I did a brief stint as a hotel manager right out of high school. At the time, I wasn't sure I wanted to go to college, so I drifted a bit and wound up beached at the hotel, where I stayed for about a year. I enjoyed it as much as anyone can enjoy a retail job, although at times it was catastrophically boring. It certainly wasn't demanding intellectually, and the majority of my paid work involved herding people, both guests and staff, into the tiny but well-appointed rooms.

     We were almost always booked to capacity, so we never suffered for lack of a profit. It helped that we had a very well-stocked bar in the dining area, which most of the less expensive hotels didn't offer. Since we were on the richer side of town, we kept a lot of good product in stock, and it was always a point of contention with the staff that they were expressly barred from visiting the bar, even if they were off the clock and out of uniform. The owner of the hotel felt it was in poor taste to allow the staff to drink at their workplace. This rule held everyone: management, housekeeping, kitchen staff, even the bartenders.

    There was only one exception.

    Rita.

    Rita was a small, compact Hispanic woman who spoke almost no English. She was a legend, and every single person in that hotel agreed that the place was held together with her sweat and the bottle of Fabuloso she carried around in the waistband of her pants. I have never seen a more efficient and more terrifying force of nature than Rita. Watching her clean a room was close to a religious experience. No one could snap a sheet that crisply and lay it perfectly flat in one smooth move, or clean a bathroom with a single paper towel and still leave it spotless, like Rita could. Barreling down the hall in her tiny white sneakers, even guests got out of her way without being told to, and pulled along behind her in a wake was the cloying, chemical fruity smell of Fabuloso.

    Rita worked ten hour days with unlimited overtime. She was the most senior member of staff, and had no set schedule. She came in when she wanted and left when she wanted. Generally, she arrived as soon as the sun was up, and left around seven at night. No one knew much about her. As I didn't speak Spanish, I couldn't ask much, and I wouldn't have even if I could have. Somehow it wouldn't have been appropriate.

    All we knew was that every night after she clocked out, she would sit at the bar for hours and drink. She had no preference as far as brand or strength, but according to the bartenders, she generally asked for rum and a healthy slice of lime. Sometimes she would nurse one drink for hours, and other days she would take three or four before climbing into her car and driving home. I questioned the bartenders whether it was safe for her to drive, and was assured that Rita never got drunk. Rita, I was assured, could out-drink all of us combined.

    Now, of course, the glaring question of why Rita could drink when no one else would consumed me at first. But, perhaps not surprisingly, no one I asked seemed to know the answer. It had always been that way, one of those things that simply existed and had long since ceased to be of any real interest to anyone. Over time, my curiosity waned, and I went about my job as everyone else did. Knowing that at the end of my night, I would wave goodbye to Rita as she sat at the bar, staring at nothing, her very small, chapped hands cupped around the tumbler full of rum. Sometimes she would nod, and sometimes she didn't seem to hear me. When my time at the hotel ended, and my life moved on, I forgot about her.



    Many years later, however, I happened to run across the owner of the hotel at a restaurant in town. I was visiting an ill family member, and needed to get out of the house for a bit. It was late, and the owner was sitting at the bar. He invited me to join him, which I did. We talked for a while, caught up, asked each other the appropriate questions. He ordered a rum and Coke, and that sparked the memory of Rita. I ordered the same, and I thought that perhaps he'd be able to solve the mystery for me. He listened to the question, took a large sip, and put his drink down.

    "Ah, yes, that. Well, I'm not really sure it's appropriate dinner conversation, frankly."

    I assured him that my curiosity was genuine, satisfied him, and he nodded and stirred his drink with the tip of his finger. I noticed he wasn't wearing a wedding ring.

    "Well, you know Rita didn't speak very much English. When I hired her, she was very new to the country. She'd married a man to get her citizenship, and in any normal circumstance I'd never have considered taking her on, but there was something about her I admired. She had this... certain resolve. She brought along a friend to translate for her. This friend, they kept repeating a certain phrase: 'I will work for you very hard. I will start tomorrow.' Not, 'may I start tomorrow.' 'I will start tomorrow.' And I thought, well, if she's this determined to work for me, why not give her a shot? And of course, you know how hard that woman worked. She was worth every penny I paid her, and more. I didn't deserve her, frankly. If she'd only spoken English, she would have been the perfect employee." He laughed, and I nodded in agreement.

    "So is that why you let her drink at the bar? Or was the rule not around back then?" I prompted. He shook his head.

    "Oh no, she didn't drink when I hired her. At the hotel, anyway, of course I can't say what she did outside of it. I knew I could rely on her to do anything, and keep the other girls in line. That's why I promoted her to management right away; the other girls were terrified of her. Much as I hate to admit it, fear is an excellent motivator." He paused. "Nothing bothered her, and she was never afraid to speak her mind. If a guest behaved in a way she felt was out of line, she'd tell them so. There was no funny business on her watch. She was fearless. One evening, a man tried to assault her while she cleaned his room. She sprayed him in the face with her bottle of... oh, what was it she used-?"

