HOSPITALITY ROOM

Always professing Christian charity as the go-to answer when dealing with life’s less fortunate, she kicked the bus driver’s family out of the hospitality room anyway. She didn’t exactly. She made a beeline for the athletic director of the smalltown school and reported the infraction. She waited. The athletic director finished his hot beef sand with jalapeno chips before he sauntered over, whispered quietly to the bus driver, and made sure the man’s family filed out into the snowy night.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she went back to the dessert table to make sure there were plenty of plates, plastic utensils, and napkins. The other mothers who signed up for their shift in the hospitality room during the winter basketball tournament hadn’t arrived yet. Nor would they, she assumed. Straightening up the strawberry cake next to the red velvet one, she lamented how she carried this cross alone and had for the past two years. She’d agreed to assist by backing four pies, pressure cooking a roast that she turned into BBQ sands, and homemade bread with a maker she found online just for the occasion.

The athletic director called and she answered without question. Everyone who knew her in the town, understood this about her. She would be there if asked. But you had to ask. You couldn’t assume anything with her. Not at all. Call, or better yet, see her face-to-face in the lobby standing near the concession stand where her daughter worked to help raise money for the prom. Let her know how amazing all her cooking was and how the refs, other coaches, and staff members sang praises about her culinary abilities. That would do it every time.

She didn’t begrudge the bus driver from one of the schools in the tourney, but he bringing in his family crossed a line. A wife with two waifs not yet into their teenage years would get out and set a precedent she couldn’t manage. Before you blinked twice, the hospitality room would turn into a soup kitchen for anyone with an appetite for free home-cooked food. She couldn’t abide that and made it crystal to the athletic director. He, in turn, admired her pecan pie she sprinkled with cinnamon. His wife’s only claim to fame as a cook was her wrist action ripping off packaging on frozen pizzas, chicken bites, and ice cream bars. So, if Deena Hadley wanted to boot a few stragglers out of the hospitality room, he would make it happen. He already planned to ask her next year when the tournament rolled around again.

A group of referees thundered into room as it was halftime for one of the games. They loudly hailed the casseroles, the pots full of veggies, the dips, and, naturally, the dessert table. Always its separate section of the hospitality room, the dessert spread received the most attention and the sharpest scrutiny. She knew, of course, that her pecan pie would receive the raves. It did every year.

She felt the eyes of the bus driver on the back of her neck. She imagined his loathing of her, but she didn’t care. The refs mattered. The coaches were welcomed. But not a bus driver’s family that obviously hitched a ride just so they could get a free meal.

Who in their right mind did that kind of thing?

She wondered if she should recommend that next year bus drivers be barred as technically, they weren’t part of the teams or their personnel. Doing a quick count in her head, she realized it didn’t amount to too many people, so she would not mention it. But family members? No way. Not on your life.

I mean really, she thought. Who does that?

She would keep her attention on the food and drinks hoping that the driver would clean his plate and go back outside in the snow with his bus. Or, he could go watch the game, but in the end she didn’t really care.

“This food is the best,” one of the refs commented.

“This is the tourney we all hope to get on just because of the spread,” another one proclaimed.

She smiled to herself. No need to let them see her basking the running commentary. Standing off to the side pretending to check a crockpot, she soaked up everything they said. Many of them she knew on a first name basis. Some were rookies but would soon become her friends. She relished the fact that backbone of this whole thing rested in this very room hidden away behind the gym where the football coaches watched game films every fall.

It gave her strength. It encouraged her. Every compliment she filed away to pull out and revisit at a later date.

Her husband sang her praises, which he should. Her children, two moved away, with one left running the concession stand with her friends for prom, gave her kudos via text every chance they got. But hearing how these refs and coaches found a respite in between games, or during halftime, filled a hole she couldn’t fill.

Her father sure couldn’t as he abandoned her and her mother right after she entered the world. He occasionally sent word to her through her mom but had never set eyes on her children. He didn’t count. And never would, for that matter.

Her stepdad tolerated her and put a roof over her head. But when it came to her half-brother and sister, he showered them with new cars, money to cover college tuition, and spending money. His obligation to her ended with a crappy, beat up Monte Carlo, no tuition help, and certainly no extra spending money. She called him dad, anyway.

It didn’t matter as shortly after her third child was born, he left her mom, married a woman several years younger than himself, and cut off contact with her and her family. He didn’t even see his grandchildren she had born into the world. Each time his name got mentioned, it sliced deep. She had a grin on file for times like that – his name breathed out loud – and planted it across her face. Her oldest asked why his grandpa didn’t want to see him anymore and she didn’t have an answer.

The dark miseries of life would not be allowed into her life, or her family’s lives. She constructed walls several years back to protect them at any cost. When threatened, she lashed out with sarcasm, or quiet contempt. She could also dish out the sharpest of observations about others meant to cut, which in turn made her feel better about her own inadequacies.

