The Laureate

Arturo strolled through downtown Key West, looking to purge his thoughts in the dichotomies of the diverse streets.  He ambled peacefully along the pier to enjoy the sunset, then cut east a few blocks to browse the Duval Street stores arrayed in a seemingly endless line.  Unconsciously, his pace quickened to match the bustle.  He ogled the bamboo sheets in a storefront window that would complement perfectly his naked mattress in the living room/bedroom/kitchen of his shoebox Miami studio.

The past few days were his annual escape from his humdrum existence.  He could order his favorite ropa vieja dish from El Meson de Pepe to recall his mother's Cuban cooking, and then stroll a few blocks to scoff at the Starbucks, the Hard Rock, and yes, even the CVS and Walgreen's.  However, eventually his thoughts caught up with him, returning to the treat he had reserved for himself back at the Laureate.  The more-or-less daily treat that forced his Key West excursion to be something he could only afford annually, if that.

He started smoking in college before he dropped out, and at this point he had lost track of why.  It didn't matter much anyway, whether it was his childhood or his mother or his father or plain boredom.  The daily gnawing consumed everything, and only a place as beautiful as Key West could provide even a temporary respite.  He was fairly proud of himself for having held off this long, saving tonight's puff for the exclamation point at the end of his trip.

Arturo opened the sliding glass door to the balcony, inhaling the ocean which became vaster and more ominous at night.  Something you could sense stretching on forever although, or maybe because, you could scarcely discern where it began.  He finished his smoke and returned inside, glancing casually at the vintage typewriter placed in the room presumably to add to the charm of the setting.  It embarrassed him when he realized there was a message from the hotel to the occupant neatly delivered on the tropical-themed hotel stationery cradled in the typewriter, and he had not noticed it during his entire stay at the Laureate.

The message encouraged the humble guest to let the glorious hotel be his or her or their muse, inspiring the creativity to pass along an uplifting story or quote unearthed by their Key West experience.  The hotel would then do you the favor of displaying the free advertising in their pristine lobby.  Arturo searched for something to say, but his mind was an empty shell.  Maybe he should have tried this before the crack.  He looked around him, and the closest things to his experience were the crack pipe in his hand, and the El Meson de Pepe receipt in his lint-encrusted pocket.  Staring at the pipe and the receipt, he began to visualize them as a time capsule.  He placed them on top of the highest shelf next to the television, overlooking the chic sculptures of whale fins, seahorses, and octopi on the shelves below.  Unless housekeeping literally looked high and low, it would most likely escape their cursory reshaping of the room.

Arturo began to see the stranger, maybe a month or two hence, who might stumble upon his time capsule and muse upon the story of Arturo.  And he realized with a wry chuckle that expunging some stories is as or more critical to preserving a hotel's facade as choosing to tell other stories.