Of course this is a spin on Men in Black, but its just to Canadian Eh!
Men in Black Parkas by DH
Long day. Loooooong day.
I knew it would be, well before the day started, but it changed nothing. With a couple dozen policy wonks in a room together, discussing departmental plans, there was no question that there’d be nod-off periods and frequent breaks disguised as trips to the bathroom. It hadn’t helped that we were meeting in Winnipeg, either. I have nothing against the city or its residents, it’s just a bit cold in January. Given that we were coming from all across the country for this meeting, we could’ve met in Toronto or, better yet, Vancouver and gotten as much done, with less wind chill.
I exit the elevator and walk down the hall to my hotel room, consoling myself with the knowledge that the two-day session is half over. I survived today. I will survive tomorrow. The only difficult decision left for today is deciding what I’m doing for dinner. I know I’m not going out with the other wonks – I’ve spent enough time with them already, thanks.
Opening the door to my room, I conclude that I’ll probably order room service and watch movies. I toss my briefcase onto the unused bed, followed by my tuque, gloves, coat, and finally my scarf. As I bend down to unlace my boots, I notice it.
What is it?
That smell?
Did I step in something and track it in? I inspect the undersides of the boots as I take them off, but they only hold cleanish-looking slush between the treads. I sniff at my shirt, wondering if a cat had peed on it back home, but I can’t imagine not noticing it earlier if that had been the case. Indeed, the shirt smells vaguely of floral laundry detergent and sweat.
The smell reminds me of…I don’t know. But it’s disgusting. Actually, it’s like a cooking aroma I experienced in the hallway of an apartment I rented in during my graduate days – combined with the smell of a ripe garbage bin. Yeah, that’s about right. I always wondered what those people were cooking.
I pick up my discarded winter gear and sniff at them, but they’re all fine. I can only conclude that the smell is coming from something else in the room. Sure, I had the “Do Not Disturb” sign in the card-swipe slot on my door, so the trash wasn’t collected, but there’s nothing offensive in there. The toilet looks fine. I don’t have a mini-bar fridge to worry about (cheap frickin’ government rates…).
I wander about my little room, sniffing around the two queen-sized beds, the desk, the little table my suitcase is on, the tiny bathroom. On my second lap, I conclude the smell is strongest around the unused bed, which is strange since it’s…you know…unused. And I wasn’t noticing it this morning.
I move my stuff over to the bed I’ve been sleeping in and examine its pristine counterpart. The sheets are tucked in tightly, and the four pillows are arranged in two pairs. I sniff at them but don’t think they’re the problem. I go down to hands and knees and find it’s a solid box, about a foot high, under the mattress. There’s nothing lying in that gap of floor space between the sheets and the box. The source of the smell must be within it. Discarded food? A dead body? Like in a CSI episode? Wouldn’t that make for an interesting story to tell my fellow policy analysts tomorrow…
So I toss the four pillows over in the corner of the room where I’d tossed three from the bed I was using (because what do I need eight pillows for? A fort?). Then I walked around to the space between the two beds, tuck my hands under the edge of the mattress, and lift. The smell grows stronger as I tip the mattress on its side. Looking down, between the slats that held the mattress, I see…
…a dead body.
“Son of a…”, I mutter. I was kidding about that being an interesting story, you know. It was only interesting while it was hypothetical.
The body looks like it’s been there a while. Its proportions are all wrong, and it’s grey.
Actually…
The body is Grey. Capitalization intentional. It looks like a space alien from the X-Files.
Obviously, then, it can’t be an actual body. So this is something else. A manniquin? A costume? Sure…
I set the mattress down and walk over to the desk. I pick up the phone and stab the button marked Front Desk.
“Front Desk, Linda speaking. How may I help you, Mr. ____?”
“Could I have the manager, please?”, I ask nicely.
“One moment.”
A snippet of Kenny G plays, then another woman’s voice. “Good evening, Darquise speaking.”
“Are you the manager?”, I ask.
“Yes, Mr. ____”, she replies, obviously having some sort of call display available. “How can I help you?”
“There’s something stinking up my room, and I’d like it removed”, I reply.
“Do you know what it is?”
“I know where it’s coming from. I don’t necessarily know what it is”, I answer.
“Our records show you ordered room service last night and asked not to be disturbed. Is there garbage that needs to be removed from the room, Sir?”
“I assure you – it’s not something I’ve done.”
“Perhaps you could open the window and ventilate the room?”, Darquise suggests.
“Ah, no”, I say. “I’ve identified the source of the smell. Ventilating won’t help. I need it removed.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know what it was”, Darquise notes.
I sigh. “It’s a costume, or a mannequin, of a space alien. It’s lying under the slats of one of the beds.”
Silence.
“Mr. ____, I don’t appreciate this”, Darquise says. “Should you persist-”
“Darquise”, I interrupt, “Come up and look for yourself if you’d like. If it isn’t out of my room in ten minutes, though, I’m going to drag it out and dump it beside the elevators for everybody else here to enjoy.”
“I’ll be right up”, she says curtly, and hangs up.
