Thanks for the Trouble - Tommy Wallach Page 0,1

describe something—even a totally shitty something—that’s exactly the thing it’s supposed to be. Perfect morning breath. A perfect hangover. Perfect sadness.

I was sitting on a bench in the lobby of the Palace Hotel. From there, I could see everything that went on: rich people checking in, rich people checking out, and through the stone arches beyond the reception desk, rich people nibbling and sipping away in the dining room. Have you ever been to the dining room of the Palace? It’s got this crazy-high ceiling, all green metal and frosted glass, ribbed like the dried-out carcass of a big old whale with wrought-iron bones. People sit at these long communal tables that are basically fancier versions of the cafeteria tables we have at school. Each place setting has a collection of different-size forks tucked into napkins—a creepy little fork family sharing a single fork bed. Waiters scurry around like penguin parents who’ve lost their penguin babies.

“You can leave that. I’m enjoying playing with it.”

Her voice cut through the background rustle and murmur of the room, as if she were sitting right next to me. My ears got stuck on her, the way your clothes sometimes catch on brambles when you’re picking blackberries, so that you feel you might tear something if you pull away too quickly. I scoured the room for her, but it wasn’t until she spoke again that I found her. She was sitting at the end of one of the communal tables, talking to a waiter.

“No, I’m not staying at the hotel. I’ll just pay in cash.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out the fattest stack of hundreds I’d ever seen in real life. I’m talking a hip-hop video kind of wad, thick as a John Grisham paperback. She peeled off one of the bills—(I see you, Mr. Franklin)—and handed it over. “Keep the change,” she said. The waiter nodded a stunned little bobblehead nod, then peeled out before the girl could think better of her generosity, leaving her to tap idly at the top of a soft-boiled egg in an elaborate silver eggcup. I stared at her staring off into space, and counted the many ways in which she was incredible.

#1: She looked my age, or maybe a tiny bit older. Unless you’re a hotelophile like myself, you’re probably unaware of the fact that there is a direct correlation between the age of a hotel and the age of its average guest. The Palace is the oldest hotel in San Francisco, which means the dining room usually looks like some kind of swanky assisted-living facility. But this teenage girl had come in here to eat breakfast all on her own.

#2: She was pretty. I couldn’t tell how pretty yet, because I was far away, but far away was still close enough. Certain people just shine.

#3: She wore a look of perfect sadness on her face.

#4: She had silver hair. At first I thought it was just a trick of the light, but then she shook her head, as if trying to shake off a bad memory, and it was like a thousand strands of tinsel shivering in a breeze.

#5: She had crazy money.

I stood up and went into the dining room, sitting down a couple of seats away from her at the same table. And yeah, I’d been right: pretty. Maybe even beautiful, though that word kinda makes me wanna throw up. When the waiter came over, I pointed at where it said “coffee” on the menu ($4.50 for a drip, and I’m the one at risk of being arrested for petty theft?).

“That’s all?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Cream and sugar?”

I shook my head.

“Very good. Back in a moment.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the girl continue to mash the top of her egg. It didn’t seem like she was going anywhere anytime soon, and I’d look suspicious just sitting there doing nothing, so I took out my journal and began to make up a story. I was only trying to pass the time until an opportune moment to lift the wad presented itself, but before I knew it, I ended up totally distracted by what I was writing. This happens to me sometimes. Once, I got this really great idea right at the beginning of a geometry class, and the next time I looked up from my notebook, the class had ended. I was the only person left in the room other than the teacher.

“How’s it coming?” he’d asked.

I don’t know how long