The Liaison
Andrew wore the tie his wife had left him in the divorce. It was a clean, aesthetic gamechanger. It was silver silk with small black dots, and it made him feel more professional whenever he wrapped it around his neck. Sitting in the backseat of his uber, he looked—not so much out the window, but through it, through the traffic, through the buildings and the people who filled them. He thought about the last two months, burning images of his memories onto the sides of skyscrapers. He focused on his pulse, and it immediately reminded him of Helena’s wrists, how pale and soft they were. He reeled his imagination back into the silver Camry, dropped his chin into his chest and thought about his tie. Helena gave it to him for their anniversary. “You need to look the part,” she had said. “Nobody’s gonna hire you if you go in lookin’ like that.”
“Looking like myself?” Andrew said out loud to himself.
“What’s that?” the Uber driver asked. His name was Brian, a pleasant man, mid-fifties.
“Oh, sorry. Nothing. I was just—saying that this traffic is hell.”
“Yes sir. 4 o’clock on a Monday isn’t exactly the best time to get somewhere fast. We should be out of this nonsense in a jiff. I’ll get you where you need to go.” The paternal hue of the driver’s character was calm and powerful.
“Thank you, Brian.”
“How’d it go today? Did we get it?”
“I’m sorry?” Andrew asked, even though he had heard him.
“Your interview. How did it go?” Brian asked like a genuinely concerned parent.
“Well, let’s just say there’s no more magic in this tie.”
“Sorry to hear that, buddy. You’ll find something soon.”
Andrew leaned on his wrist against the window, closed his eyes and left them shut for the remainder of the shitty drive back to his home. The Liaison Hotel.
They arrived shortly after 5. Brian stopped the car and it shook Andrew awake. His watch had left a red imprint on his forehead the size of a quarter. His skin was soggy; he felt like a defeated man in an old, damp suit. And, to his dismay, it started to rain.
“Of all the clichés regarding sadness, I’d say rain is my least favorite,” Brian said just before Andrew opened the door to leave. “You’re going to be alright, kid.”
Andrew looked up and caught Brian’s eyes in the rearview. “Thank you.” He tapped Brian firmly on the shoulder and hopped out into the rain. He hustled to get under the red awning of the hotel’s main entrance. Once he collected himself, he turned to offer a grateful wave to his driver. But Brian was gone. Andrew smiled and carried the genuine warmth he felt into the lobby with him.
Andrew approached the front desk and saw an unfamiliar face. “Good afternoon, Sir,” said the man behind the desk. “My name is Charles Eidolon. I am the new Director of Hospitality here at the Liaison. Your name, sir?” He was a tall, thin man. His hair was black and parted harshly to the right.
“Hey Charles. Walsh. Andrew Walsh.” Andrew took his wet sport coat off and folded it over his forearm.
“Yes. Mr. Walsh. You are one of our extended guests. Welcome back.” Charles surveyed Andrew’s condition, masquerading his pity as concern. “Would you like me to send someone to your room to fetch your clothes for our dry-cleaning services? No charge.”
“Actually, Charles, that would be great. And you know what else would really improve my experience here?”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Vodka.” Andrew smiled at the obvious joke.
“Ahh yes, nothing like a good spirit to raise one’s own.” Charles stepped away from the desk and reached into a cabinet above one of the three printers. His slender frame held his suit on like a hanger. He came back with a handful of tiny bottles. “Here you are, Mr. Walsh.” He placed six miniature bottles of vodka on the concierge desk. “These should help raise some spirits, so to speak.”
Puzzled, Andrew studied Charles to understand his intention. “I didn’t mean—”
“Please. I insist.” Charles slid the vodka across the desk with his large hands. The bottles looked even smaller next to his long, skeletal fingers. “It’s on the house. I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Andrew grew nervous, froze up mid breath. “O—kay.” He looked around for others, suspicious of this transaction, and of Charles.
Then, breaking the silent discomfort between them, Charles started laughing, a short and quiet snicker that gradually escalated to a loud, deep and throaty laugh. “I’m joking with you!” He slapped Andrew on his shoulder with his tree hand, and Andrew winced.
“Ha—ha ha. Yeah, that’s funny.” Andrew thought Charles was fucking nuts.
