I do not own American Horror Story: Hotel.
Noooope.
Miss Evers' Boy (Her Pride and Joy)
There were few things in life that Miss Jane Evers loved more than the smell and feel of crisp, clean, freshly laundered sheets and knowing she had made them that way.
She loved the quiet morning stillness over the first cup of hot coffee in the morning.
She loved the dying of the evening light as the sun sank slowly below the distant horizon, signifying a good day's work come to an end.
And she loved Mr. James Patrick March.
Not in any romantic way, oh goodness, no.
That would be absurd. She was many years past him, an old lady most likely by his reckoning.
No, her devotion and loyalty and love ran far deeper, far truer than some misty-eyed, schoolgirl dalliance.
She had never married, never had children.
There just simply hadn't been time, you see.
Not amid all the cleaning that had to be done in the world.
And also, husbands and children and all things associated with them just tended to be so . . . unkempt. Slovenly. Messy.
No, no. That wasn't for her.
She had instead devoted herself to making the world just as clean and bright and fresh and sparkling and crisp as she possibly could.
Working in different hotels and establishments all over the great, sunny state of California.
The only problem was, no one really understood how important it was to get the linens so perfectly crisp and clean.
They always left wrinkles. Stains. Imperfections.
Claiming to not see them. Claiming the linens were fine.
She had known better. She had always known better.
The one girl, she had deserved the ironing Miss Evers had administered to her face, you see.
It had been a lesson. On the importance of cleanness, perfection. A job well done.
The manager had not seen it that way.
Yelled at her.
Yelled.
In front of everyone, staff and guests alike.
And driven her from the seedy little rathole with threats of prosecutions and imprisonment.
As though she were some sort of criminal, deviant.
When all she had been trying to do was teach the girl.
Word had gotten around after that.
No one would hire her. No one would even give her the time of day.
As if she had done anything wrong.
It had been a hard time after that.
Even the soup kitchen down the block had insisted she discontinue her patronage after she had engaged in a mild disagreement with one of its employees.
The napkin. It had been stained. Stained. With the remnants of what appeared to be pea soup.
She'd politely requested another. Without stains, if you please.
And had been quite rudely informed that it was 'just fine'.
She had only been demonstrating the foolishness of that statement.
The fork had simply been a tool to transfer the blood onto the napkin. So that she might scrub it out.
In order to prove that any stain, any stain, could be removed with enough patience and dedication.
The woman's face had barely been lacerated at all, the sniveling little incompetent child.
They never understood, they just never understood.
Always with the threats. And rude gestures. And clouts about the head.
And shouting, goodness, the shouting.
It was always the same.
They were all always the same.
Except him.
Except Mr. March.
He was a true gentleman, a real top drawer, class act.
He always understood.
He always listened.
He always appreciated her efforts.
She couldn't quite remember exactly how she had come to be in his employ.
She just remembered looking up and seeing him there.
Such a neat, clean, handsome young man.
That thin, perfectly groomed pencil mustache.
Those dark, bottomless, glittering eyes.
"Now, you look like a lady who knows how to get a good stain out of anything."
That voice.
So cultured and mannerly.
She could listen to it all day.
"Yes," she replied, with pride. "Any glorious stain at all."
He'd smiled then and her entire world had become permanently brighter.
"Excellent! Well then, my dear, you are hired. You may start immediately."
And she'd had a home ever since.
A cozy little apartment tucked away within the depths of the divine Hotel Cortez.
And a job.
Removing the stains.
Those glorious, glorious stains.
And for such a wonderful man too.
He had made his money young, a sterling accomplishment in and of itself.
And though he surely was a genius and outstandingly fantastic man all around, he had maintained a humble lifestyle.
Always taking matters into his own hands as much as he could, instead of depending on the kindess of others.
Reaching out in service to the community.
Building his glorious hotel for those lucky, lucky guests to enjoy.
He did spend time indulging in his hobbies of course, his gentlemanly past times. As was his right.
Every good, hard working citizen of the day deserved a relaxation, a reprieve, from the stresses and frustrations of every day life.
Even she herself enjoyed a nice hot cup of tea over the occasional harlequin romance novel as her duties allowed.
Some poor, ignorant souls might mistakenly call his enjoyments unusual, she supposed.
But to each his own was her motto.
They had thought Leonardo Da Vinci somewhat of an eccentric as well.
And Mr. March was no less of a creator, an inventor, a visionary than the historic Italian, of that she was certain.
She helped him from time to time.
Gathered his materials, his medium, as it were.
The girls. The leather. The ropes. The knives. The brick and mortar.
The lye.
Whatever he required of her, she did her best to provide.
Along of course with fresh, clean, crisp, stain-free linens.
And he always, always, thanked her.
Honestly.
Sincerely.
And even, on occasion, smiled as well.
Such a handsome, winning, gentile smile.
So far as she could tell past his specially made leather headpiece with its straps and spectacles and cowl and nodes.
Just another example of his unique and creative mind, that contraption.
But the man himself.
He never shouted.
He never threatened.
He never pushed or shoved or mocked or cut his eyes at her in disdain, disgust, or abject horror.
He understood her, gave her purpose.
Appreciated her work, her loyalty.
Made her feel proud and well-cared for.
Why, he even apologized for using coarse language around her from time to time.
She forgave him, of course.
No one was perfect.
Everyone had their little slip ups now and again.
In all honesty, it made her revere him all the more.
For him, such a man, to apologize and take consideration for her, the help.
It showed real strength of character, real backbone.
Such a rare commodity in this day and age.
So she'd had no children, no.
But no mother could ever have been prouder, more joyous of her son than she was of Mr. James Patrick March.
And she was proud, so proud and grateful to do her part to help him.
In removing all those glorious, glorious stains.
With time, devotion, a little elbow grease.
And her secret ingredient.
Love.
Pity now it was all coming to an end.
As she looked down the barrel of his shiny pistol, she regretted all the stains she had yet to clean for him.
Especially the ones she was holding now in her hands.
But ah, the time had come and she was just honored that he would be the one to do it.
She'd begun to but it had just seemed wrong to deny them both the pleasure of him pulling the trigger.
She was just honored.
So very honored.
She gazed her last upon him, grateful to be a part of him, his glorious work.
And never even heard the gun go off.
This one goes out to DinahRay and her unbridled unenthusiasm (Hello, Seinfeld) and encouragement of my writing.
Also, to Mare Winningham, aka, Miss Evers. I'll keep up with the linens, yes ma'am. Just please don't let him get me.
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