I was standing in front of the Palms wearing sunglasses. My pupils were dilated. Each one was like the black spot in the palm of the hand of the blind man from Treasure Island.
I was trying to be cool and keep my mouth shut. I’d already received suspicious looks from Denise and Brent at the front desk when I commented on the beautiful poem on the Palms sign, which read: “Welcome Hart-Graves wedding. Congrats Roarin’ Lions field hockey. Enjoy the sun and fun at the Palms.”
I looked at my reflection in the gleaming cars in the parking lot and at my long, skinny shadow extending out on the concrete. It occurred to me that these reflections and shadows all had their own separate lives. I looked up at the windows of the hotel and how they were the eyes of the hotel. I thought about each epic novel that was contained behind each of the panes of glass. My thoughts merged into one Giant Thought.
I went back into the hotel and pushed a cart down an endless hallway. Suddenly a grocery store from the future superimposed itself on the scene. I felt like I was psychic and also that I might faceplant on the floor at any moment. I hung on. Dizzy and doomed.
I was in aisle 2b looking at a box of cereal called Demogorgon Crunch. My heart felt like Horace Silver Live at the Penthouse. I was lightheaded and nervous about the power grid going down. Quest bars buy one get one free.
The plan is human sacrifice, said a strange voice coming from aisle 5a. I picked up a bottle of shampoo and felt like I might pass out again. I wanted to steal everything in the store and run away and build a secret fortress.
I turned down another aisle and stepped over a dead deer as I was confronted by terrifying flowers chanting “The Philadelphia Flyers vs. the San Jose Sharks vs. the Venezuela Elves vs. the Greenland Penguins vs. the Minnesota Wild vs. the Philadelphia Flyers vs. the San Jose Penguins vs…..”
I pushed my cart down the aisle and all the shelves emptied out and there was nothing. Icemelt. Devolution. Bells were ringing everywhere.
I went back outside as fast as I could.
A deep green sedan pulled into one of the check-in spaces and a thin, well-tanned man wearing a blue polo shirt and pink shorts got out and seemed to be already in the middle of a sentence.
“…yes, bellman, perfect, ahem, ok, well now, checking in, I suppose, let me just configure, um, yes, the trunk button,” he said, fiddling with his keys and his sunglasses.
I was not at all sure I could handle this particular guest at this particular moment. But, like a courageous bellman, I drew in a deep breath and stepped forward.
“Welcome to the Psalms, er, Palms, Paul Sinner, senior bellhop,” I said and extended my hand for a shake, which wasn’t something I typically did with guests. I looked at my outstretched hand and thought “the palms” and nearly burst out laughing as the man shook my hand which felt like vibrating waves shooting through my arms. But I retained, somehow, my professional decorum.
“Trip Whistler,” the man said.
Incredible.
“I know a parrot named Mr. Whistler,” I said.
Why do the most insane coincidences seem to occur when you’re tripping? Maybe everything just appears like a coincidence in that altered state. Maybe everything is connected, but you’re not usually receptive enough to perceive the connections.
This coincidence did seem pretty strange though. Trip Whistler. I realized I’d been standing there for a while lost in my swirling thoughts. I [SUBMARINES] then [SUBMARINES], but quickly remembered I needed to get the bags. But first, a cart!
“Excellent, parrots, yes, wonderful creatures. Amazing. Mimicry, my friend, is one of the absolute advantages a creature can possess in the animal kingdom,” he said.
He seemed, to me, to have slipped into a bit of a British accent and was moving and talking extremely fast. Then I remembered I was tripping on psilocybin.
I maneuvered a cart down the suddenly looming and labyrinthian-seeming ramp that went from the lobby to the parking lot and extracted two very heavy bags from Whistler’s trunk.
“These carts are really beautiful today,” I said. “Like little golden submarines.”
Mr. Whistler paused and looked at me, perhaps recognizing in me the kindred spirit of insanity.
“Mmm, yes, interesting vessel to be sure, I suppose we’ll check in.”
“Of course, this way,” I said and motioned for him to follow me as I wheeled the submarine cart up the ramp. The automatic doors did their invisible doorman routine and the cool lobby air rushed at us.
“Whoa,” I whispered.
Whistler whistled a snippet of a song that sounded like “Mr. Sandman.” I almost started laughing.
Whistler was whistling!
The lobby, the tile floor, the cart, my hands, Denise at the desk, and Whistler were all tinged with a lavender hue for an instant. Nothing to be alarmed about. Lavender was cool. The hotel walls inhaled and exhaled.
For a few moments I forgot what my role was in all of this. I knew I needed to assist Whistler, but I wasn’t sure how. Whistler needed my assistance, that was clear. I would need to assist him in his voyage from the lobby to his suite. I’d have to guide him along on the journey avoiding all potential mishaps, threats, and pitfalls, while also encouraging him to be sure to enjoy the sun and the fun. Cannot forget the fun. An important life lesson.
I’d have to instruct Whistler on the key mechanism which sometimes glitch. I started to feel anxious about a potential key glitch. I would then have to help Whistler transition from hallway to room through the threshold and into the portal of The Door. After we gained access I’d have to finish the job. The unloading of the bags. A key moment for me. It would all come down to the unloading of the bags. Then, if all went smoothly, I would be handsomely rewarded. In cash. Smoothly, I thought. Smooth soothingly smooth ahhhh. The song “Smooth Operator” played in my head.
