EVERYTHING THAT COMES WITH IT

The glow of the headlights carved out a narrow, finite section of the world in front of me. Everything else—the sand, the cacti on the horizon—was swal­lowed by night, barely distinguishable in their shared darkness. The landscape whipped past at different speeds as the perfectly straight, boring road stretched endlessly ahead.

A few blinks cleared the blur from my eyes, sharpening a light off in the distance. A building. A ho­tel sitting out in the middle of the desert. I was so com­fortable. It would’ve been easy to keep going. It would’ve been easy to die. I had to get home, but I knew I wouldn’t make it if I kept driving.

I pulled into the parking lot and stepped out of the car. The building towered above me like something out of a mirage. Cinderblocks and sandstone rose into the night sky. But even it became a mundane box once I zeroed in on the front door and saw her.

Tiffany. That was her name. For some reason, I knew her name was Tiffany. She was a small but glam­orous delight, a fashionable spirit adorned in acces­sories that caught me by the eyes and pulled me close. One thing I knew for sure, she was trouble; maybe somebody’s wife, maybe the owner’s daughter.

“Looking for salvation?” she asked, an unlit cigarette trembling between her fingers.

“In a sense,” I said. “I need a place to rest my head.”

“Innocence?” she said.

“Far from it,” I replied.

Both of our eyes were low. Hers danced with the twinkle of two stars. We shared a sexy grin. I should have scooted past and left her to the night. But she dropped the cigarette, crushed it underfoot, and walked inside. And I followed, watching as her neck­lace caught the reflection of every light in the corridor.

Giant paintings lined the hallway. Two rows of tiny mandarin trees flanked us, each one nestled beside an expensive-looking vase perched on a pedestal. I was engulfed in elegance, following this radiant creature into the unknown. The ambience washed through me. I felt, all at once, energetic, excited, euphoric. I could’ve finished the rest of my trip without so much as a tired blink, but I just kept walking forward.

“I’m on tour with my band,” I told her. “It’s been pretty hectic—you know, city to city with no breaks in between. We just had a show in L.A., and we’ve got another in Tucson in two days. I figured I’d ditch the tour bus, grab a rental, and visit my family in Phoenix. I’ll meet back up with the guys at the next stop. I haven’t seen my little monster in a few months.”

Even just looking at the back of her feathered head, I could feel her amusement. My ramblings delighted her, and I didn’t care. I patted the pocket with my wal­let, almost reaching for it to show her a picture of my little one, but decided against it for some reason.

“Here,” she said when we reached the front desk. “Once you’re checked in and settled, you can meet me in the lobby.”

“Sorry, darlin’,” I said. “Wish I could, but I’m a few hours away from where I need to be. Just a little rest, and I’m back on the road.”

She walked away as I talked, without acknowl­edging my decline. Maybe she knew I wasn’t really talking to her. I was trying to convince myself.

Her elegant white evening dress fluttered be­hind her like streamers in a fan. The flawless skin on her neck looked as if it were inviting me. That’s when I noticed the tattoo on her bare shoulder—a little car­toon pin-up girl. Red, with horns and a devil’s tail.

A long Nosferatu-esque figure stood behind the desk, looming down at me with creepy professional­ism. The night clerk’s big eyes seared into me with all the confidence of a man with no social tact.

After exchanging cash for keys, I asked him about the checkout time. A sinister-looking smirk crawled subtly across his puss.

“You can check out any time you want,” he said, “but—”

“Glenn!” a voice called.

I turned and was surprised to see a familiar face.

“No way, man,” I said, “What are you doing here?”

“Same as you,” Mac said. “Come on, let’s get a drink.”

“Nah. I can’t. Gotta get back on the road. Visitin’ the family. Just gonna pop into my room and rest my eyes for a few hours, then I’ll be on my way.”

“You’re going home? To Phoenix? That’s like a five-hour drive.”

“Five?” I said. “It’s two hours away from here.”

“I guess, the way that you drive,” he said, laughing. I looked at him, slightly confused, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Everybody’s getting together in the garden if you decide to come out and play,” he said.

