A Good Reason by Emily Kaufman

Emily Kaufman

At 11:15 on a seemingly uneventful April morning, I just finished cleaning all the rooms on my list for the day, except one. I noticed the only car in the parking lot was the silver SUV parked in front of room 11 where they were probably sleeping off a night of God-knows-what.

“If you want to stay, you have to pay.” I sing to myself as I make my way to my last room; though, no one was outside to hear me . That little jingle had become my mantra at work, helping me have the patience for the excuses I’m certain I’m about to hear. It’s always, “I’m going to the office to pay for another night .” (Then they leave an hour later instead) or “I’m waiting for my ride.” or “I’m waiting for someone to bring money .” or any reason I should let them stay in the room until long after check-out time at 11AM . I should compile a menu of the excuses I’ve heard and let the customer choose which one they’d like to use. I’m just dying of anticipation as to what the special will be for today as to why this guy is still here after check-out time. I sigh to myself as I approach the rust-colored door. Three hard knocks leave my knuckles aching .

“Housekeeping!” I say loudly, in hopes that all this noise will wake them from a deep slumber. I know the drill; it usually works.

I wait. No answer. Here we go again. I knock even louder this time. My knuckles throb. I don’t want to have to open the door in case people aren’t decent. I give it another go.

“HOUSEKEEPING! IT’S PAST CHECK OUT TIME!” I yell. Still nothing.

This time, I pound on the door with the side of my fist, to give my poor knuckles a rest. BANG . BANG . BANG . I brought my left ear closer to the door to listen for movement or talking . Dead silence, inside and out. I had no choice but to open the door now. I took my master key, placed it into the lock, and daringly started to turn it . I heard the door pin click . The door cracked open . I pushed slowly and peered in through the slight opening. My eyes adjusted to the room, which was dimly lit from a small lamp on the far wall. The room smelled of cigarettes and an odd, stale scent I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Five feet from the door, I could make out shoes lying on the floor, but they have feet in them. I opened the door a little further. I saw legs. Further. Thankfully he was clothed. I saw khaki shorts and the back of his navy-blue tee shirt; his chest was facing down. Further. The door was most of the way open now and daylight poured in. His head lay right in front of me, turned toward the door as if to greet me. I saw his face. I wish I hadn’t.

My eyes widened in sheer terror. I gasped, momentarily forgetting how to breathe as my mouth fell open. A wave of intense heat and panic simultaneously flooded my inner core, trickling through my body to the surface of my probably pale skin . The pounding heart in my chest echoed through my ears. My palms and forehead were suddenly sweaty. Weakening knees were barely enough to hold me up. All I could do was stand there, motionless.

28

Liquid wept from his nose, forming the stagnant, dark red pool that oozed beyond the measure of his head. His shaggy, brown hair draped just past his brow; the tips rested in the congealed puddle. The sunken eyes that were once alive and blue lay open with no wonder behind them; only a screen of gray overcast, as if spiders had woven their webs over the windows to his soul. His left cheek, smushed against the floor, was puffy and purplish. The contents that were once in his stomach spilled from his mouth and settled in a puddle just beneath his colorless lips . White foam lay dispersed overtop of it all. I had never seen anything so graphic in my life. They don’t make it like this on the TV shows.

Yet, somehow, the innocence in my then-18-year-old self said, “Maybe he’s just unconscious. He can’t be dead.” I half-expected him to grab my leg. I looked at his right arm which lay down at his side, closest to where I stood. The back half of his arm, facing the ceiling, was the whitest of white. Closer along the floor, the front half of his arm was a bluish red. That’s when it hit me. Lividity set in. He was long gone. No amount of resuscitative efforts that I or any trained professional could provide would bring this guy back. Water stained my cheeks as I dialed the phone.

I stood outside room 11 when the ambulance arrived; my eyes were still wet.

“Did you know him?” the paramedic asked, condescension spewing from his lips.

“No,” I said with a hint of anger, “I just didn’t sign up for this.” I was confused and perturbed as to why he was so cold toward my emotion.

“I didn’t realize this was spilled milk,” I said sarcastically under my breath as an attempt at my own personal comic relief .

A few police officers showed up after another ten minutes, and the coroner shortly after that.

“You were the one who found him?” the officer asked kindly. I nodded.

“I knocked several times, yelled, and pounded on the door but he didn’t answer. I guess he had a good reason,” I said, trying again to comfort myself with humor. He gave a quick laugh.

Behind the officer, the rest of the party was bringing the stretcher with the occupied body bag out of the room and loading the coroner’s van. I looked at the door to room 11. It was closed. As they all got in their respective vehicles and drove away, another tear rolled down my cheek. The shackles of shock kept me from pinpointing exactly what I was feeling at that moment or why I was so emotional about a kid overdosing whom I didn’t even know.

That’s when it hit me. This kid was two years older than I was. His life was cut short, but it was because of his own decisions to associate with addicts and follow suit. I asked myself where that left me. Here I am, working and living at a motel, surrounded daily by a smorgasbord of different drugs virtually at my fingertips. Why haven’t I copied my surroundings? Why haven’t I followed the influences I see around me every single day? I decided there simply wasn’t any good reason why I should.

Looking back on that day, and his face, I vowed to always have good reasoning behind my decisions before I make them. I make it a point to learn from not only my mistakes, but others’ as well. I learned that the wrong move could put me in the grave plot next to this kid. Life is fragile and should be treated as such. You don’t always get a second chance, no matter how young you are. The decisions you make in your earlier years can tremendously affect your later years… That is, if you are granted that many .