He checked into Hampton Inn by Hilton in Florence, South Carolina, around 10 pm. He had to, and it was getting late. The highway was endless and pitch dark, his vision was getting blurry, and his head was starting to spin from driving all day. Rightfully so, he’s been driving from Florida for nearly nine hours straight, and it was only halfway to his hometown, Philadelphia. Nothing and nobody was waiting for him in Philadelphia besides a bunch of problems, frustration, depression, bad old memories, and the cold grey days which ate him alive slowly. Mark McGuire was at one point the greatest living writer in Philadelphia, turning into the greatest suffering and mediocre alcoholic. The lady luck wasn’t on his side this time.
Writers are better writers when they genuinely suffer; the more they suffer, the better their writing becomes. It was true for Mark. After a month of trying to find his muse in Florida under the bright warm sun, basking on the beach every day didn’t help him much. Somehow it was harder to write in that environment. Mark would wake up early, brew some coffee and sit in front of his laptop, wondering why his writing wasn’t coming to him. Back home in Philly, he wasn’t even thinking about that. Once his laptop was on, the writing came to his pages. It might not be the best of his writing, but it was something. He knew it. He knew he had to stay consistent. He knew he had to do his homework. It will be hard to outperform his previous legendary work, but there was always a bit of hope for him to get there. He was good at writing everything poetry, prose, blog rants, and pretty much anything while living and suffering in Philadelphia. The main problem was that he hated that place and all its people. This could be why he had so much on his mind, which came out of him in a sentence form on the page.
His retreat in Florida did solve, however, one problem. His anxiety went away. It was diminished almost completely. He wasn’t the angry middle-aged man anymore. There was some sense of balance and relaxed vibes about him. He felt it. He was relaxed, and his mind was of so much shit he usually had to deal with daily for a very long time. Even though he wasn’t that productive in Florida, he did write something. A few pieces were not much, but they were shaped perfectly. He needed to figure out where to take the storyline, but what he did have was a great beginning of something that could turn big. Something that might bring his name and fame back on the bookshelves in America and Europe. Who knows? This might be just it.
Hampton Inn and Suites was pretty quiet inside the lobby, and there was almost nobody there except the receptionist. She greeted him warmly and asked how she could help. Mark asked for the room. The king-sized bed was alright. On the first floor, no problem. She rang him up. He paid and went over to his room. It felt like his feet were not his anymore. They felt like they weren’t really listening to his mind. Somebody might think that he was drunk. Who cares? He was too tired to think about it too much. He just needed the rest, the shower, and a pillow under his head. The room was very conveniently located, not too far from the side exit, which was perfect since Mark could get back to his car and bring his stuff over. He also thought that this would be very convenient to go outside for a smoke. The gym room was right around the corner, but no energy was left in him for a workout.
He opened the room and, entering, flipped the switch on. The room was nicely designed and smelled fresh. He looked around with great satisfaction because he liked what he saw. The room was immaculate and well-designed. It felt like you wanted to stay there and chill. There was a bathroom to his right and the TV set to his left, and across in the middle of the room was the king-sized bed. There was also some sort of a reading nook with a lamp hanging over it. This would be perfect for writing and reading something tonight. I might even write something in this room, thought Mark. Like the good old guys, staying at some random hotel room late at night in the middle of nowhere, trying to get his worlds and soul on paper. He put his bag down and turned on the light everywhere. Shower first, he thought, and started unzipping his bag.
The bathroom looked pristine and modern. It has anything one might need in the hotel room. After the shower, Mark felt a bit more relaxed and refreshed. He looked at himself through the stimmed foggy from the hot water mirror. Man, you’ve come a long way, he said. Where are you going next? It was more of a rhetorical question he asked himself. There were things that he needed to think about and some priorities to set.
He had a sandwich in his bag and a beer with a small bag of Doritos he had just bought at a local gas station. This will be my dinner, he thought. He was hungry. It was too late to eat that kind of stuff, and he never tried to get his belly full before bedtime, but he didn’t care. I’ll eat this, and then I can relax and read, maybe write something, or maybe I’ll just watch some bad night TV? There was always something useless to watch on TV every time you turned it on. Whether you wanted to watch it or not was another question. Just something to kill time and switch the brains off for a brief moment.
