New Rose Hotel

First time at the New Rose was at some point in the late-Eighties. I'd been wandering around the city after a job, just checking out some of the more unusual architecture on the ragged fringes of town. I was tired and filthy, needing a place to lie down and recuperate. Just for a few hours. A sign hewn from pure neon promised me that place. "Private beds and TVs - both come in all sizes", and instead of a name, a fluorescent pink rendering of a rose noisily short-circuited. The building was non-descript, just like them all. I went through the door on which was printed the names of the other cities where the New Rose chain had its hotels. I hadn't heard of any of them but they sounded exotic. The manager was a stocky Japanese wearing reflective sunglasses. Behind him was a large plan of the hotel, and as I scanned over it, noting the intricate patterns, I realised that this was the place you had told me about, a coffin hotel. A place to rest that charged by the hour, reminiscent of the final resting place.

I'd been looking for you that day. I knew you lived in this city, and I thought for a moment, looking at the plan of the New Rose Hotel, that I'd finally found you.

I ordered a medium size capsule, one metre wide and three long, with a TV in the ceiling tuned into some early European open-access cable broadcasts. When I turned the set off, synthesised music was automatically piped in and my volume control failed to douse it. Wearily, I climbed down the ladder, ignoring the sounds of flatulence and sex (real and porn) that provided the natural soundtrack, and made my way to see the manager, who had been replaced for the night shift.

You were standing behind the counter, wearing the same shades.

You refused to recognise me and I didn't push it. Gently and anonymously you led me back to the coffin and climbed up after me, pointing to certain switches that cut out the music. The sounds of sex were climaxing.

"Don't you like Laurie Anderson?" You half-asked. I couldn't quite answer, because you'd already shut the chamber door and we were both caught in a space very definitely designed for one. But that didn't get in the way of what followed. The light from the Dutch animal show flickered over us, you turned the music back on spitefully, pumped up the volume and removed your dark glasses.

I wasn't able to make it to the city for another five years. By the time I returned I knew most of the places on the list of cities that hung in the doorway of the New Rose. In fact, in each and every city I'd stayed at a coffin hotel. Hoping you'd be there. And you never were. Not even a trace of you in the acrylic sheets, or your voice buried in the mix of the piped electronica.

It took me a while to find it again, the city had sprawled internally, gummed up with more architecture, rearranged into ever-complex grids of recycled buildings. The Hotel appeared to have moved between boroughs, although they assured me I was mistaken. This time the angle was hygiene. All guests were encouraged to take a shower before retiring. OK with me, I'd just pulled a job and I was covered in filth.

The coffin was bigger, because I had more leeway on my expense account. The TV had improved somewhat, and I settled down on my back to watch an early-90s crime movie with cinematography by Jan De Bont, the Dutch guy who directed Speed. In my comfort I'd forgotten what you did, and what you could bring to my few hours at the New Rose. When the picture began to fade in and out, I pushed the intercom, and moaned that I couldn't give a fuck about the story I just wanted to see the camera-work.

You replied. In a voice I hadn't imagined hearing again. And we talked for quite some time. I described myself. Sparse details of jobs that I knew were sacrosanct. Opened up myself, and you just jumped in and took what you'd been waiting five years to get. Afterwards you visited my capsule. It was slow and sweet and mean.

You chose my future that morning under the bleached-out vanishing sign of the rose. You chose it from a pack of cards from which you'd already dealt your past. You told me versions of texts that had been rehearsed and replayed endlessly, whilst I tried to tell you what real things I could. And the pitiful information was mailed on. It was enough. As my rental expired on the coffin, and the manager came to throw me out, my career was already over.

A few years later, and a few hours ago. Having staggered back from the bad places where you'd put me, I arrived in town for one last chance. I scoured the borough for the old sign but it had moved again. A late night bus ride across town. The site had shifted completely; the driver insisted it had always been that way. No expense account this time. In the last city, for the last job, someone had been waiting for me in the darkness of the coffin. They were armed with scraps of information, neatly stitched up. You scratched me out of the picture baby, and I still can't hate you.

Now I'm waiting here for your return.

It's quiet in the New Rose tonight. There's no television or music in the units anymore. It's so cheap it's almost free. No one bothers you if you just keep still in the dark, holding the claustrophobia at bay. There are sounds though. The noise of sex gathers from all directions, cars pulling in and out, muffled film scores, a heated row between two women, the clashing of doors, and tiny moments of peace in between. I don't even know which city I'm in. Not sure where my coffin has been dropped.

You won't come tonite. I'm sure of that. So I'll just keep waiting until you do. And fuck it, I do know which city I'm in.

benslater