“Everybody?” I asked.

He leaned in.

“Everybody,” he said.

He patted me on the shoulder and walked into the ornate lobby.

I stared after him for a little while, almost won­dering who he was. This wasn’t a dream, but he was acting—well, that’s just it. He seemed to be acting. Per­forming with a kind of purposeful flair. Maybe the slight shift in personality was due to the atmosphere. Hell, it had me rambling like a schoolgirl earlier. Maybe it was just that type of environment.

The elevator stopped on the second floor and I went to my room. I opened the door, kicked off my shoes, and lay down. My head bounced off the pillow like a basketball, and just like that, I was standing again.

I tried to fight it—to wrestle my urges back into the bed—but it ended in a stalemate. I stood there, frozen like a wooden chess piece, waiting for some­thing bigger than me to knock me over or move me forward.

Finally, I took out my wallet and opened it to look at the picture of my chubby-faced little monster. It was a school photo. She was posed just right, following the photographer’s instructions, staring straight ahead with that obedient seriousness kids only manage when they’re trying not to blink. She wore a navy sweater vest over a crisp white button-down—the closest thing we could find that resembled my favorite blazer. Her hair was cut in a neat bob, just like her mom’s had been in high school. She was growing so fast. Even the pho­to made it seem like she’d aged a little — like time had slipped a few extra months.

“Sorry, baby,” I whispered to the photo. “Dad­dy’s weak.”

And with that, I left the room.

I walked into the lobby and saw Tiffany—no jewelry, a completely different outfit. She was in a tube top and shiny pants, dancing in front of Mac. He looked utterly infatuated, hypnotized, as she flailed her arms and swayed like she was trying to hold onto the air. Her vibe was different now, too—gone was that mellow, mysterious grace that tamped down whatever was spazzing out inside of her. Her movements were loose, messy. Unkempt.

I slid past them, not wanting to get caught in whatever was unfolding there. I needed to explore a little before getting trapped in conversation.

The dining room was beyond lavish. A long ta­ble stretched out before me, filled with wealthy pa­trons dressed in their finest. They devoured their meals with wild fervor, as if nothing could satisfy them. Each one had a servant standing at attention, ready to whisk away their empty plates and replace them with more.

“We are all prisoners of our device,” she said, her voice like smoke, sultry and smooth.

I smiled and turned, only to freeze. Tiffany stood behind me again—back in her original dress, her jewels catching every stray glimmer of light. No sign of the tube top. No trace of the wobbly movements that swayed her just a moment ago.

Maybe this was a dream. Maybe I’d done the right thing and was upstairs, asleep. If that were the case, then none of this mattered. I could enjoy it. No consequences.

“I guess so,” I said.

She led me to a small corner table, away from the insatiable diners. She sat, and her knee immediate­ly began bouncing under the white evening dress. As soon as I sat down, our server was there, as if he had just appeared out of thin air.

“Jesus,” I muttered. “Talk about service.”

“We are programmed to receive,” he said with a professional smile.

“I’ll take my usual, please, good sir,” I said with a mock bow, tossing a teasing smile at my date.

The server blinked. “I’m sorry. We haven’t had that spirit here since…”

The lady coughed with obvious intention, inter­rupting the servant. That’s when I stopped smiling. There was a joke at play here, and I wasn’t the one per­forming it.

“What time’s check-out?” I asked.

“Sir. You can check out any time you want, but–” 

He was interrupted by another server who whispered something in his ear. The man nodded stiffly, mumbling an apology before rushing off.

I watched him as he made his way to a door I assumed led to the kitchen. At the long table, empty plates were piling up fast, and the staff scurried to keep up with demand. Food, wine, and illicit sub­stances were brought out in droves, and the elites con­sumed their souls like bottomless pits, lacking the means for fulfillment. 

Tiffany stumbled in with Mac. I compared her to what I had thought was her doppelganger. They weren’t similar in appearance. They weren’t twins. They were the same. This thought was fortified when they turned to wobble out to the garden. I could barely make it out, but was sure that on her right shoulder was a tattoo: A cartoon pinup girl. Red. With horns and a tail like a devil.