Mark was alone and lonely. Not just in this hotel room but in life. Since his wife divorced him and his latest girlfriend was tired of babysitting him, he just ran solo. There was nothing wrong with being alone. It was liberating in the way. He could think straight now and focus more on his writing with fewer interruptions. But still, something felt missing. He was still searching for it.
He heard voices in the next room. They were man’s and woman’s voices and laughter. He saw a young lady walking into the room next to him earlier. There was somebody with her. They laughed, and Mark didn’t pay too much attention to it. Then it was quiet, and then the moans began. They were very passionate about it. The girl was not hiding anything and gave it all out. Mark could hear her very honest, loud, and unapologetic moans. He wished he would have somebody over. He wished he would be in that room with that girl right now, making her sound like that. The moans continued for the next five minutes before breaking into total silence. It was over. Now they both were satisfied. Mark imagined them lying in bed looking at the ceiling, out of breath, sweaty and happy, just looking and breathing loudly with satisfaction. I need a smoke, he thought and walked outside.
It has been a quiet night outside, and it felt pleasant regardless of the humidity. Mark pulled his cigarette out and lit it. He inhaled the organic tobacco deeply and exhaled the thick white smoke into the night sky. The cloud of smoke went up and over his head and into the air, moving slowly and heavily. Mark inhaled again and exhaled with a feeling of satisfaction and calm. This stuff will kill you, Mark, he thought to himself. Life will kill you, was the internal response he gave himself. That was true. You never know what to expect or not to expect these days. One day everything goes smoothly. Another, all the shit hits the fan, a wall, or something else. And then you find yourself with your back against the wall, gasping for another chance for another breath, trying to survive and live just a little bit longer. There was nobody in the parking lot except for Mark, which allowed him to focus on his thoughts. It has been a while since he could think in peace and quiet and evaluate his life situation. Many things needed to be worked out.
Yes, he wished for a comeback. Yes, he wanted to be loved again. Yes, the middle-life crisis was a real thing. Yes, Mark wanted to be a great writer again now or soon, not in the past. He was tired of trying to live up to his past. The past was good to him on the one hand and not so much on the other. He had it both ways. He’s been poor and broke, rich and famous, and now he’s just lost almost everything. The greatest living writer was drowning in his life and his bullshit with no way out. The people will wait, and the fans will stay if they care enough. Who knows if anybody still cares? Mark cares. But does anybody else care about what Mark cares? There was a shitstorm of thoughts moving through his mind while tobacco smoke was moving through his lungs. The “Don’t close your eyes” song by Kix repeatedly played in his mind. He’d listened to that song dozens of times while on the road. There was something in this depressing music and the lyrics that would cheer one up during the hard times. This one was helping Mark and making him feel like he’s not alone and other people are also in the fucked up situations. This thought calmed his shit down for a moment.
He finished his cigarette and exhaled the last cloud of smoke into the air. The lonely figure on the parking lot at night, full of his thoughts and nicotine, looking into the sky, asking for another chance. You’ll get it, Mark. Just wait. Just wait and write something and you’ll see the fans will be back, you can get your life back, and you can feel much better and appreciated like never before. You will be a great writer again, if not better. Just trust this feeling. Stay hopeful, you moron.
He went back into his room. The room looked empty and lonely. His laptop sat on the writing desk with the corner lamp on. It reminded Mark that he could use a bit of the time he had in this room to write. There is no better place to focus on writing than the hotel room, where you are all alone with no distractions and nobody who can disturb you, especially at night. He returned to the desk, turned the laptop on, and opened a new word document. The worlds came to him in no time, and he secured them all on his pages. One word after another, one line after another, he was getting somewhere. He knew this was his chance to stay productive. He once wrote about a successful writer trying to find his purpose and return to his writing, much like Mark these days. He was busy writing for another forty minutes, then he hit the bump. He looked around and up at the ceiling, thinking, I need to spice this up a bit. I need to get out there and get something to write about. You can only write so much about being lonely in a hotel room. He decided to go out. There were a bunch of restaurants and bars in the area, and there could be his luck somewhere. There could be his next story in one of those bars or restaurants, waiting for Mark to discover it.
