Seminar in Fiction Unit 4

Unit 4 Matt Butcher

The Ring

John zipped up his pants with a hop towards the
dresser. He grabbed his sport coat off the mirror,
reached into the inner breast pocket for his billfold,
withdrew four tens, and chucked the money onto the
dresser in a wadded clump.
"See ya next week," he chimed in a sing-song voice as
he adjusted his collar and left the drab hotel room.
After bounding down the worn-carpet staircase, John
stopped at the little chicken-wire caged booth that
acted as the reception desk. The seedy establishment
was named The Pacific Hotel and the penguin-looking
man reading a newspaper behind the coop was Joe, the
night clerk. John whistled a call at Joe and dangled
the key.
Joe scooted forward on his stool in order to grab the
key. He reached out with one hand and pushed his
glasses back up on his gigantic Woody Allen nose with
the other. John took it back, just out of reach.
"She was good tonigh Joe," he bragged. "Oh, the
things that woman can do! I ain't never had so much
fun." He offered the key again.
"Monica wouldn't like you talkin' 'bout her like
dat," Joe mumbled. The lump of his Adam's apple
vibrated with a swallow. He missed the key again as
John pulled it away.
"But, Joe, this woman defies gravity, man. The laws
of physics don't apply."
With a burst, Joe snatched the key. "She's light on
her feet, that's all. Monica wants to be a dancer at
the Paramount."
John adjusted his sport coat, as if to shrug off the
little attack. With a smile, he said, "Monica dances,
all right. I think I love her, man."
"Don't talk 'bout her like dat!" Joe screamed, for
him. The words seemed to come out from a cave, not
with a lot of force. "You...you don't know what love is,
payin' for it by da hour."
John leaned against the cage and made kisses through
a hole in the wire. "But I wove her, Joe." He stepped
back. "I love her the only way I know how, with a face
like this." He turned to showcase his left side, how
it hung slightly lower than the right side.
There was a long awkward pause. Joe looked at John
and then looked away. "Well, then don't talk 'bout her
like dat, dat's all I'm sayin'," Joe muttered,
slouching down further on his stool. He flipped the
page in the newspaper he was reading on the desk.
John mumbled a curse word and turned to leave,
patting himself down for his car keys. His hand
stopped over his jacket pocket. He reached in and
pulled something out.
He twisted back to Joe and tossed it high over the
chicken wire. "Give that to Monica, will ya?"
With a nervous jolt, Joe leapt to catch the object.
It bounced off his hand and bounced several times on
and under the desk. He scrambled after it.
John watched Joe as he scurried about under the desk.
He held the ring between two fingers like a coin
collector holding something precious. It was Monica's
ring. John had just flicked it back, not caring what
happened to the cheap piece of shit. Monica had told
him she couldn't even hock the thing at the Pawn
X-Change. "It ain't a fuckin' baby or nothin'."
Joe ripped out several pages of the paper and began
to wrap the ring. "It's her mother's," he said.
John thought, furrowing his brow. "That crack whore
died when she was four."
Joe peeled a piece of tape and finished his little
package. "It's the only thing she has o' hers. Says it
reminds her o' what coulda been."
John stood, just staring, in the doorway as several
people tried to scoot by. Joe called out, "Don't
worry, I'll give it her all right."
John left out the door with a shove, bumping into a
behemoth of a man he otherwise would have avoided. He
mumbled a quick sorry and took off down the street.
John couldn't help but think that Joe would get a hug
from Monica for returning the ring. Maybe even a kiss.