48 hours at the Armpit Hotel

 There’s a character in Woody Allen’s Crimes and Misdemeanors who keeps harping that “comedy is tragedy plus time.” He’s an obnoxious blowhard, but he’s sort of right, although I’d replace “tragedy” with “aggravation.” Notice that when you look back on things and occurrences that once really ticked you off, they now actually seem funny? True, there are events that are just annoying however you look at them, but nearly everything can be material for comedy. Or maybe that’s just my schtick. 

This morning I looked at my old notebooks. It’s something I do when I mark another year, or when I have a deadline looming and can’t think of anything in particular to write, or in this case, both. I came upon an entry I’d written in March 2005, describing a short trip I’d taken to Singapore. A director had hired me to write the English subtitles for his horror movie, and I was going there to check if the titles matched the dialogue. I must add this disclaimer: I’ve been to Singapore a few times, and the hotels I’ve stayed in ranged from super-efficient to fabulous. The hotel described below is the one exception. In fact, it might not even have been Singapore, but some dimensional interstice that had momentarily opened up in the general area.

“21 March 2005. The trip was uneventful until I put the box containing the film reels on a trolley and steered it past the Customs counter at Changi Airport. A customs officer stopped me and inquired as to its contents. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to reply in rapid English; hesitation is suspicious. It turns out that the director should’ve gotten a permit from the Singapore Media Development Board to bring in the reels. I had no such permit. According to the rules I should have been detained at the airport until said permit was produced. Which would only take, oh, DAYS. And if they knew I had a videotape in my possession, thoughtfully provided by the director, the real trouble would begin. If I hadn’t rattled the staff with my Sesame Street kung fu, I’d be in a holding cell. Note to self: Must throttle director.

“I was picked up from the airport by the director’s contact, who happily announced that she’d booked me at a very cheap hotel. I like to hear the adjective “cheap” in connection with travel, but something about the way she kept repeating it set off alarms in my head. She announced that my two-night stay would cost under US$100. Hmmm.

“The minute I entered Room 317 I knew I’d been overcharged. The carpet is a very faded oatmeal with dark spots and blotches that look like mold. I wouldn’t walk barefoot on it, or move the bed, lest I uncover a crime scene chalk outline. The air conditioning vents are rusty, probably encrusted with SARS microbes. The furniture is ugly and scarred, and the cushions are in a faded pink print mottled with decades of grime. There’s a vase of dirty plastic flowers. When you open the faucet in the bathroom it drains directly onto the floor. 

“It’s like 2046 meets Eraserhead, and I am Barton Fink. It’s safe to say that Tony Leung will not be showing up. It’s like a halfway house for axe murderers newly released from the asylum. It’s like the cheap hotel where the inmates from the violent prison TV show Oz live after their jail term, just before they decide they’d rather go back to Oz. Kafkaesque does not begin to describe it. 

“I tried to order room service, but the coffee shop had been abandoned, and the take-out place recommended by the front desk had stopped delivering. It’s too late to venture out if I have to find my way back to Hotel Crud. I could move to a good hotel, but not at this late hour, and besides, how much fun would that be to write about?

“The bathroom flooded round midnight so I had to change rooms. Room 109 is slightly less oppressive than 317, as long as I keep the drapes shut to block out the bright lights of the gas station next door. I know what I’ll do: I’ll pretend I’ve been sent here for a hit, and I’m just waiting to find out who the target is. The production design is perfect.” 

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