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Once a landmark of New York City, the old St. Regis Hotel was now
sectioned off by metres of cautionary yellow tape. Desolate, the
20-storey building sat like a person in quarantine, as explosive
technicians continued their crowd control.
Gone was the opulence and gone was the life, but the memories
remained.
‘Ten!’
A wave of white flooded into the room as a groom carried his bride over the
threshold.
‘Nine!’
A kerfuffle of shuffling feet and muffled voices echoed down the halls before six
pairs of legs entered the pool gate.
‘Eight!’
The sound of silence infiltrated the bar, as a lonesome man stared at his blank
phone screen.
‘Seven!’
Black garments hung haphazardly around the disheveled room
.
‘Six!’
Cabin luggage in tow, a pilot made his way to his regular room. Even the jet-
lag couldn’t hinder his navigational skills, as he dozily travelled the all-to-familiar
halls. The weekly red eye from Los Angeles had him at the St. Regis at 5am every
Friday morning, and had for the past thirteen years.
‘Five!’
A Mr. and Mrs. Smith signed in at the check in desk, and made their way, arm
in arm, to the elevator. Wedding bands, forgotten in pockets and purses, the
adulterers came together in a passionate embrace. The combination of immorality
and infidelity sullied the crisp, white bed sheets
.
‘Four!’
A fan whirred overhead monotonously as two miotic pupils stared out from
the smoky haze. A cough. A moan. An escaped breath. Another cough. A man
rolled to his side; hands fumbling blindly on the bedside table, knocking the castoff
syringe to the floor. Returning to his back, he continued watching the pink
elephants and orange monkeys swinging from the fan.
‘Three!’
Flustered makeup artists and pretentious actors filtered through the lobby,
gingerly side-stepping the wall of cameras. Lighting equipment triggered sweaty
foreheads, whilst rain towers fashioned a storm, on a clear spring day.
‘Two!’
The St. Regis
Charlotte Rodway
Isobelle Carmody Award
for Creative Writing
Winner
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