Charles grabbed a plastic bag and rounded up the bottles for Andrew. “I’ll leave you to it then, Mr. Walsh. Please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. We provide a multitude of amenities here. We have excellent room service. And some guests believe that a few of our offerings are out of this world.”
“I appreciate it, Charles. I think I’ll be okay for the night. Thank you.”
“Very well. Have a miraculous night. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.” Charles disappeared through a door behind the desk.
Later that night, after his shower, Andrew fixed himself a drink—three of the shooters, one after the other. He started scrolling through his phone, old pictures of Helena stealing the spotlight. She was his catch, a sparkling woman who shook his foundation just to see what fell off. Their friends would ask Andrew how he managed to seal the deal with such a firecracker. He would smile and say something like just dumb luck I guess. The truth was that even Andrew didn’t know. He wasn’t an unattractive man, but he wasn’t a prime cut either. The vodka started to fuel his mood, pressing down on his heart heavy enough to squeeze out some self-loathing critiques. And then he came across the pictures of his wedding, and they carved holes in his composure. Another bottle, then pictures from two, three, four years ago, scroll scroll scroll. Social media was his black box of memories, a diary of a man who didn’t delete anything. He felt his sadness congeal into anger. He kept going, a masochist searching for a final fix. “You sold me out,” he said to his phone as he opened another little bottle of vodka and downed it much easier than the first.
A rustle of paper and footfalls at the door caught Andrew’s attention. He watched the crack at the bottom as a red envelope was shoved through. Andrew stood up, dizzy drunk, and forced his noodle legs to carry him to the door. He opened it to no one, then stuck his head out to look up and down the hallway. No one was there. His myopic vision created a cone of sick, yellow light. The carpet was red with and an interlocking checker pattern in bright orange. The alcohol made it move like waves of blood. Andrew retreated immediately into his room and raced to the bathroom to puke. He didn’t make it. “Shit!” He looked at his pitiful trail of vomit and laughed. “At least vodka is clear, right?” He grabbed the red envelope from the floor and plopped his ass back on the bed.
The words ‘Doom Serves Ice’ were embossed on the front of the envelope underneath the logo of the Liaison Hotel logo. Andrew opened it, curious and very drunk. Inside, he found a folded paper, thick and heavy. He took it out, unfolded it. A razor blade fell into his lap. It was large and shiny, half the size of a playing card. He examined it with a tipsy sense of wonder and then placed it on his nightstand. The paper inside was a letter. He tamed his wobbly vision the best he could and read it:
Die Andrew,
We know you’re going to bleed, so join us in Hell.
Sever Yours,
Ambassador of Purgatory
Andrew stared at the letter for a minute. He tried to grab onto logic but there was none, not in the room with him, and not in the letter, just double-vision and nausea. He spoke out loud to the universe, mumbling through his stupor: “Yea, so what I lost my job and my wife and my house. I have nothing. But, you listen to me, Amb-ASS-ador. I still have a few days left at this hotel before I’m out on my ass in the street. You have to try harder to get Andrew Michael Walsh to give up now.” He tossed the envelope and letter on the floor, laughed to himself and passed out.
Andrew woke up to the sound of vacuums. He opened his eyes with a violent disdain for sunlight, followed by the all too typical baby migraine in the making. The room was a monsoon aftermath, bottles and blankets scattered around a body sized stain in the carpet. It was still wet and permeated the room with a soft scent of sewage, vomit, and wild cherry seduction deodorizing spray. He made his way to the bathroom and looked at himself. He saw what Helena must have seen. Then he shoved his toothbrush into his mouth, smiled and said, "I'll take that razor now, Mr. Ambassador.” He huffed a little laugh, then immediately locked eyes with himself in the mirror. “Oh shit. The razor! The letter!”
Andrew spun and flew out of the bathroom toward the nightstand that sat between his bed and the window. His bare feet slapped against the wet carpet, making a subtle sucking sound as the damp fibers seemed to clap under the impact of his toes. A few steps away, he decided to jump on the bed, as to land on his belly, and search for the envelope on the floor. But, when he planted his right foot for takeoff, it landed awkwardly on a tiny empty bottle of vodka, forcing the weight of his body down on his ankle which then rolled, creating a 90-degree angle out of his foot and his tibia. The immediate pain and faulty footing resulted in a failed lunge, and the ensuing tumble hurled Andrew face first at the side of the full-size bed. The cushion on the side of the bed was soft enough to absorb the force of the fall with little to no injury, had Andrew taken the toothbrush out of his mouth.