The feeling of being tired went away quickly. Mark was ready to go out and see the local nightlife and live some life. This could be a good thing too. I am a stranger in a new city far away from home. There are some moments I can capture, he thought. The Hampton Inn was located in a very touristy area in Florence, and there were many other hotels, restaurants, and bars around. This area seemed like you could go out and not worry about getting into trouble. Mark went into the bar close to the hotel.
There were many people for the late hour of eleven o’clock at night in the middle of the week. All those people are probably tourists just traveling by or staying in South Carolina on their vacations. The bar had dimmed lighting inside. There was a small round table across the room, and bar seats were available. The pool table is in the far right corner, and a few people are at it. Quite a few people were sitting at the bar, and Mark decided to join them.
“Blue label, please,” he ordered a shot of his favorite scotch. The bartender nodded his head and turned around for the bottle. Mark looked to his side. Some women were sitting there, couples, some singles as well.
“How is it going?” The fellow to this right asked. He was pretty lit by that time, and since nobody was sitting to him this close, he decided to talk to Mark.
“It’s alright, man. How have you been?” Asked Mark, sounding disinterested.
“Going well, man, just taking it easy. It’s been a long week for me, you know?”
“No, I did not know that, but I feel your pain, buddy.” Something about those lonely people at the bar who are always trying to share their shit with strangers. Mark never liked talking to anybody, but now this guy was stealing his attention.
“I was driving a truck from California and was on my way home and broke. The fucking repairs are taking a week to two weeks. There is nothing else for me to do. I am behind schedule, and the delivery has now been reassigned to another driver. Just coming here to this bar and getting loaded. You know? Fuck I hate when my truck breaks down. What can I do right? While I’m stuck here, I might take it easy and drink.
“Yeh, man, sorry to hear about that,” said Mark with a grin on his face. “At least you can relax and take it easy at the bar. Eventually, you’ll be back on the road, working again.”
“That’s right, man. Ok, I got to get out of here. I think I’ve got my doze by now. I’ll see you around, man. Take care.” He left some tips on the bar table and went slowly to the bathroom before leaving the bar.
Mark drank his scotch while watching a TV screen in front of him. He was glad the guy didn’t hang at this bar for too long, and he wouldn’t have to listen to his misfortunes. He was now alone, a loner in the strange City, in the strange bar, too far away from home. In these situations, you feel like you’re a ghost. You are here, and nobody knows who you are. Nobody really pays any attention to you. You came and left with no return to this place. It was almost perfect.
Then this woman came into the bar with her girlfriend and sat there. Mark glanced and nodded at them, like hey, hello, I saw you coming in and thought I’d say Hi. They made the same gesture in response. There was some laughter and some conversations that the two were so deeply involved in. Mark minded his own business sipping on his scotch. After a while, the two ladies approached him and said Hi. This was surprising, but it was also good to be around. Mark smiled back with this charming smile and introduced himself.
“Oh, you are Mark McGuire?! I cannot believe it. Lora, look, this is him, the famous writer! Wow, what a surprise! I thought you were just a random handsome, lonely guy sitting at the bar at night and looking for company.” Lady giggled and showed their white teeth through their smiles, looking at each other and Mark, laughing silly.
“And all of that was true, except for the “famous writer” thing. I’m still working on it. But thank you, very pleased to meet you as well, ladies.” Mark felt that now he must live up to his fucking image. One of these ladies was clearly into him. She was a fan. He was trying not to be involved with his fans. However, it was hard to manage since he was so famous and some women he couldn’t ignore. He had to have them and enjoy them while they came.
“The pleasure is all ours, Mark. I have read all your books. I wonder if there is a writer these days in America who can write well as you do. Something about your particular writing and its tone and realism just attracts the reader to the story and the book. And then you find yourself reading it straight through the night, and I love it.”
