The Place Where Absolution Is Kept

Arriving in the City did not lighten Hugh Larister’s sullen mood. He had expected to feel soothed once he stepped off the No. 11 Overnight and onto the massive platform at Central Station. But there was no comfort in the cold, grey concrete or the massive throng of faceless passengers engaged in an intricate dance of entrance and egress.

Instead, there were three flights of stairs leading to the station’s elegant main terminal. Larister slung his bag over his right shoulder, and shoving his typewriter case under his other arm, huffed up the stairs. He wasn’t particularly tall or athletic, and the trek caused small beads of perspiration to form on his furrowed brow. As he fumbled for a handkerchief the typewriter case crashed to the ground with a jarring bang.

Larister mumbled a curse and replaced the case under his arm. He silently pined for the comfort of a warm bed and the solace of dreamless sleep. Pushing his way through the crowded station plaza, Larister barely noticed the dozens of immense crystal chandeliers lining the ceiling above. Nor did he recognize the intricate geometric patterns etched into the ebony marble beneath his feet. Suppressing a yawn, he was surprised to see that the Central Station clock read just twenty-eight minutes past eight o’clock.

A solitary chime echoed throughout the station, marking the half hour as he stepped into the chilly night rain. He flagged down a pedicab and climbed into the open-air buggy. The city thrummed with an energy Larister found refreshing after his recent stay in the countryside. He asked the pedicab driver, a rail-thin man with wooly tufts of white hair forming a crown on his otherwise bald head, where he could find an inexpensive hotel somewhere quiet. The driver chuckled mirthlessly and, after a three-dollar ride, dropped Larister off in front of the Jupiter Hotel.

He scowled as Larister tossed him a handful of change as a tip.

For all the elegance Larister missed walking through Central Station, he took in every sorry detail of the Jupiter Hotel. Once the city’s premier hotel, the Jupiter teetered on the edge of becoming complete rubble. But it wasn’t rubble quite yet, and when Larister pushed his way through the lobby doors he imagined the Jupiter how it must have been thirty or forty years ago.

Most of the lobby’s original furniture had been removed, but there were a couple of chairs and a subway bench, the latter of which was currently occupied by a transient too high to make it to his hovel. Gathering his drenched belongings and shaking off the very bad feeling the Jupiter was giving him, Larister trudged to the main desk and was surprised to find someone waiting to greet him.

“I need a room,” he said.

The slender man behind the counter extinguished his cigarette. He wore a vest, hastily fastened so that each button missed the proper hole by one spot, and a pained expression that appeared to be a grimace but Larister suspected it may have been the man’s attempt to smile.

“Yes, plenty of those,” the man said through his grimace. “Ten dollars a night.”

“That’ll be fine,” Larister replied. He pushed a night’s rent onto the counter and grabbed the key to room 811.

The hotel had one working elevator, which strained and creaked as it carried Larister to his room on the eighth floor. It came to rest with a grinding halt and Larister peered into the dimly lit hallway.

Room 811 was all that Larister had expected. A small, metal desk. A stool. A sagging bed. Bars on the windows. A dresser.

He sat at the desk and pulled out his wallet. After the train ride and hotel room, he was down to just one hundred and twenty dollars. That wasn’t going to last long in the city. He sighed and reached into his front shirt pocket for his pack of cigarettes. Almost gone. He lit one, a Wilshire with gold foil, and inhaled deeply. As the nicotine hit his brain, he relaxed slightly and took a sip of whisky from his hipflask. The thought of finding work made him tense, and he laughed heartily to no one, as if to ward of the thought. As the rain poured steadily outside, he caught a glimpse of himself in the window. He’d gotten thin, almost as thin as the man behind the hotel counter. He wasn’t eating­—or sleeping. He felt hollow.

He opened the desk drawer and found, to his surprise, a small, loaded pistol. Larister had served in the war and was familiar enough with firearms. The weapon did not frighten him. Instead he became consumed with a horrible thought. How easy it would be, he mused, to aim this gun at my head and just end it all. He picked the pistol up. It felt heavier than he expected.

Larister felt bitter pangs of anger explode from within his guts and outward, until his whole body writhed in rage. He screamed an unintelligible oath, a desperate howl that seemed to consume him. Tears started to inch their way down Larister’s cheek. He reveled in the pain he felt. Tried to own it, enjoy it. But it’s not that way with pain. Life had been reduced to that room, a couple of bucks left in his pocket and a gun in his hand. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to turn out.

Leaning back in his chair, Larister gently cocked the hammer on the pistol. It clicked into place with a satisfyingly thick noise. He spent the rest of the night cocking and uncocking the gun, staring into the barrel and wondering if he had what it took to pull the trigger and finally be done with all the misery and disappointment. When he woke up, many hours later, the gun was still clutched tightly in his hand, ready to offer absolution.