for a price,
all delivered to a door,
any door.
For a price.

“Every room is my room,”
said the old man to only himself in particular.

There is one room. Room 57. Room 57 for fun and desire. The room for any amount of variety as long as the results were the same. It was a cheap room, so much had already been given away.
 
A sad looking broken bed,
to be used once more.
Worn out faded flowers,
for a worn out dresser.
Searching? It won't be here,
there is no love in room 57.
 
“My name is Betty or whatever else you please,” she says. She says with a smile. She dresses whatever way too and I can choose from the wardrobe of tat, but it is all the same. It is always the same and always for the usual price. “The price is you,” she says with yet another killer smile.
 
Once out of that room and back in the hallways, the old man, as always, stands on the same spots, and as always can see how different things always are. Then if he stands on a different spot he can see how things remain the same, as always. So he wanders up and down the corridor. Looking at the rooms, looking at the choices he has made before. Thinking…..
 
The hallways stretch into forever.
Door after door after door.
The doors shuffle about in a daily dance.
A new day, a different order.
But always
some beyond where I can ever reach.
But I have a guide.
She smiles and calls my name.
She can make me believe in somewhere good.
“This way, this way,” she beckons.
If this is a dream,
will she will make sure it is a good dream?
Always?
 
I need, I want, to touch her,
but it is not allowed.
“Not today.”
I want to see her face,
but a veil.
“Not today. Tomorrow.”
“This way this way.”
With her,
to another room,
but always on her terms.
 
For many of the rooms the old man could not remember what lay inside the room, time had taken its toll. Other rooms seemed untouched by time. Some rooms had closed doors, perhaps the days still to come. Others were simply kept closed because it was best or because it was convenient that way.
 
Designer rooms,
furnished with all my yesterdays.
some detailed, some not so.
Then there are the rooms with locked doors.
Out of reach or still to be seen.
Some containing the days still to be remembered.
Other rooms just forgotten histories,
waiting to be stirred.
 
Behind every door is part of me,
or another me,
occasionally someone I wanted to be.
Some rooms shimmer, so old, so long ago,
flaking grey paint, faded carpet colours.
Others are better preserved with the scent
of a sunshine day, so distinct.
The smiling faces on the wall,
pictures of yesterday.
 
If he stopped and remained still for long enough he heard it. The noises from above. The creaking sounds. He was too old to go up there now and see. Maybe, or maybe there was another reason.
 
Attics are,
for things left behind,
but never discarded,
not to be disturbed.
Old pictures,
silly post cards, childhood toys
and other accessories of long ago.
 
Have you ever seen an old man cry? The tears must trickle over a million lines and creases, fill a million dents and spread to a million places, before they are free to fall to the ground. Most tears just dry on the face unnoticed, untouched, uncared for.
 
The Neglected rooms,
Unmade beds, stained carpets, and stench,
missing people and moments better forgotten,
but they can't be.
And all with a balcony,
looking over onto a swimming pool filled by tears.
Rooms I don't want to see,
Rooms I don't want to be,
and so many.
Creaking doors, disturbing memories,
all too similar,
“The same but different,”
someone once said.
So many rooms I would wish were different.
Sometimes
I dare look through door peepholes.
Sitting in the rooms,
waiting,
all the people I left behind,
all the people I used to be.
Just staring into space,
some kept behind locked doors
wild and angry.
Some just prefer to stay
and  gently weep,
wondering,
why it is this way.
Others seem dead or dying
as they wait for air
only I can breathe them.
 
And I turn away to cry.
Then I walk away.
 
He knocks on a door. No one answers. With an effort he pushes the door open. Inside are all the places, all the parties, all the artists, all the colours, and all the people he has always wanted to be. As he tries to shuffle into the room, a hand is placed on his chest and prevents him. "Not for you, old man," sneers one of the beautiful people from within, "not for you.” Then he is back in the hallway again, suddenly without understanding how it was done. The door has gone, for now. Exclusion and insecurity, which one hurts, which one injures the most?
 
He moves on. Now every door he passes is nailed and boarded up. (As it has to be.) During these motel visits it can take a long time to notice 'those' doors. The rooms with the double locked doors. Their doors painted to blend into the walls. Deliberately designed to remain unseen. (Beyond these doors, in the rooms, he just knows the curtains are closed, the rooms in permanent darkness. Standing, silently in this hallway he can hear the screams from within.) He knows he must walk away from these rooms, find somewhere else, but which way, which way?
 
Inside, hear the screams of yesterday.
Inside, hear the screams of tomorrow.
Like an ebb tide they pull and push me onward.
Just discernible under the anguish,
pleads childhood voices,
and adult ones too,
“Let us out of here”
“Let us out for your own sake”
 
Shuffling  away.
As always as always.
For my sake.
 
As he distances himself from the locked doors he finds his very own room 101. The 'special' room. Or did it find him? This is a room that can and does pull him inside again and again. However there is nothing inside. Nothing on the walls. No pictures to scare anyone. No curtains on the windows, the windows that stay locked open to let the darkness in. No blinds fitted to the windows to keep the insidious creeping darkness on the outside and there is only himself in the room. With considerable effort he makes his exit, like so many times before. In the certain knowledge the room will always find him again and again.
 
