A Hotel Room Inside My Head
By Michael Patrick Vitale
There is a hotel room inside my head. It does not demand attention of its own adornments. It is not flashy, and because of this, its occupants might not spare their attention towards whether or not there is a mini bar, or a large television with multiple channels, a well-upholstered couch, the finest of wallpaper, or the most elegant of lighting apparatus and lamps and other assorted furniture. None of these things are the focal point for me, at the very least. I can’t speak for everyone else present—well, I suppose I could, but I will not out of my own misguided principle. I am there for music.
There is a concert to be had by everyone present at this event, in a hotel room, inside my head. A very intimate concert. In fact, I am one of the artists scheduled to perform on this very lovely day, in a hotel room, inside my head. I never do perform though. Nor does the headliner. The very first artist, a duo, is scheduled to perform. They are the only people who actually play any music, and they do so, criss-cross applesauce from the humble elevation of carpeted floor, adjacent and in front of a King-sized bed. They play music that is inspired and unique and quirky and endearing. It speaks of their heart and soul, and everyone present can feel this. I recognize and admire all of these traits from my perch on top of the bed, in the hotel room inside my head.
The person next to me on the bed, is the headliner. She was not pleased to find out that this act was playing. She was unfamiliar with them. I assured her of their talent and merit, yet she remained skeptical—that is, until they began to play their music. They changed her mind. She told me so, sitting next me, on a King-sized bed, in a hotel room, inside my head.
To be completely honest, I am surprised that she agreed to play—let alone that she is even present, in this hotel room inside my head. She is quite talented. She also can’t stand my presence. Under normal circumstances—let us say, outside of a hotel room inside my head—she would avoid all contact with me. It is not my place to say that such feelings are unwarranted, either.
Once upon a time, I sent her a song I wrote, thinking that it might belong to her. I was mistaken, apparently. Perhaps she misunderstood the lyrics. Perhaps I misunderstood the song. I remain open to the idea that sharing the song, with her, was a complete mistake. Things probably would have been better left unsaid, and unsent. Thinking about it in some sort of equal measure of pragmatism and ——————————, what is a human being aside from a collection of choices? Regardless, here we are now, on a King-sized bed, watching a concert, in a hotel room, inside my head.
The musical act who was playing their original music, concludes, and they are no longer in the room. However, this notion did not become apparent to me immediately. I was startled to find that my father turned on the television, in the hotel room inside my head. I had no idea there was a television. I had no idea that my father was present. What an entrance! It was an impressive use of show me don’t tell me (bravo!). I politely insist that there is a concert in progress, and that perhaps he should turn the television off. He complies to my request without a word of disagreement or disgust.
While my attention was diverted on father’s insistence to find suitable entertainment in the realm of the two-dimensional, my headlining act, disappeared as well. She was nowhere to be seen. In her stead, two dear and talented friends arrive, and begin unpacking their guitars in order to play. I am thrilled to see both of them, although, admittedly, I am closer to one of the musicians—more so than the other—and frankly, I am surprised to see the more familiar of the two, as he no longer lives anywhere near to me. But then again, what do I know of time and distance and possibility, when it comes to an intimate folk concert in a hotel room, inside my head.
Nonetheless, I greet him with a long and sincere hug to display my deep gratitude for his company. As he unpacks his guitar from its case, I stand from the bed, and walk towards the adjacent area, the stage, if you will, where the previous performers had sat and expressed themselves. I suddenly notice that the arrival of my two performer friends were accompanied in more than equal measure by a large group of strangers, scattered across the space that could be described as the hotel room inside my head. Their presence is not unwelcome. An audience is always appreciated, especially for a concert, regardless of whether or not it is, within a hotel room, inside my head.
I reorient myself towards my friend, who is attending to his instrument, with his back facing me. His hair has greyed substantially since I last saw him several years ago; it would be best described as a distinguished look of salt and pepper coloring, at ear’s length. I mention that “I am so surprised to see you,” to which he replies, “I am moving back here. My house has turned into quite the money pit.” I am pleased to hear of his return, but saddened by his housing woes. I am also just beginning to realize that he is setting up to perform—this is slightly troubling, as I was not expecting his presence to begin with. After all, we have a full bill of performers for the evening, and furthermore: I have no clue where the headliner is. She has all but vanished.
A quick perusing of the hotel room inside my head shows no sign of her presence. I check outside for her, within the confines of the rear and empty parking lot adjacent to the hotel room inside my head. The parking lot is surrounded and secluded within the perimeter of several tall and some yet even taller still buildings and cityscape; and the parking lot, adjacent to the hotel room? It too is inside my head. It is the parking lot inside my head. It is empty, if we do not count me, as I am standing there. Alone. Alone with my uncertainty.
