Tired

Tired

Tonight I’m tired of not having a penis, tired of not wearing
a commanding suit with a roll of cash or whatever it takes to
get attention. Tired of late baggage. Tired of jammed crowds
waiting for the same shuttle, the same flight, the same baggage.

I stand in line to check in at the Radisson.
The bellman takes my bags as I stand in line--a perpetual line.
It is always there in this hotel. One night it was Japanese
stewardesses. Another night Thai. Tonight it’s a male couple
traveling together and a Chinese woman with the slimmest hips
I’ve ever seen wearing size negative zero jeans and glitter flats
and her entourage checking schedules, then me.

The flight was early in due to tailwinds, but the gate wasn’t
open, and then the baggage handlers must have waited to check in
for their work at the time the plane was due to arrive.
My bag eventually makes it. When I finally reach the counter
at the head of the line, the attendant takes a call from a
distressed passenger who has been waiting for the famous
black bus of the hotel that is always on its way but almost
never arrives. The caller will not be assuaged.

I tap my credit card for incidentals. What counts as incidental?
Sounds like accidents. He's indifferent. Finally I’m checked in,
sign the paper and just as I am being given my key the bellman
excuses himself to acquire another client. Leaves my bags.

He runs out to a fancy car and a fancy man. This isn’t the first
time this has happened. The last time was in New York City.
I feel invisible, angry. I take my bags off his cart and wheel
them to the elevator. At least the key works to my room,
it’s relatively clean. I’m tired…so tired I’m making myself
tired by saying this. My back twinges with exhaustion.
Now sleep, please.


Joy Harjo March 2005