His face was twisted into a look of horror and anguish, albeit unaware of the angle of the fall and how the impact would plunge the back end of that toothbrush into the topmost cervical vertebra, crushing his brain stem and decimating every basic body function; that is if he survived. “Wait!” someone shouted. Then, everything stopped. Silence. Andrew’s body stopped moving altogether. His feet were hovering over the carpet; he was stuck, frozen without gravity, without time. He hung motionless, his very existence paused. The door to Andrew’s room opened and two men entered.
“What do you mean ‘Wait’?” Charles asked, visually upset with the halted fatality.
“This wasn’t his decision. This is an anomaly.” Brian responded. “Free will, Charles.”
“Oh come on! This one was mine!”
“I’m sorry, Charles. But, that’s not how it works. You know the rules.”
“Rules? I’m a freakin’ demon, Brian! I was hatched to break the rules. Didn’t you like my little note I sent last night?”
“Cute. But it didn’t work.”
“Shut up.”
Both men stepped up closer to examine Andrew as he floated unaware of this cosmic hiccup in his timeline. “I want him to survive,” Brian said as he touched Andrew’s chest. “He has a powerful heart.”
“I know he is powerful. That’s why I wanted him. His soul has the endurance of a hellish leader.” Charles smiled at Brian. “Why do you think I spent so much time possessing Helena? It was to drive this wonderful piece of meat to my front door. And here he is, at the Liaison, the gateway to the realms, and you want to save him? Give it up, Brian. I’ve won.” Charles sat at the foot of the bed and leaned back on his elbows, comfortable. His eyes were fiery with confidence.
“How did you win?”
“Simple. That toothbrush is going stab him right in the spine and kill him instantly. Then, he’s all mine. I’ll come in, scoop him up and drag him downstairs.”
“You’re wrong, sir.”
“How?”
“This isn’t a suicide. If he dies now, like this, he will be judged based on the way he lived and let me tell you; he’s not going downstairs.”
Charles’s eyes were extinguished. “Shit. You’re right.”
“I just wish I could’ve done something. With a little guidance, he could’ve saved a lot of souls, here and in the aftertimes. He could’ve been an aftertime ambassador, like us. It’s really sad when you—"
“Okay. I’m bored. Screw it; it’s over. I’m outta here.”
“Do you always have to act like that?”
“Like myself?”
“Alright Charles. It’s over.” Brian paused and looked at Andrew.
“Well shit, Brian, do you need a minute alone to say goodbye?”
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all, weirdo.” Charles walked through the wall in a black cloud of vapor.
Brian spoke to Andrew, soft and direct. “I know you probably won’t remember this, but I want you to know that people are rooting for you. So, no matter what happens next, you keep going.” Brian stood up straight, closed his eyes, and vanished without a sound.
A split second later, Andrew’s face smacked the side of the bed with a brutal amount of force. “Damn, that hurt!” He rolled over and sat up against the bed. His ankle was sprained and throbbing. He started laughing to himself. He looked down at the floor and saw his toothbrush resting perfectly on the crazy red envelope. He examined it. Now it read ‘Room Service’ on the cover. Then he read the letter.
Hi Andrew,
We know you’re trying to succeed. So, here’s a little help.
Ever yours,
Director of Hospitality
“Well, isn’t that nice. Strange. But nice.” Then he remembered. “Wait, what about the razor?” He pulled himself up on the bed and crawled over to the nightstand. Next to his phone charger and an empty bottle was a shiny silver business card. ‘Brian Seraph – Life Coach.’ Underneath Brian’s contact info, in small print, it read ‘Part-time Uber driver.’
At the front desk, Charles was alone, reading the obituaries with his feet up. He smiled to himself and imitated Brian’s voice, mocking him, “’I’m sorry Charles…you know the rules.’ Ha. Well played, Seraph. Well played.”