My palms felt sweaty. I nearly laughed again thinking of my sweating palms in the Palms and that Eminem song. I looked in the corner and saw a palm tree. Palms everywhere. I laughed. Denise looked up from her computer. Everything seemed to be taking a very long time. Something was off.
“Ok sir, you’re all set. Room 333. Our bellman here will show you to your room. Please let us know if there’s anything else we can do for you and enjoy your stay.”
Whistler turned around to face me.
The time was now. It was the beginning of our journey together. Whistler and I. It was do or die.
The room number had vanished from my mind.
“What’s the—which is, the chamber, we’re—what room?” I asked Denise.
“333,” she said.
It seemed strange, 333 again. Of all the possible rooms. This repetition of threes. Perhaps it was some sort of mystical sign from the universe. A holy trinity of threes. What did it mean?
“Whoa,” I said. But I only really said that part inside of my brain.
“This way,” I said. Then, like the captain of a great submarine, I wheeled the magnificent cart through the sea of the lobby to the elevator bank.
This was the moment where a truly smooth bellman made his money. Initiate some small talk. A joke. A recommendation. A weather report. A quip. Pun. Anecdote. Proverb. An improvised pirouette made up of ribbons of words and dense ideas as complex as an epic novel with twists and curious asides, but condensed, you see, condensed in a powerful gem of speech. There must be song / dance. Something was necessary at this point.
I pressed the button on the bronze panel. I could see the swirling swirls of all the fingers before mine. I located 333 on the 3D model of the hotel inside my brain. Yes. Locked in. Coordinates set. The elevator bell made a tiny, but extremely classy, ding. The doors slid open.
“Please,” I said and gestured for Whistler to enter first. In my mind I felt very “Europe circa 1900.” Well before the assassination of the famous archduke, of course.
Whistler stepped aboard and I angled the cart in after. Here we go. No turning back now. I pressed three with a sharp little tap. Success. The elevator lifted us off the ground.
“How are you today?” Yes, sure. Charming. Quite simple really. A simple question. Nothing too fancy was needed here. Just a common inquiry. People asked it all the time. A sensible opening. The queen’s pawn of conversation.
I heard Whistler talking but I had somehow forgotten how to hear / comprehend another person’s speech. I recognized the word Baltimore. Charm City flashed through my mind.
“In town for the weekend?” I said and almost laughed hysterically. I composed myself. Just keep asking questions. Follow one with another. Get access to his thoughts. His motivations. Glean them.
I looked at Mr. Whistler’s mustache. I hadn’t noticed the mustache earlier. Or was it a disguise Whistler had slipped on while my back was turned? What was he up to? I considered the possibility of a bellman assassin, but quickly discarded it recognizing it as paranoia and possibly looming dementia.
I heard the word Saturday slither like a snake from Whistler’s mouth.
The elevator jolted and stopped and the doors clanged open and we materialized on the third floor.
“Our journey is nearly completed,” I said.
“Ah yes, a fine floor, to be sure, or should I say shore, since this is the beach. Well, let’s hop to it, bellhop,” he said.
“Brilliant pun, sir.”
“Well,” Whistler said, “bellhops and comedy have a long history dating back to the puns about porters employed in Aristophanes’ celebrated Frogs.”
I wheeled on. I nodded to a leprechaun at the vending machine. Soon, I thought, just after the ice machine, I’ll sweep right and then we’ll be at 333. This is my next maneuver. I positioned my hands along the vertical brass bars of the cart to allow for the proper force needed to execute the move. I shifted my weight and leaned into the turn and nailed it.
“Astounding.”
I thought I heard Whistler say “astounding,” but I wasn’t sure. We arrived at 333.
“Here we are,” I said. “Why don’t you try your key?”
“🤡 🌀 😵 ⚾ 🎃 🦕 🌍 🧟 🌴🗣️🛸 🥜” said Mr. Whistler.
I nodded. Yes, yes, of course.
Whistler suavely snapped out his card and slid it into the slot and a little green flashed, followed by a click. We were in. I felt like we were in the middle of a heist. Whistler went in. I grabbed his bags from the cart and had them on the luggage rack before Whistler knew what hit him.
“Excellent work with the key, sir. Truly. Those things can be, well, wacky sometimes, to be quite frank,” I said. “Everything ok with the room?”
Whistler was conducting an inspection. He seemed satisfied with the accommodations.
“You have a very nice ocean view,” I offered. Indeed the ocean was out there. Vibing out as it had for millenia. Millenia worth of waves and vibes. Whistler glanced seaward.
“Exemplary,” Whistler said, then made a move for his wallet.
This was it.
He removed $20 from his wallet and put it in my hand. An astonishing tip. A gesture of true generosity and human kindness, a shining example of light and love. Jackson winked at me from the bill.
“I’ll have some friends arriving in a few hours,” he said. “If you’d be so kind as to show them up.”
“Of course,” I said. “Have a pleasant evening. There’s a bank of vending machines and an ice machine down the hall and our world famous tiki bar is located by the pool.”
Whistler seemed like he could use a drink.
I shut the door. The world’s greatest bellman did it again.
Mike Andrelczyk is the author of five poetry collections including “Tennis Leg” and “!!!.” His debut novel “Submarines” is coming out with Malarkey in July. Find more words, art and other random stupid shit on Twitter: @MikeAndrelczyk, Bluesky: mikeandrelczyk.bsky.social and Instagram: mike_andrelczyk.