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"The Hotel Anthology"

a series of short stories by Robin Roberts

My Hotel Room • "Furniture" • My Massage • Room Service • The Banquet Room • Room Service 2 • In The Hallway • The Laundry room • The Garage

(Also see The EMF Trust)

In The Parking Garage
by Robin Roberts

I had an early appointment with Billie and Terry, a couple I had met in college, so I decided to drive my car rather than using The Hotel chauffeur and limousine because I had no idea how long I would be visiting them.

When I had entered the garage, a little machine had barked instructions about taking a ticket, etc., the "arm" went up and had found a parking spot next to the elevators. Now I am reversing the steps. I opened the door, slid into the drivers' seat, took the ticket from behind the sun-visor, and headed for little guard shack near the exit.

As I approached the booth, I noticed it seemed to be dark. I began to wonder how to leave the lot. I slowed to a crawl and drove up to the booth: another mechanical arm blocking my way. I was about to give up when the door to the cubicle slid open. A low-level blue-white light illuminated the interior. I opened the window and started to hand my ticket to the ticket person?

The ticket person was female: I could tell by the bumps and curves beneath the black rubber outfit. The suit had white quarter-inch stripes along the arms, legs and along the body that announced each movement of the form that stretched the suit to the point of not having a single ripple, wrinkle or fold. Her body rotated slightly clockwise, and she fluidly extended a very graceful right arm and hand for my ticket. I placed it into her rubber-gloved hand which she withdrew and turned back to the machine in front of her. It then hit me: she had not moved any part of her body, and yet she had rotated toward me, retrieved my ticket and the rotated back. A closer examination was warranted! As she turned back toward me, her right hand again extended pointing to a small electronic display that stated I owed just under ten dollars for the privilege of parking my car in The Hotel lot.

I handed her the money, and again she rotated back into position before the machine, the drawer opened and with only one hand made the correct change. She rotated back to me, handed me my change, all wordlessly. I decided that I would take a closer look so drove through the gate, parked my car and took the ten or so steps back to the booth. She didn't say anything: she couldn't. She was wearing something that looked like a black rubber swim cap with a hole in the top/back that allowed her pony-tail to flow through and a band that covered the entire lower part of her face beneath her nose. She was, for all intents and purposes, part of the stool. The suit had two oval cut-outs (one over each cheek of her well-proportioned derriere) and a long slit that appeared to run from navel to anus. The stool she was sitting on was a post with a u-shaped piece of pipe shaped like a bicycle seat with what appeared to be a dildo of sorts and a butt-plug. There was a short cross piece a few inches above the ground, upon which her high-heels / ballerina slippers were resting. Inch-and-a-half, black leather cuffs locked her ankles directly to the post, and there were three two inch wide belts above and below her knees and one around her thighs.

It was about this time that another car approached the booth. I stood and watched as the "lady" and her stool turned to face the door, extend her right hand, and rotate back toward the register. And then it struck me. As it automatically twisted without intervention or recourse of the ticket-taker as she had no choice: she and the stool were one integral unit. As she gracefully and fluidly turned and extended her right hand with the customer's change, I noticed that her left arm was behind her back; forearm vertical, laying between her shoulder blade. The fingers of her left hand were extended and attached directly to her collar. The sleeves were laced to the body, forcing her arm to take on the appearance of a broken wing in a cast. As the customer drove away, I couldn't help notice that the garage attendants' very blue eyes seemed to follow me everywhere.

It was as if she was trying to say something.

I pondered the idea of telling someone at the front desk how uncomfortable this poor lady looked.

I got in my car and drove away thinking that, probably, they already knew.


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