I abruptly tried to get up from the table, but I seemed stuck to the chair. With another boost, I broke free, bumping the edge, causing the wine to teeter tot­ter on the edge. Aside from her constantly dancing eyes and bouncing knee, my Tiffany didn’t move. She kept her slight smile, watching me as I followed the couple into the courtyard. 

Outside, it was a reunion of familiar faces, all of whom had converged on this small lightbulb in outer space. And Tiffany was everywhere. She was in the middle of the garden dancing without inhibition while Mac tried to keep up. She was sitting Indian-style in the corner, wearing a tie-dye halter top, having a philo­sophical conversation with David. There were even two of her wearing barely anything by the jasmine shrubs, both kissing on Elvis. All of these people, some I knew, and some I had bumped into a few times, all of them were tangled in vines. Some were just wrapped around their feet, and others were wrapped as if they were trees.     

Mac saw me and cheered, lifting his bottle of beer into the air. It started a response, leading every­body to do the same.

He zig-zagged close and slung his arm around me. 

“Look at this,” he said, pointing to the stars in the sky and then to a bottle chilling in a bucket, “Mir­rors on the ceiling. Pink champagne on ice.”

His head wobbled as he stared at me with a drunken beam before motioning to the party.

“Come. Come. We drink, we smoke, we be mer­ry.”

“No. I have to drive home,” I said, “I think I’m just gonna go now.”

“Home? To Phoenix?” Mac laughed. “That’s a 14-hour drive.”

His words hit me like the Devil’s Interval. I broke free of his grasp, but my feet hardly moved. My ankles were tangled in brush. I kicked the coiled vege­tation away and watched as it recoiled before slowly stretching out to me again. I rushed back into the din­ing quarters, past the table of blind elites who were still consuming everything they saw.

I made it back to my table. Tiffany was still sit­ting, smiling, the corner of her lip twitching uncontrol­lably. I pulled out my wallet. 

“Here,” I said, “Order whatever you want. I have to–”

With the dollar bills still in my hand, I watched a picture fall out onto the table. It was a teenage girl. She had the same eyes as my little, chubby-faced mon­ster, but she was a different person, older and more mature. 

I shook my head and stepped back slowly. I tripped over a waiter, causing his tray to fall to the ground. Bloody meat splattered on the marble floor, along with a glowing heart that continued pumping. I rushed through the lobby, where two chiseled, virile young men sat, like Greco-Roman sculptures.

“Such a lovely place,” one said.

I hurried past the front desk. The tall, ominous agent smiled professionally. As I ran down the corridor and headed for the door, I could still hear his voice echoing off the walls.

“Relax,” he said. The hallway stretched out in front of me like a highway.

“We are programmed to receive,” he said. I was a hamster on a wheel. The exit was forever away.

“You can check out any time you like, but–”

I burst through the doors, into the night, gasp­ing for air as if I’d just come up from underwater. I made it. The dream, or whatever it was, was behind me. And then, I came face-to-face with myself—my likeness plastered on the side of the tour bus. One by one, the members of my band spilled out, each greeted by their version of a Tiffany, who led them inside.

“Looking for salvation?” I heard from behind me in a sultry, angelic voice that lingered like the devil.

I didn’t turn. I looked off into the distance.  Ev­erything was different. Everything was the same. The black sugar maples were only a few shades darker than the shore. The smell of city grit and salty wa­ter entered my nostrils. I heard the waves lapping against the dock.

I turned, first looking up at the royal, gothic structure of the hotel. It was a glowing colossus, a bea­con in the vast emptiness, its light cutting through the darkness. My eyes traced it down to the entrance. Tiffany stood, waiting for me.

Tears welled up in my eyes as emotion bubbled up from deep inside me. I was the luckiest son of a bitch on earth. I was cursed. I would live more life than my elders and die young. 

I took a deep breath and stepped forward. Tiffany reached for me, and I grabbed her hand, letting her lead me.

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