White Trash

Your perfume suffuses the hall, assaulting me before you do. Jo Malone Waterlily. You only wear it at night, a panther seducing a mate. Three days ago, I’d clocked the bottle on your vanity, drawn to its pale blue orb. Pressing my nose to the glass, I was 8000 miles away. Back home. Lychees and white tea.

Tonight, his hand clasps your elbow, wearing you like a purse. He likes it when you flaunt a skirt, likes to snake a finger up your pale thigh. Nibbling at your earlobe, he cocks an eye toward me. To him, everything is a performance. An audience to covet his shined shoes. Gold watch. Young lover.

You giggle, batting his hand away. Your evening bag swipes my cart, toppling the shampoos into the lotions. You mumble an apology that might be mistaken for shame, but you don’t glance back. I’m merely the pushcart, obstructing the hallway like a yellow caution sign that reads, “Slippery When Wet.”

Before walking away, he snatches a turndown mint, drunk on his own charm, and says to you, “What are you always apologizing for?”

I bite my tongue, a trained pet licking salt off your salacious secrets. Used condoms strewn across the carpet. Bloody maxi pads. Room service trays shouldering mutilated omelets and pumpernickel toast. Shopping bags and clipped price tags dangling over the trash bin. Unflushed turds, floating in the toilet bowl like dog kibble—evidence that your Michelin meals deprive you both of fiber. Souffles and sauces. Confits and caviar. Even $500 dinners turn to shit.

Before, I’d pant with excitement at the Armani suits and Dior handbags hanging in the walk-ins like marionettes ready to perform. Business trips lapping into tidal pools of leisure. But I know better now. I know your five-inch heels and cappuccinos with extra foam. I know your disdain for cheap cantaloupe and insistence on feather pillows. I know your toothpaste globs and the vibrator you stash in the nightstand drawer beside the hotel Bible. You’re all the same. Penthouse tips are never as sizeable as the orgasms. 

Neither of you speak to me. Not one hello. For the full two weeks. You barely look.

Still, I nod, a contrite bow, as you breeze by, day after day, with the same disregard you bestow the Ficus plants. There are two on every floor, starving for sunlight – dark green sentinels guarding the elevators. Management pays some lady to water and exercise them every Tuesday, like hospital patients in need of PT. Sometimes, I pause in the hall to watch, pretending to search my cart for towels or French-milled seashell soaps. I focus on the woman’s fingers caressing the broad, glossy leaves and count back the months since I was touched.

On your final morning, you sleep in past check-out, the Privacy sign askew on the doorknob. The manager reluctantly calls the room. I knock four times before you answer, bloodshot eyes and tangled hair. You blink at me, your nipples straining against your white t-shirt like another pair of eyes. I stare down at your bare feet and your toenail polish is the exact shade of dragon fruit.

Twenty minutes later, I knock again, ready with my master key, but you’re already gone.

The suite is warm and sticky, with humidity pooling from the shower. White powder clings to the coffee table. My eyes dart to the bed. I can’t help it. Hope blooms like mushrooms after rain. Nothing. Only soiled sheets and a twisted duvet. My teeth clench. I count $1.63 in coins on the nightstand and pocket the change. I empty the trash, dust the windowsills, and vacuum. I inspect the closet and replace three wooden hangers. To you, everything was already yours.

During my break, I wander down to the newsstand and buy a pack of Bubblicious. I crack my knuckles and sit in the alley, watching a cockroach scurry beneath a pallet of rental chairs. When it disappears, I chew each piece of gum, one after another, sucking on the sweet bursts of artificial watermelon, letting the syrup leak down my chin, thinking about how $1.63 would pay for a day’s worth of food for my mom and five sisters back home.

Rice. Curry. Medicine.

America, The Free.

I gnaw until it runs out of flavor and then spit wads onto the concrete—pink phlegm pocking the pavement like a rash.

For a long while, I stare at the carnage, satiated on the seductive gluttony of wasting something.