Good. I set the phone down and go to the outer side of the bed, where I pull the mattress off and then tilt it up against the wall. I then scoop up a dirty sock from the floor and toss it into my suitcase. There’s a knock on the door shortly after.
“Management”, Darquise’s muffled voice announces. I open the door. She’s a heavy-set Aboriginal woman who does not look pleased to see me. The bellhop is standing behind her; he does not follow her in.
“There”, I say, pointing to the bed.
She marches over to the bed, looks down, and cocks her head. “You put that there”, she says.
“I certainly did not”, I reply.
“And the room smells.”
“I told you that”, I say.
She scowls at me. “Henry will help you pack and carry your bags down to the lobby. I’m cancelling your reservation.”
“Oh no you’re not”, I retort, and the door opens to admit the bellhop-
No, the door opens to admit two guys wearing black parkas, black suit pants, and knee-high black mukluks. Their fur-lined hoods are up and pulled tight around their faces. Both are wearing plain black sunglasses – odd, considering that the sun set a good two hours ago. Behind them are two more guys wearing what look like biohazard suits. The bellhop stays out in the hallway, a glazed look on his face.
“We’ll take it from here”, declares one of the guys in black.
“Who’re you?”, Darquise asks.
“Housekeeping”, the man replies firmly.
“I know who works in housekeeping here”, Darquise says. “You don’t.”
The other man – a broad-shouldered Asian fellow – has gone over to the bed and is looking down at its contents. “Yup, that’s Oom!ka!oo”, he says. “Stuck his peripheral in the wrong mother port, I’d say.”
The first man – a craggy-looking old guy – says, “There’s a reason they abducting kidnapping human women, Tee. Basic herpes kills them in about four minutes. We’ll have to track down the girl in question – find out whether he was in human form when she hid him.”
“Could be he boinked a dude”, the Asian guy says.
“Oom!ka!oo didn’t swing that way”, the old guy replies.
“Oom!ka!oo enjoyed boinking another species. Why would he care which bits they had?”, the Asian guy asks.
The older guy ignores the inquiry and looks over to me. “Who’re you?”
“I’m the guy staying in this room”, I reply.
“Oh dear”, he says. “Did you use that bed?”
“Just to throw my stuff on”, I said. He snaps his fingers and one of the guys in the biohazard suits begins collecting my stuff in a silvery bag.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning up”, he answers. “We’ll refund you for your lost property, of course.”
“My wife knitted that scarf”, I note.
“She can knit another”, he replies. Two more guys in biohazards suits have arrived. The room is getting crowded. One removes the slats from the boxframe while another unfolds a long, silvery body-bag. A third is moving a Blackberry-like device around Darquise.
“I’m going to ask you gentlemen to leave”, she says hesitantly.
The older man unzips one of the pockets on his parka and pulls out a gimmicky pen with an LED at one end – like the ones companies give out at tradeshows. He waves it around for a moment, then it flashes brightly. Darquise and I blink. “Okay, Darquise – Mr. ____ found a dead rat under the bed and you came up to remove it personally since the bellhop is terrified of rodents. You’ll be refunding Mr. ____ for the inconvenience but he has agreed never to speak of the matter again.”
I look at Darquise, then over to him. “Rat?”, I say.
“A big rat, Mr. ____”, the man affirms.
“That’s not a rat”, I say. “It’s a frickin’ space alien, isn’t it?”
The man makes the pen flash again. He looks at me and mutters. “You see this, Tee? This is all Chretien’s fault. Slashing our budget so we’re stuck with neuralizers older than you are.”
“Come on, Pee. Harper’s had five years to do something about it”, the Asian guy says.
“Harper don’t believe in aliens”, the older man replies, “And do not call me that. I told you NATO phonetics apply in my case.”
“Whatever, Papa“, Tee says.
By now, the guys in biohazard suits have hefted the body out of the boxframe and removed it from the room. One of the others is spraying down the bed with some kind of red chemical that seems to evaporate on contact. The one with the Blackberry is waving it around me now.
“If it helps, I can give you the room records for the past few weeks…”, Darquise offers.
“We have that already”, Pee/Papa says.
“Oh, I get it – you guys are just calling yourselves by the first letters of your name”, I remark.
“Clearly you are the very rock of the civil service”, Tee says to me.
“We’re good”, the guy with the sprayer thing says.
“Alright”, Pee/Papa says. “Darquise? Mr. ____? It would be highly unfortunate if you were to say something about this and then subsequently suffer an accident – say, drowning in a vat of maple syrup. Do you understand me?”
“Is that a threat?”, I ask.
He frowns. “Yes, Mr. ____. It is a threat.”
“Okay. Noted”, I reply.
“You folks have a good evening”, he says, and he follows the last of the biohazard guys out into the hallway.
His partner, Tee, flashes us a bright, toothy smile. “Y’all hush now, or I’mma hush for you”, he says as he exits, closing the door behind him.
Darquise and I look at each other. Outside, down the hall, the men in black parkas zip-zop down the hallway towards the elevator.
“Shame there’s no mini-bar in this room”, I say.
“Twelve fifteen is vacant and well-stocked”, she replies.
Just another Day on the Farm 