Hotel Ambrose

Chapter 10.1

We were disappointed by them at first. Mr. and Mrs. Death were old. Old people were boring. They were staying on the black floor of course. It was the fifth floor of the hotel.

They were eating breakfast at the kitchen table – I could see the sun coming through the window and across the table, even though it was nighttime where we were. Death ate bacon and eggs with a fork, twisting the strips of bacon onto the fork and chewing slowly like a cow. He wore a tattered coat. He had a bald head, but his beard made up for it: it was fantastically long and wild.

Mrs. Death wore glasses on her nose – except when old ladies wear them they're called spectacles. She pushed her spectacles up her nose and said, "What is it now?"

"Haha!" Death said. His beard moved like some hairy creature.

"Really Peter."

"But there's potential there!" he said. His eyes were wild. "I have a New Method. It's foolproof!"

"Can't you let them find their own way?"

"But that's the very essence of my New Method!" Death cried. "You've hit the nail on the head!" His knife and fork were still in his hands as he waved them about, and I saw a piece of egg go flying off out of sight.

"You've been teaching English for thirty years," said Mrs. Death as she took their empty plates to the sink and turned the tap on. "Isn't it a bit late for New Methods?"

"Never too late!" Death cried. He followed her to the sink and grabbed a tea towel.

"Tell me about it then," she said.

Death spoke to the dishes as he dried them. "The New Method is implemented from day one. My students are instructed to hand in the very best thing they ever wrote. They hand in these articles. I take them home. I read them. I divide them into piles according to the strict guidelines of the New Method.

"The first pile now. About half of them go into this one. It consists of nothing but no-hopers. I don't wish to sound harsh, but these people are bad writers. Maybe, with some work, they could become fair writers, but the New Method is only concerned with producing good writers."

"What about great writers?"

"I don't know anything about those," Death said, turning strangely serious all of a sudden. "No, it's best not to think about them at all. Now, where was I? Right. So the second largest pile contains the fair writers. They have potential, Margaret. They excite me. With some hard work, they can become good."

"And the third pile?" Mrs. Death said.

"Oh yes, the third pile." Death dried a fork slowly. "The third pile is the smallest," he said mysteriously. "This year there were only two students in it. Two is fabulous though – I would have been happy even with one."

"Why?"

"Because these students are already good writers! They're always writing! They think about nothing else! You never see them without a book in their hands! And what do I tell them?"

"What do you tell them?"

"Piss off!"

"Please tell me you're joking."

"I use those exact words. I can't possibly teach them anything they won't learn themselves. I tell them to go study something useful, like Chemistry. I refuse to teach them!" Death's hands were shaking. He looked insane.

"Now I take each of the First Pilers aside, the no-hopers – and do you know what I say to them?"

"What do you say to them?" Mrs. Death said.