    I thought, and it came back to me in a picture, the bottle hanging from her waistband. "Fabuloso!"

    "Yes, Fabuloso!" He pronounced it 'Fay-byoo-lay-so.' "She sprayed in his face, kicked him in his... well, you know, and called the police right from his room phone. I gave her a raise after that, thinking she'd demand one, but she never seemed to let it bother her. Nothing ever did."

    We ordered another round of drinks, and raised an impromptu toast to Rita. He drank deeply, and when he set his glass down he was frowning, his eyebrows meeting in the middle. "One afternoon, it was during the off-season, she asked to see me in my office, and it was the only time I'd ever seen her troubled. I knew whatever was going on was serious. By that point she'd picked up a bit of English, and when I asked her what was wrong, she said, 'this man, he taking a shower too long.' It was hard for me to understand her, but I assumed that she meant that someone had left the water on in their room, and I reminded her that if it was within policy, she could go in and shut it off. But it was strange, her telling me that. I knew she knew the policies by heart. I couldn't understand why she was asking me for permission. At least, that's what I thought she was doing.

    "But she kept saying it, over and over. 'He taking a shower, too long of a shower, you must go in, you must call someone.' So I had her show me to the room, where I could hear water running. No one answered the door, so we went inside and sure enough, someone was in the shower. We could hear him through the door. He wasn't laughing, exactly. I can't really describe the sound. Like- like hiccuping, I suppose. I told him I was coming inside, and he didn't answer, so we went in. He was in the tub, sitting inside it with his clothes on. If I recall correctly, I looked up his reservation after it was over, he was a businessman who was attending a conference. He'd booked the room for about five nights. He was sitting under the water, with his suit on, hiccuping. I suspected that he had either suffered some sort of mental issue, or was perhaps under the effects of something, so I told Rita use the room phone to call 911. She spoke in Spanish, but I know I heard her use one of the only Spanish words I knew. Fuego. And I thought that was odd, or maybe that I hadn't heard her correctly. And she seemed so... urgent. The whole thing was so strange. While she talked to the dispatcher, I spoke to the guest to try and see what was wrong. While I was kneeling next to the tub talking with him, I noticed that his shoes were burnt, and the cuffs of his shirt. He was picking at them, tearing the fabric off a little. I wondered if that was what Rita had meant. Maybe she'd seen him try to light something in his room on fire. I didn't smell any smoke, though. Not at that time."

    The owner downed the rest of his drink, and ordered another from the passing bartender. When it arrived, he drank half in a few quick swallows. I hadn't touched mine since the toast. It was sweating onto the counter.

    "When she came back, I instructed her to go downstairs and wait for the ambulance, but she wouldn't leave. She kept trying to tell me something, but it was in Spanish, and I couldn't understand. She would point at him, then the hairdryer on the wall, the little lint holes on the side, and then at herself. She held up her hand, wiggled her fingers, gestured all around, but I just couldn't understand her. Clearly something was very wrong, something only she seemed to be aware of, but, and I'm ashamed to admit it, I didn't think it was anything important. In fact, I was irritated with her. It was so unlike her, to disobey me that way. She kept talking, and pulling on the sleeve of my coat, trying to pull me away. I told her to go downstairs. I swore at her. I'm ashamed of the things I said. And she started to cry. I thought, 'my gosh, I've made her cry.' And it upset me, but... I just didn't think. I didn't understand, and she wouldn't stop talking. So I got up and pushed her out. I laid my hands on her and I pushed her out of the room. I shut the door in her face, locked it, and I could hear her pounding on it, yelling something. I told her if she wanted to keep her job, she'd go downstairs and wait for the police. And I think, I think maybe she understood then that I didn't understand, and that it was pointless for her to try any more. That what would happen, would happen. She was a powerful woman, but against the barrier of language, she was powerless. I heard her leave, and I was alone with the man."

    "He started to talk to me. He told me that he wanted to get out, but that he couldn't. He thanked me, as I recall, a few times. He said, 'thank you for coming to check on me. It's awful sitting in here, but I couldn't get out to call you. I've been in here two days. Thank you.' Of course, that was alarming. If he'd been in there two days, I imagined he must have been very hungry. Not to mention the other mental implications. I asked him, why couldn't he get out? I couldn't think of what else to say. He started laughing and he said, 'you wouldn't believe me even if I told you.'"

    The owner stopped and looked into the bottom of his glass.

    "He was right, you know. I wouldn't have believed him. Him or Rita."

    He shook his head and drained the glass. Ordered another. Drained it too. I let him. My hands were numb, but I couldn't let go of the glass.

