"Don't smoke in the room, and do not--under any circumstances--urinate on the carpet." I asserted this in the most earnest, authoritative voice I could muster. And with that I shut the door behind me.
It had taken two-and-a-half hours for Alicia and I to convince Spider to stay indoors last Tuesday night. We, along with several others, had worked hard over the previous month to reinstate his disability payments, and now the money was available for his use. But as deplorable as Spider's life on the sidewalk was, the trauma of moving from the known degradation of the street to something so radically different and unknown cannot be underestimated. Even a move so clearly advantageous involves loss.
After hours spent cajoling him from his alcove and into the vehicle, we had to drive around downtown San Jose looking for a place for him to stay. We were spurned by a couple motels until eventually landing a room at the relatively swank Ramada. However, part of our deal was, if he agreed to sleep in a motel for the evening, we would get him whatever he wanted for dinner. Plus, his jeans and shirt were covered in feces; if he were going to sleep in a bed, he would need new clothing and adult diapers.
After getting him situated in the room, I told him I'd be back in an hour, and then left to drop off Alicia and fulfill my promises, not really sure what I'd return to.
An hour later I arrived back at the Ramada; I held my breath and put my hand on the door handle.
Pushing open the door, there was a frantic energy in the room ... but in that first instant everything looked normal. Then I noticed that Spider had the telephone receiver to his ear and was blindly punching the key pad. He hadn't yet realized I was back. That was the first peculiar thing I beheld. "Spider, I'm here."
Startled, he cocked his head and slammed down the handset. "What took you so long!" The anger in his voice was tempered only by a barely audible note of fear.
"I'm sorry, Spider," I said, "but I'm here now, and I've got Kentucky Fried Chicken, new clothes, pull-ons, and Brut, by Faberge."
His tone shifted completely: "Oh?" And with that a smile emerged from his stormy looks. "That will be sufficient," he said, expressing his fondness for this particular men's fragrance.
"Okay, first of all, let's get you set up for dinner." I set his drumsticks and mashed potatoes with gravy on the desk, arranging the packets of salt next to his plastic-wrapped spork.
"I want a cigarette!" he suddenly demanded, wheeling himself like an assault vehicle through a chair and waste paper basket on his way to the desk. A bit alarmed by his his sudden ill-humor, I looked to the desk, and that's when I saw it: a glass half-full (I'm an optimist) of urine. And floating there in what could have been ginger ale, were two cigarette butts. I glanced instinctively at the sign posted by the door, reading, "This is a non-smoking room. $100 fine for smoking."
Pushing through me, he began feeling impatiently across the desk for his smokes, and I quickly snatched the mashed potatoes and gravy from his hands' destructive path, only to watch--as in slow motion--his arms and elbows thrash inexorably toward the glass of golden sunshine.
"Spider, no!" I yelled in vain, just as his left forearm tipped the tepid liquor from its chalice and across the polished desk, over the once-sanitary spork, onto the binder titled, What to Do When You're in San Jose, and down into the luxurious emerald shag.
The stink of urine-soaked ashes wafted quickly through the room's fusty air, and in the midst of the pandemonium, Spider turned toward me sharply and growled, "Where are my cigarettes!"
This was all I could take. Turning from him quickly, I grasped my hair in both fists and went through the motion of pulling it out. I paced rapidly back and forth, ignoring Spider's dictatorial demands, and was for a moment given over to despair. "This is never, never, never, never going to work," I kept repeating to myself. A tiny piece of soiled toilet tissue lay timid and forlorn on the rug next to the bed, and ashes were scattered all over the bathroom tile. "What have I done? I knew this wouldn't work."
After a moment I snapped out of it. I collected myself, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, and began mopping up the sooty vinegar. Spider had by this time finally laid hands on his dampened tobacco and was making his way out the door. He situated himself just outside the room and began puffing away while I cleaned the desk. It had occurred to me earlier to bring some latex gloves, so donning those I worked boldly. I wiped, rubbed, patted-dry, then tossed out the sopping visitor's binder; I sponge-mopped the lamp; and last of all I blotted the water-logged carpet. The entire room then received a baptism in Brut. I surveyed the place, and well-pleased I felt a renewed hope for Spider's success.
Dumping all the fouled evidence into a garbage bag I had thought it prudent to bring, I headed to the door to make peace with my nemesis. Stepping onto the threshold I arrived just in time to see another pint of acrid water running from Spider's lap, over the gleaming metal complex of his chair, and onto the walkway. I looked to my left, where two doors down the hotel manager sat behind a wall of glass with only the distraction of a phone call keeping him from glancing our way. (For an instant I allowed myself to take moral refuge in the fact that there was, truth be told, no sign prohibiting this practice, no fine attached to the behavior.)
I made haste with Spider's nasty glass to the restroom, filled it with water and returned to splash it beneath the wheelchair. I did this three times, and pleaded with Spider to empty his bladder into his goblet and then pour it into the toilet.
But in response to my aggravated pleading I received a pair of the saddest, most defeated eyes I have ever known. "You don't know what I've been through," Spider rebuffed me mournfully. And it's true: I didn't.
I put my hand on his shoulder and took a deep breath. "It's going to be okay, Spider," I said, as he again urinated at my feet. "It's okay, Buddy. It's okay,"
I slept fitfully that night, knowing that Spider was doomed not only to urinate, but also to smoke in bed. I wrestled all night with what I had done, examining and re-examining my own motives. What if he dies tonight? That was all I could think of. A horrible death, burning in the bed I had convinced him to sleep in. This had been a terribly conceived mistake.
I woke early the next morning and headed to the Ramada before work. I hurried to the door, fumbled with the key, and on opening the door, stood looking at Spider, blissfully sleeping in the king-sized bed, his radio on the pillow next to his head.
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