He must have fallen asleep because the next time his eyes opened the sunlight shining in through the lone window was pale and watery and the bars cast odd high shadows on the ceiling.
Sleep had not brought any answers, nor had it brought much lessening of his pain. It did however did bring a return of urgency to his bladder. Going through the same motions as before, at least this time he was a bit more prepared for the pain.
His survey of the small room had been interrupted the first time around by his ill-advised messing with his arm wound and he wouldn't repeat that mistake. Leaving the bathroom he noted on the other side of the bed were two doors set on each side of the corner of the room.
Opening the first revealed a closet. Pulling the chain on the exposed bulb barely illuminated the dingy space. There was a shirt hanging from a single metal wire hanger and a shelf piled high with boxes and magazines. He stretched up to pull down a few of the magazines, and laughed lightly to himself when he saw they were Spanish girlie rags. Senoritas Caliente! promised Hot Ladies and Amor Prohibido! flaunted pictures of scantily clad women, obviously taken with one another and their Forbidden Love. Throwing the nudie mags on the bed for possible later perusal he returned to the boxes on the top shelf, wincing at the effort of stretching. His pain was for naught, as the boxes yielded utterly uninteresting business receipts, again in Spanish, and Polaroids and prints of people that held no familiarity for him. They were mixed shots- old and recent. And the scenery was generally rural and deep desert. Certainly not the city he was currently in. Wherever that was.
Turning one of the photographs over he found a faded pencil inscription: Tio Carlos y Primo Ramon, Jalisco 1974. A stern sun-baked and bristly-mustached man stared balefully at the camera next to a gap-toothed equally suntanned boy. He stared at the photo, willing something. Anything. Some spark of recognition. Nothing. Pawing through the rest of the snapshots found more faces, occasionally smiling, but more often than not worn and hardened. A more recent photo appeared to be Uncle Carlos and Cousin Ramon again, Ramon's hand flung over his father's shoulder. The lines in the uncle's face had deepened and his temples and mustache were now shot through with white. If possible he appeared even unhappier to be photographed. And Ramon's formerly innocent grin had vanished, replaced by a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, eyes glaring at the camera as if daring the viewer to look at him, itching for a fight. These folks must have had tough lives…
He replaced the pictures in their boxes and grabbed the shirt off the hanger. Pale pastel plaid cowboy shirt. Milky white mother of pearl inlaid snaps on the front, cuffs, and pockets. His hands brushed something in the front pocket that made a crinkly sound. A familiar crinkly sound. It was a half empty pack of cigarettes of some unrecognized Spanish-named brand. Faros Mexicanos. Mexicanos Lights. Simple name for a simple product.
His hands went reflexively to his jeans pockets, and he almost groaned when he realized that in his fog he'd missed checking the most likely place he'd find something personal and identifying. He quickly checked his two back pockets and came up empty handed. One front pocket yielded a matchbook, the front cover a generic "Picture your ad here!" No matches missing, and a number hastily scrawled in the inside cover. (702)-555-1...eight? Or is that a five? Six? The number was badly written and smudged. The last two numbers were 8-9. The handwriting had a feminine flirt to it with a curly flourish drawn under the number.
The other front pocket contained some American change, lint, and a man's silver ring with a small chunk of turquoise in it. Inside the band was an inscription that read Su trabajo me honra. Your work…honors me? It was the best he could gather. He tried the jewelry on what would traditionally be his ring finger. It fit, but didn't feel right, so he returned it to the pocket.
Shaking out a cigarette, he ripped off a match and lit up, sucking in a lungful of smoke, his gaze lingering on the matchbook cover. As the acrid smoke hit his lungs he coughed painfully and felt the nicotine rush to his head, causing him to reel a bit. But then the stimulant ran through the rest of his body and his cells absorbed it hungrily. He hesitantly took a second drag, this one tasting much better. How long has it been since I had a smoke?
He returned to the bed, sitting heavily on the side, eyes never wavering from the matchbook number. Again, no matter how long he stared the number wasn't familiar. Wait. 702 … that's Nevada. Flipping the matchbook over to glance at the strike-off strip he noted written above it smaller letters that gave the name of the manufacturer, followed by "Las Vegas, NV". Vegas?
A flurry of images rushed through his head. Lights. Sounds. Faces. All too fast to grasp even the smallest part of them. It seemed momentary but when he looked down he noted the ash on the cigarette had grown long and the slight movement of his head caused the ash to break off and fall to the stained linoleum. He sucked down the last of the cigarette and stubbed it out on the bed frame, tossing the butt into the sink.
He knew there was another door. He knew it most likely led out. But Out where? That was the question. Out meant answers. But it also meant questions. And he didn't yet know if he was ready to have people know he didn't have all the answers. Realizing that he couldn't spend the rest of his life in the seedy little room he sighed and rose to try the door handle. And he wasn't afraid to admit that he was almost relieved to find it locked. Just the efforts of the last half hour had wiped him out completely.
The shadows had deepened in the room, its contours changing from those in the harsh light of day. Softening. Lulling. The bed with its thin, lumpy, smelly mattress beckoned him into its embrace once more. He was asleep in minutes.
He awakened in the dark an unknown amount of time later, heart pounding in his chest, his hand fumbling at his hip for some reason, finding nothing but the top of his jeans. He wasn't sure yet what had awakened him, and he lay stock-still, rigid on the bed. A moment later his eyes recognized that the room was gradually lightening and the door Out was slowly swinging open.