    "The ambulance got there quickly, though maybe it wasn't that quickly, and it only seemed that way. The man didn't say anything else, just sat there under the water. Rita led them upstairs, and the paramedics took my place after I opened the door. Rita was right on their heels, and she tried to shove past them, to tell them whatever she was trying to tell me, but they shoved her away. They asked us to wait outside, and I took her and led her away. She kept looking over her shoulder, but she let me do it. Outside in the hall, we could hear them talking to him, and him to them. Rita, poor Rita. She was crying, chewing her knuckles and collapsing on the floor, muttering something and then getting back up. The whole time, she kept begging me. I knew that was what she was doing, begging. She hung on my sleeve, pleaded with me, but I just pushed her away. I can't even remember what would have been more important than her. I can't imagine why I didn't listen. I do remember that I kept thinking of our water bill. Isn't that absurd? I kept thinking of all that wasted water, and all Rita could think of was the man."

    He was slurring a bit by this point, and I wondered if I should have stopped him from ordering another drink, but, it seemed, my mouth was shut.

    "We heard the water turn off, and the sound of the man climbing out of the shower. I couldn't understand him, the walls and door were thick, but I could tell he was upset, and resisting it, but that the paramedics weren't giving him a choice. Rita froze when the water stopped. She was holding my arm too tight, it almost hurt. There was a pause, where everything went quiet. That's when I began to feel that something wasn't right. Something felt very wrong. Rita and I looked at each other then, and I knew I'd made a terrible, terrible mistake. It was too late by then, of course, and the guilt that fell over me then I have never been able to take off. I found myself reaching for the door, without even thinking of doing it, and as I did the door was wrenched open from inside, yanked out of my hand. I felt a rush of air, as if the room was taking a very quick, deep breath-" He took a harsh, hissing breath from between his teeth. "- just like that. There was a very strange smell. And a very, very bright orange light. Something hot rushed out and almost bumped into me, and it was so hot it actually melted that side of my coat. Melted it right off. It was dripping onto the floor. Can you imagine?" He shook his head. "It all happened so fast, I couldn't make sense of anything. I heard Rita scream. Somewhere during those events, she had gotten out of the way. I heard the paramedics shouting. One of them pushed me aside, and he got some of the melting coat on his hand, but he didn't seem to notice. He was looking at whatever that bright light was, the light that was now in the hallway, and when he pulled the room's fire extinguisher off the wall, it all clicked into place at once. I turned and saw the man, completely engulfed in flames, and he was holding Rita in his arms, burning her alive. I grabbed her from him, I sort of kicked-" He swung on the stool and kicked outward. "-like that, kicked him in the thighs, and he let her go. I don't know how, but she wasn't badly burned. Some of her hair was gone, and her shirt had been burned mostly away, but I didn't see any blistering on the skin. She was screaming, and her eyes were wide, but she was not afraid. She was crying. She reached for the man, who was reaching out for her, and he was the only one not making any sound. His mouth was open, and I could see that his tongue was burning, it was actually on fire, but he wasn't making a sound. And I saw that the flames, they were coming from inside him, they were shooting up his throat and out of his mouth. There was a sweet smell coming from him. Chemical. It was all over him, all over Rita. It was coming from inside him, baking through his skin with the heat. She cried out a name, reached for the man, but he collapsed on the floor. Then Rita began to go limp, and I caught her, and the second paramedic yanked us both upright and told us to run, run and call the fire department. I put Rita in the office, laid her on the floor, instructed the staff to pull the fire alarm and get everyone out of the hotel. Rita was crying. Even unconscious, she wept, that's the last thing I remember clearly. Everything after that is... blurred." He stared at the glittering bottles on the back wall of the bar. The bar seemed deafening around us, even though it was mostly empty.

    "When they took the man out, they took him out on the stretcher, but they didn't cover him. There wasn't anything to cover, really. Everything had been burnt to ash, except his shoes. His shoes survived. I wonder about that, about those shoes."

    We were very quiet for a moment. Then, trembling, I pushed my drink away. Suddenly, I wanted very much to go back home, back to my temporary bed.

    "Rita started drinking after that. I let her, I couldn't think what else to do for her. I couldn't imagine what she must have seen, what she must have felt when that man grabbed her. As if she was a life ring. I remember her hands were hovering over his back. She was trying to hold him, but he was too hot. Then I kicked him away, and he looked at me, and before his eyes melted I saw that there was fear in them, but more so a great sadness. I can't remember his name. Perhaps I should look it up one day."

    Somewhere behind us, someone dropped a glass, and it shattered. There was shrill laughter, and I got to my feet quickly. I tossed some cash onto the bar and turned to go, but he grabbed the sleeve of my coat. He looked up at me with his hollow face and his dead eyes and I was sweating inside my shirt.

    "It never went away, you know. That smell." His fingers gripped the fabric. "Maybe I could have imagined the whole thing, but she always smelled like him. Even years later. That smell, it stuck to her."

    He let me go.

    I rushed out into the night, toward my car. I drove home with all the windows down, letting the air roar in, and back at the house, I wound my way up the stairs in the dark. Fully clothed, I climbed into bed, but sleep wouldn't come. Instead, lying awake drenched in sweat, my palms pressed against my mouth, I thought of Rita.



    Her chapped, red hands.



    The smell of Fabuloso.