Page 10 of For Flag's Sake
Etta clears her throat, smoothing wild toffee curls away from her face. Slowly but firmly, Etta says, “We charge extra for special housekeeping needs.”
“Really?” I ask, perking. “How much extra?” Maybe I could create special housekeeping needs inallof my rooms. Ivy’s credit card hasn’t been used in an age, it feels like—not since I bought the supplies we’re transporting, and that washoursago. The poor little piece of plastic is sure to feel neglected if I don’t swipe it, and soon. A host of extra cleaning fees could be just the thing to remedy its pitiful state.
“A specialty clean with an outside contractor could cost anywhere from $25 to $500 depending on the severity of the clean up, ma’am.”
I resist the urge to rub my hands together and cackle. “I’d like to request specialty cleans on all of my rooms,” I declare. “Of the highest order. You never know where I might track paint, after all. Best to get it cleaned upsuperwell just in case.” Dollar bills flash through my mind, flinging themselves out of Ivy’s wallet and into the economy at a rapid pace. “Tips, too! Lots of tips!”
Mary and Etta exchangelooks. They’ve been on the receiving end of my tips more than once during my stay. They know how much money I’m talking about. Mary’s eyes grow huge and worried. Etta shrugs. It’s nothermoney I’m throwing around. “Of course,” the older woman demures. “I’ll make sure it’s arranged to your liking.”
My spirits are uplifted in conjunction with the downfall of Iverson’s bank ledger.
The elevator dings, and I step out with an extra pep in my step. My companions follow with grunts and groans. “Theroom’s just here,” I tell them not even halfway down the hall, more as an encouragement that the end of their strenuous journey is near than because I think they don’t know where my new abode is. They work here. Of course they know where the rooms are. I swipe my keycard and hope thedingannouncing it worked pushes them through the final stretch. “You guys can drop that stuff inside the door, and I’ll handle unloading it.”
I don’t have to tell them twice. Etta pushes the cart against the wall with a final grunt, and Mary drops her box on the floor beside it. The box thuds loud enough to have us all eyeing the bottom, looking for damage to the smooth tile beneath. When none appears, the two women let out bated breaths.
My shoulder’s slump. Construction-type fix-it work is expensive. I could only be so lucky. Apparently.
“Add one-fifty each, please,” I tell Etta before they can make their escape.
She nods, though I notice it’s a little more hesitant than when I first started drowning them in money. Hm. It seemssomeoneis uncomfortable with her current cash flow. Two someone’s, if I can trust the pinching of Mary’s mouth as discomfort. Anything could be the cause of that, though, and surely not just her aversion to taking large chunks of money from me. Mary is often uncomfortable. For all I know, she accidentally stared at the carpet too long and the particular shade of tan wreaked havoc on her sensitive nervous system. The nearly a thousand dollars she’s earned in less than half a week might not have anything to do with her currently twisting fingersat all.
Despite their aversion to Iverson’s money—or possibly some other, unrelated and unfathomable-to-me circumstance—Etta agrees to charge the tips to Ivy’s card, and they scuttle out of my room.
Once alone, I leave my stuff momentarily to get the lay of the land. Where my other accommodation was a not-big, not-small hotel room with a bed, a desk, a closet, and a bathroom, my upgrade comes with quite a bit more space. In truth, what I’m standing in isn’t classified as aroomso much as asuite, I’m surprised to see.
I wonder momentarily if Ineeda suite. Then I decide I don’t care if I need it or not, so long as it has the lighting I requested. So what if it feels a bit obnoxious to stay in a suite when it’s only me here? It’s not like someone else is going to be able to make use of the space.
I shrug. As long as it has good lighting, then it is what it is, and what it is is mine.
I check out the set of windows in the small living room first, then walk down a hallway to the only one of two bedrooms that would have an outside view to consider its windows, too. Comparatively, the bedroom windows would win every time. They stretch from the floor up to the ceiling, letting in at least fifty percent more light than my other option. The bed will need to be moved to make room, which probably means fully relocating the desk, but… This will definitely work.
My skin buzzes in satisfaction. The room will work. Myplanwill work.
I walk back to the living room, passing an open doorway leading to a second, windowless bedroom, identical to the first in all ways but natural lighting. A thick, white comforter covers the bed, topped with plush pillows. A nightstand holds a jet black analog phone and a lamp, and I’d bet so much of Ivy’s money that the drawer has a Bible in it. On the opposite wall from the bed, a TV hangs above a faux wood desk, and a closet takes up residence next to them. Not the best hotel room I’ve ever been in, but not the worst, either, and I know that the bed will look a whole lot more inviting at the end of a full day on my feet painting.
A bathroom juts off the living room rather than the hallway, and I start my unpacking there. The toiletries take no time at all to unload, giving me a boost of can-do energy to carry me through the more arduous process of turning a hotel suite bedroom into a makeshift art studio.
Toothbrush settled and energy attained, I shove a claw clip in my hair and get to work.
First thing’s first, I roll my cart of supplies into the far bedroom and squish it into a corner where it will be mostly out of the way until I need it. I figure I can use it as a guide for how much space I need once furniture gets moving. Which is… now, I guess. Right now. This second. The time when things are happening = the present.
I shake out my arms, convince myself moving the heavy cart was a warm-up exercise, and flatten my hands against the side of the desk. It moves with way more ease than I was expecting, requiring zero percent of my pre-push hype. I maneuver it out of the bedroom and into the living room quickly, setting it up beneath the subpar windows there.
Next, I pick up an equally easy to move nightstand and tuck it into an empty corner before I tackle my biggest and probably-actually-deserving-of-a-pep-talk problem: the bed. Queen-sized and resting on a thick base, it fights me. No amount of cart-related warm ups could help me heft the weight of this thing without the use of torque or leverage orsomething. So I find some torque or leverage or something.
I sit my bottom on the ground. Jerking my legs out of the tangle of my dress’ skirt, I plant my feet on the side of the bedframe, steady my back against the wall of windows, andpush.
The bed moves a total of two inches.
I huff and push again only to receive similar results.
I glare at the stupid thing.
“I amnotin the mood,” I grumble. “I haven’t painted inthree days, and you’re the only thing preventing me from rectifying that atrocious hardship. You’removing, or you’reburning.”
I put all of my strength into my next push, imagining I’m pushing Ivy’s wallet toward a thousand-dollar bill, and the bed yields to my torque/leverage/something, moving nearly half a foot. I use the same strategy four more times—until the frame meets the wall.
Satisfied, and a little sweaty, I rise to relocate the final nightstand without fuss. Afterward, I survey my newly cleared space. It is absolutely gorgeous. Nine-ish feet by six-ish feet of uninterrupted wiggle room.
