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October 5, 2017
I arrive at the Comfort Suites, a three storey stucco building at Dayton Mall (“conveniently close” to I-75, exit 44) at 9p.m. Strangely, the lights are off in the low-ceilinged lobby, though the reception desk is lit as if for interrogation. The desk itself is too tall, too narrow, and the color of a prosthetic limb. It is reminiscent less of a cheery welcome to the weary traveller, and more like the counter at which inmates surrender their possessions and are issued with a uniform. The receptionist, her shoulders just visible above the parapet, affects what I assume to be a forced Mid-Western-cheeriness under the circumstances, and hands me a keycard for room 112. The corridor ceiling is low and made of of textured concrete, and puts one in mind of multi-storey car parks. It is painted a shade of beige to coordinate with the color of every other surface, the walls, doors, door frames, baseboards and carpet.
I open my door to stagnant air infused with mildew, a dankness inevitable when the window, a mere pane of glass offering an unparalleled view of the back wall of Chuck-E-Cheese, does not open. Resigning myself to the impossibility of fresh air, I address the next requisite: lighting. But every lamp fluoresces with a dim yet garish bulb, illumination so deficient and ghastly that there is no scenario—neither broom closet nor cellar, outhouse nor vestibule—where it would be the appropriate choice.
With expectations rapidly lowering, I pull back the sheets (palpably damp and smelling of bleach) and reach in my bag for a consoling bottle of beer. I find a paper cup, wrapped in plastic, on a cracked plastic tray.
It is only now that I discover two flies are already in residence in the room—rather unexpected given that it is hermetically sealed. One is a bristly black housefly, the other is smaller, light brown and more diffuse, possibly a fruit fly. By way of making me feel welcome the housefly keeps alighting on the pillow next to me, perhaps misinterpreting my arm gesture, each time it zags by, as a salutation. The fruit fly, meanwhile, pirouettes in a friendly way around my head, then lands on the rim of my cup each time I put it on the bedside table, as if we have agreed upon this arrangement.
At least there is a bedside table (which is, oddly, not always the case). There is also an armchair, wedged into a corner with a floor lamp, its shade askew. Above them a print hangs aslant (impressionistic trees, psychedelic palette) as if the threesome have been caught up to no good.
In the bathroom the fetid mustiness of mold is suffused with the generic perfume of a cleansing agent which fails to be either floral or fresh. The swollen seams around the bathtub faucet force me to ponder the perennial question: which is worse, not enough caulk; or too much?
Shielding my last sips from the fly, I notice that the paper cup is printed with “Choice Privilege (Rewards)”—words hardly pertinent to present circumstances—and, “Enroll at the front desk for rewards worth waking up for,” and, “Coffee is the best reward,” as if the Comfort Suites (whose address is, after all, 42, Prestige Plaza Drive) hope that subliminal messaging might override the evidence of the senses.
I send some photos of my room to a friend who responds “Crime Scene,” and I reply, “Yes, it is.”
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[…] down at heel Comfort Suites, which was on the cusp of putting me in a bad mood. But I started to document every disagreeable detail—starting with the stagnant mildew-infused air, and the window, offering […]