Memory Corner #6

The Stranger in My Room

I taught at several colleges in the City of Los Angeles, always on the move, sometimes driving on the 10 Freeway, or catching the Metro Train to destination and home again. But that was the problem, you see. I had no home. I gave it up to teach. Jobs were scarce, but I was in demand thanks to good word of mouth. And the job offers were plentiful. Trouble was, I couldn't say no to any offer because once you say no, they never ask again. You are viewed as unreliable. So, I said yes every time to gain my good reputation. 

Thus my troubles mounted. Often I had to get to one college to teach within a few hours, ready to teach, after only just finishing up one class on this side of town. From West Los Angeles College to Santa Monica College to the University of Southern California, day in, day out, seven days a week. But you must make a lot of money, I was told by close friends. Sure, but when did I have time to spend it? I didn't. So I spent it on good hotel rooms, dead center of my places of employment. 

My favorite stays were the ritzy hotels in Downtown Los Angeles. On the outside they looked rusty and antique, but inside, they were graced with white marble floors, brass hand railings, and private elevators for the top four floors. In the lobby, there were old photos of Charlie Chaplin, Clark Gable, and other Golden Age celebrities who once occupied these grand suites. 

Of course, the suites, back then when I was staying, looked all the same. Even the hallways looked the same. You had to be careful about which floor you got off because floors 9, 10, 11, and 12, were identical. Same carpet, same lighting, same drab paint. And the room numbers were all the same no matter which floor you got off. For instance, floor 9, room 20, was not room 920, as one would expect in good hotels. Nope, whether it was floor 10 or 12, room 20 was room 20, not room 1020 and room 1220. Only until you inserted your key into the lock would I realize I was on the wrong floor. 

Thus it was that the first time I learned of this room number discrepancy, I was not prepared. 

I got off on the 9th floor after teaching at USC that evening, so it was around 11:30 pm or so. I usually kept all my valuables in the room in the drawers and on a small table I had a top of the line stereo cassette player with Bose headphones. I'd settle in with a few Guinness brewskis, some music, a movie, and hit the hay. But before I could insert the key into the lock, I heard someone rummaging about 

It had to be a burglar. My precious things were at risk. Should I call the front desk? No, I refused to leave the doorway. They would have to exit by the only door out. Should I open the door quietly and surprise them? What if there were more than one? I did the only thing I could think of: I pounded on the door and shouted, "I know you're in there." And pound I did. Louder each time. Till I got a response. A woman screamed, "Oh, my God" over and over. I pounded some more and cried, "I can hear you."

When I realized it was a lone woman in the room, I decided to unlock the door. The key didn't fit. "He's trying to get in. Somebody help me." Yes, I was on the wrong floor. I avoided the elevator as I didn't want to run into anyone responding to her cries for help, so I took the stairs down one flight, you know, those stairs with the white marble floor and brass railings. 

Once I was oriented, I had to walk up two flights to reach my floor. I quickly entered my room and double-checked to make sure all my stuff was accounted for. It was. I opened the window and listened to the commotion upstairs. "He tried to kill me." "Can you describe him?" "Oh, he was big and mean. He wanted to kill me." "Well, ma'am, he's gone now. He didn't come down the elevator. The front desk clerk would have saw him. Now you say he was big, like six foot tall or bigger, you think?" "Oh, much bigger. Big hands, pounding on my door, trying to knock it down. I'm lucky to be alive. He tried to jimmy the lock, but he must of heard you coming cuz he run off right quick." "Yes, ma'am. We'll make a report and keep an eye out for him."

And the commotion was over. Last thing I heard as the door closed was the woman saying, "They ain't gonna do shit."

You know, for a long second there, I wanted to get my hands on that thief in my room. It gladdened my heart to hear her scream in terror when she realized that I had her trapped. But the gladness turned to utter fear when I realized I was the bad guy. On the run till I reached my room. That night, after my brewskis, I took a yellow hi-liter and colored the bottoms of my room number.