The Love Motel

Published in Wasafiri Magazine Issue 122

S, many years have passed, I still think about you.
Like many deaths in this country, yours went unnoticed.
Buried under the buildings, blood mixed with concrete and soil,
along with sweat, tears.
S, as they kept reminding people like us taint
the gold of buildings, cities, long winding roads we built.
Your passing, or
knowing of a passing like yours
is a rite of passage.
To know when to forget, when
to feel, when to remember is
a currency of survival.

***

S, there must be a place for people like us hidden in this city.

Somewhere only we know.
Somewhere accessible through prayers or psalms.
Somewhere close or somewhere far.
Somewhere, a place where elevators open for everyone,
but we can only press the button, for it only reveals itself after the door opens to the last penthouse.

***

S, I first knew of The Love Motel through you.

You, a masseur who flew across the balcony of your apartment.
You, whose last view was the sea.
If not for the police, you would still be alive.
I always thought the police protect.
Why did they not save you, send you to rehab, like
that son of one King.
The Love Motel would have healed your wounds.
You told me about this enigmatic motel,
mentioned it to me after a massage.

I asked if you had always been here.

And by here, I meant the room we were in:
Pink-lit, wallpapered, small room with elevator songs playing on a loop.
And by here, I meant The Hidden Garden Spa.

And by here, I meant The City of Lost Things.
An office space turned into a spa, partitioned like one of the shared houses I lived in before. One therapist per room. One bed space per therapist.

One kitchen for everyone.
Tucked in a dingy road, a floor above a busy street, where 17 people share everything.
No, sometimes I go to The Love Motel, you say.

I asked where and what you meant.
I thought you meant you do on-call services in hotels at intervals.
I was naive, I’m sorry.
It is something, somewhere else.

***

If by some strange reason,
and someone else is reading this, let me tell you about S.

Where do I start.
Maybe an apology, should this belittle a bigger-than-the-universe persona.

I’m sorry in advance:

Like me, S travelled across continents to arrive at the Hidden Garden Spa, working there for about 5 years. Always a charming massage therapist with silk-soft skin, a wide smile and sparkling eyes. Hair was black and wavy at the tips.

S sometimes turns into someone else,
colleagues characterised him as a trans
former.

They mean it as a joke, and S took it as one.

S would wear black, long lace-front wigs that flow until his calves, eyeliner sharp as a knife, and a periwinkle nightgown. One night, I saw S transform before my eyes, running away from a customer who wanted more than what was paid for. S opened the door quickly and signalled that I follow. As soon as we both got into the room, the wig was taken off, along with a lleopard printed robe. Dragon Mart find, S said sheepishly.

Do not look at me now.
S whispered.

Now, look at me.
And when I did, one thing did not change: the voice, clear and soft.

S spoke every language I spoke to him, and I can imagine he would also do this for other customers. S was a kinfolk.

***

I wonder if this city is
as small as they say it is, not
like they would truly know
in an instant, yet when I talk
of its smallness, I think not of
distance by squarefootage or
mileage or landmass;
this city's smallness or
bigness is immeasurable by numbers.

I count its vastness by years.
Time is not abstract here,
it slaps your hand when you ask about it;

maybe it is not allowed to question
how long you have been here.

Time is how you count the distance
between where you started
and where you are headed.

***
Small stores in The City of Lost Things are open 24/7. The GROCERY signage is always lit, no matter the time of day. These small stores always supply big stories.

Outside The Hidden Garden, people looked and walked the same.
Exhaustion was a badge they wear on their collars.

The men outside the small stores were looking at me as if they knew where I came from.
I'm guessing they worked for the King of The City of Lost Things.
The men who worked for the King had golden badges hanging from their suit pocket.

I saw men like them seek the services of S. Their golden badges make a distinct sound. As did their heel of their red shoes. Imagine an eerie beat from an old song. Thats how it sounded like. I hear it everytime I visit S.

I knew this to be true—The Hidden Garden was not hidden after all. Everyone who needed a swift break from the outside world pressures went there for a short, good time: like a popper-induced high, thirty-second fix.

That is okay, right. It is. We all need a short good time.

However, I saw the same men attack friends of S.

***

Pain is the currency of this city.
Transience, maybe. No. This city
gives you a type of fever and

it makes you forget most things;
for remembering brings nothing

but pain.

***

S, it is a beautiful place.

S, tell me more how it looks like.

S, give me the words so I will know

The Love Motel like the back of my hand.

Take me with you when you go.

Let us run away from this city. I no longer

want to be a lost thing. This neon-lit world

you speak of, I want to be there.

***

You have to go there on your own. I know it sounds like it's a hard place to get to, but when you get there, all the trouble is worth it. S averted gaze and turned towards me, eyes shining, a tear is almost falling.

Here is what you can do to prepare your sincere intentions: pray every night, and tell whoever you are praying to, to remove all the pain you have in your heart. Do it every night until you feel like your heart is light and your body is warm.

S touches my back.

You will know you are ready if when you look at yourself in the mirror, a soft pink light appears on the lining of your skin. ***

The lining of my skin is scarred from the fire

the sun bestowed upon me one work day.

***

The soft palms of S were on my chest,
I can almost hear my heart beating.
The oil and my sweat
smelled of lemon, a little tangy and sweet.

***

The steps I took after that night were careful.
I did my job like any obedient employee.
Yes sir, yes ma’am. Lest I fail at the job,
at least I was kind.

Being kind in The City of Lost Things
was nothing but hard work.

At least I was kind, S.
For a sliver of pinkness on my skin,

I prayed. And it arrived, S.
I wanted to tell you, S

as soon as

The lining of my skin showed its pinkness,
Like I was glowing with nothing but
Kindness. No pain lived in my body.

But the police came, S.
And you caught yourself before they did,
Folded yourself in an embrace and leapt.
Your flightless flight towards the ground

Took you to where you wanted to be.
The Love Motel was inside you,
And with your passing I would seek it
no longer.

At least I was kind, S.

***

I was always someone else.
Here was always somewhere else.
I was always someone else here, somewhere.
✶

A P

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