“I’m always glad to know that people are or have been enjoying my books. I was working on each and every one of them really hard. Not so much harder lately, but back then, back in the day, I was on fire! Thank you, though.”
“Do you mind a little company?”
“Make yourself at home, please,” said Mark. This night might not be so dull and lonely anymore. His writing will suffer, but he has to live his life too. He needs this. His writing needs this. His little writer’s soul needs this. To live. To create. And to fuck.
The next couple of hours at the bar went by quickly. Mark found out that the two women also staying in the same hotel as he. What a coincidence! One of the women gave him his room number on the way out. This is another fucking night of adventure in his lonely writer’s life worth living for. Great, Mark thought. I need to take it easy and relax. It’s been a long fucking ride home, and more is still ahead. The chances are high that I will be stopping by that room tonight.
He didn’t remember what led to this and how he ended up in the next-door hotel. It was one of those mornings when you feel every cell in your brain vibrating, but you are happy because you know it was worth it. It definitely was. The two naked women from the bar next to him were on the bed, sleeping peacefully. What a night, he thought?! Who would ever imagine I would wind up here? He looked around the room. It was a large room with a king-sized bed. There were leftover beer bottles with snacks and cigarettes all over the table. They sure got a great time last night. Fuck, Mark thought, it is time to get the fuck out of here before everyone awakes. They might wake up with no recollection of what the fuck happened last night. They may say it was all my fault. Or whatever might come up, I don’t want to suffer through this shit.
He got out of bed and picked up his clothes, scattered all over the floor. It reminded him of some sort of aftermath in a crazy sex-movie scene. He picked up a beer bottle and drank as much as possible in one shot. It felt so great and refreshing. Even the warmed-up beer felt great at the moment. Mark thought the beer was going straight into his head, and the last night’s buzz was resurfacing and hitting him in his brain again.
He left the room quietly. I need to get to my room now. He took the elevator down and walked down the hall toward his room. The hotel felt a bit strange, but he wasn’t too concerned. His entire life felt very strange as well. He tried the key, and it didn’t work. He tried a few more times, but clearly, something wasn’t right. If it feels wrong, it might be wrong, Mark. He went to the lobby and saw a lady at the reception. He wanted to come to her for a moment and ask about the key not working, but somebody had just entered the hotel and went straight towards the reception desk. Let me get some smoke first, Mark thought.
Where the fuck am I, he thought, standing in the parking lot. This is not the hotel I registered in, and where the fuck is my car? My car was parked right outside the side door. Shit. I am at the wrong hotel. He walked around the building, checking the nearby places. There were five hotels in this area, one next to another. He looked up and saw the Marriott sign on this building. Yeh, definitely not my hotel. He walked around and saw Hampton’s building, two buildings down. Hotel’s sign appeared on his face, and he exhaled the smoke with relief. At least he knows where he’s at. He strolled towards his room. I don’t feel like hitting the road anytime soon, he thought. He went into the lobby and extended his stay for another day. Then walked towards his room and collapsed on the bed. He stayed there till the following day.
He slept in late, and once he checked out, he knew he would have something to write about his adventures at home. It was always a good practice to let any new experiences and thoughts marinate in his mind for a little bit before they were ready to go out. He knew this was about a matter of time before he’ll get this shit on the paper in a novel form. The remaining ten or so hours went by quickly. He was excited to come back after a long time. This trip was indeed helpful. He realized a few things throughout. He’s changed. He couldn’t remain in the same place, doing the same things, and hoping for better results. The results were shit, and he felt like it quickly. And with time, it was the only thing he felt like. Someone had to give. Some things had to change.
Once in Philly, he was happy again. He realized that he missed his beloved fucked-up City, with all the homelessness, pollution, dirt, traffic, and shitty restaurants. I am home, baby. I am happy to be back. The new novel was written in record time after his return. Mark worked days, nights, and everywhere in between whenever he felt he needed to write something. It all worked out well. There was a press release from his publisher, and the world was excited about the new upcoming book from their local, famous writer-hero. He’s back. He was fucking back.