The Penthouse,
Where fine words echo all day long.
The room with the perfect view,
the perfect light, the perfect vision,
it's ideal.
The place for the 'finer' you to breath.
The place to be seen in.
Everything can be regarded
from the penthouse,
and everything is how it should be seen.
 
Yeah?
 
In the perfect room everything is wrong.
Perfect furnishings, perfectly placed.
Matching carpet and curtains.
A window with the clearest view,
painted on the glass.
Strongly scented plastic flowers 
create a stunning table display.
Carefully cut, card-board kids and Mrs Perfect
welcome your home.
Apron adorned and big white toothy smiles.
The children have your slippers to hand.
And I am crying, I am crying.
 
In another room far from anywhere, lives chaos and laughter. Where the children dance with the stars and outside, in the garden grows wild dreams, just waiting for you to care and water. Existing to be cherished.
 
The wind blows through your hair,
Your hair,
catching the whispers on the breeze,
and you dance.
You dance with the wild dreams
and dance
to the songs of your soul.
The wild dancing that needs only you.
The real you.
Defiant, glorious, and loving this world.
In this place something good can breathe,
something can live.
 
Does old age just happen?
 
Strewn debris across the floors,
The discarded dreams.
Feel them snapping, crunching underfoot.
The broken rooms.
For broken dreams.
Nobody should live in these rooms.
Only fear, only rage, only sorrow
and always loss.
Spawning the seeds of anger.
Corrupt breeding.
They spread into adjoining rooms.
Insidiously, incestuously and relentlessly.
 
But somewhere else, somewhere still a good room.
 
I hold her tightly.
She holds me tighter.
For a moment we are one.
There are no tears,
fears banished.
In this room lives contentment,
for in this moment, this world is perfect.
In her eyes I see the universe,
the universe within reach,
For a moment.
 
Then I watch
First I desire in silence
Then I loathe in others
what I would wish to have.
What I do have
I make worthless.
Feel the greed, feel the need
And then I scream
as the monster captures my soul.
 
The rooms for the broken heart. The old man wondered why he always ends up in here. It is a here which is really nowhere. The rooms that store the alternate tomorrows that never came to be.
 
“Once upon a time there was a good day. Only the one day, no matter how we plotted the future. One day to be together. One day to be as one. We touched each other's souls and dried each other's tears. Just the once because the pull of reality was too strong. So we parted refusing to cry. We promised another day, a promise that could never be kept. In your eyes I saw the universe I wanted and in our parting I was left with nothing. With one final wave, you were gone. Tomorrow had begun.”
 
Now so far away,
you are memories in many rooms.
I shut my eyes
and listen to a song you sang.
Closer, but to be even closer,
It’s only another inch when I need miles.
These moments, reminding me how far
away you are.
Bitter tears don't drown
these days, these days.
 
Only in these rooms can I see into your eyes again
only in these rooms can I lie with you
only in these rooms,
will the world I don't want fade
for a moment.
With you, but without you.
 
When it gets too much for an old man he can always find God. Jesus is a trump card in a crooked deck. Only if you declare. Only if you call.
 
A spirit abides a certain room
Calm, certainty, and a kind of love.
I try to grasp it but it slips my grip.
I understand the words
but can't keep the thoughts.
Faith fades away
under the assault of reason.
With it, redemption follows.
Leaving hand in hand to somewhere better.
 
And in another room.......
 
These pictures on the stark walls stare at you.
The walls wait to embrace you with cold caress.
They accuse!!!
I plead for repentance.
But in here there is none.
I plead for punishment,
with all its wrath.
“Don't spare the rod.”
But no matter how deep it strikes.
No matter how hard it strains.
It can't bring me light,
It can't banish my guilt.
The walls accuse!!
 
With yet another unseen tear and in utter confusion, he stumbles upon the door. The door you can never find when you want to. No matter how hard you search, no matter where you roam. It is the door that finds you when it seems there is no reason for you to be found. However entering through the door into the room with no reason, no cause, will make one laugh again. In that room an old man can travel to the end of a rainbow and back, and he should, just because he can.
 
And in the secret rooms lie laughter.
There is no need for reason there,
there is just no sadness.
On the walls,
giant sun flowers spread.
Red double-decker buses,
with coloured streamers and bouncing balloons,
fly happy, towards the end of the rainbows.
 
At the end there is the waiting room, except, sometimes it isn't at the end. Sometimes it is at the beginning.
 
Waiting.
A cold place the waiting rooms.
A place for helpless waiting.
Where yesterday grips the heart
with whatever it takes;
Everything, and anything.
fear, pain, sorrow, love,
or as pictures of hell,
a promise of tomorrow's terror.
In here,
nothing can live, 
but nothing can die.
Slowly
colour is  replaced by shades of grey
and it can become a kind of comfort,
to just wait.
 
Waiting
 
We all check-out in the end
one way or another.
But few step outside for life,
and living.
because baggage can be strangely comforting.
To ride with the wind, or touch the stars.
So often sung but rarely done.

“There is always tomorrow”
declared the sign at the exit.
Just occasionally it is read.

The waiting woman at the end
“I will be here at the end.
I will be here from now till then.
I will wait, because it is what I must be.
Because I am the dream guide, the story teller
I shall sit here and wait.
For you, always for you.”

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About the Author

​Kenny Wilson was born and raised in Edinburgh’s Southside.  Now in his sixtieth year, he describes himself as a writer, a dreamer and lucky.