Was the bus driver still eating? She glanced around. Their eyes locked for a millisecond. He hadn’t even finished his entrée yet. Goodness knows he’ll pile up the desserts before he gets out of here.

The refs left their paper plates and plastic cups on the table, offered their sincere appreciation, and went back into the fray on the court. Without any complaint, she gathered up the refuse and threw it all into the big trashcan stuck in the corner. The athletic director smiled at her as she did so. It took her three trips to dump all the plates and utensils. She didn’t mind. Why would she?
“Hey, Deena,” the athletic director said after a hefty sigh, “don’t forget that tomorrow’s games start early.”

“How early?” she asked.

“Nine o’clock early,” he said with a wink. “I’ll have the side door unlocked for you and whoever you’ve got helping out. We’ll have refs going through here at about ten or so…I think that’s right, anyway.”

“I already planned to be here at nine,” she confessed. “I figured with the extra teams the games would go earlier than last year.”

“Yep. We get bigger each year, it seems,” he said. “Speaking of which, I should go and see some of the game that’s going on right now.” He patted his belly, strained to stand up, and exited the hospitality room.

The bus driver munched away on a piece of celery. She wanted to scream that he’d been in there long enough.

This tourney was about sports, the athletes, and the coaches. It meant something to the community to host it every winter. It brought people together. It filled the gymnasium day after day and night after night. What other activity did that this way? She knew nothing else could or ever would. Not like sports. Not like a game.

Her oldest played every sport the school offered – football, basketball, and baseball. He loved baseball the most. She loved having he and his friends over after the games to eat, carry on, and revel in victory or complain about defeat. It brought her closer to her son and to his friends. She’d never had a circle like his in high school. She kept the fridge stocked just in case anyone stopped by to say hi. She sat with them in the living room and discussed the game, the idiotic coaches, and everyone’s hopes and dreams. And those dreams became her own.

She moved over to the drinks table making sure nothing needed refilling. Her sweet tea had become a hit, yet again, she noted. Everyone asked her how she made it. She always replied “water, tea, and sugar.” It always got a laugh. She didn’t know why but it did.

The bus driver came up behind her and reached for the pitcher of lemonade. Not sensing him sneaking up on her quickly enough, she mumbled something under her breath and moved swung back over to the dessert table.

She cast her mind back on her oldest. He loved baseball so much that she suggested they go into the city, find a reputable and clean tattoo parlor, and get matching tattoos. She let him pick the design out. He chose a flaming baseball approximately actual size. They each got them inked on their shoulders. Now more than ever she felt a kinship with him she hadn’t before or since. Of course, she kept it covered when around her in-laws, who wouldn’t understand it, but it was a small price to pay. Each time she looked it over in the mirror she realized that no one would love their kids like she did. She often chided herself for such a prideful opinion of herself, but truth reflected back at her in the mirror.

And she substituted for the school, helped run the concession, ran the hospitality room for the tournament, and a host of other things that let her kids and the school know just how deep her feelings ran.

She wouldn’t apologize for that. She texted the two oldest who already moved out of the house every day and ran around with the youngest (her precious girl) making sure that everyone that saw her understood just who and what she was and wanted to be.

And why would anyone say sorry for doing that?

“Mrs. Hadley,” a youthful voice came from the door. The bus driver lifted his eyes from his plate and attempted to smile.

Ignoring him completely, Deena turned with her smile beaming. “Hey you,” she said, “do you need any help at the concession stand?”

“How’d you know? Your girl up there is talking talk-talk with her boyfriend and we’re out of nacho cheese and can’t get the soda to come out of the…thingy…”

“Spigot,” she added.

“Yeah, that,” the girl bubbled. “We were hoping you could come up there and see what you could do about it.” She leaned against the doorframe casting an eye upon the man eating quietly off to himself. Her eyebrows shot up. Deena rolled her eyes in unspoken dialog between the two of them that only the popular kids would understand.

Deena saw herself reflected back at her from the girl at the door whose name she’d forgotten. Had she come to the house to see her girl? How many people forgot her name once they met her back in the day? She participated in everything available in high school all those years ago but nothing really made her stand out. Not having her bio dad and a self-serving stepfather were whispered about her in the hallways. Even some of her teachers observed her odd family dynamic, if that’s what you wanted to call it.

She focused her attention back on the girl with the spigot problem. “It’ll be a little bit, hon,” she said. “The game’s about over and the refs and some of the coaches will want to hit the hospitality room. Maybe a half hour? You guys think you can manage?”

“We’ll spread the word,” the girl responded. She pulled her hair back behind her head, spun on her heel, and disappeared into the gym.

Deena heard smacking from across the room. She turned her head ever-so slightly to catch the bus driver gobbling a piece of bread. She couldn’t stand lip smackers with food. Who did that that she knew in her life? A memory tugged at her mind. Could it have been her stepdad? He possessed every odd quirk imaginable. Did he smack while he ate?

That had to be it.

For a fleeting moment she thought about telling the man to go ahead and make a couple of plates for his family just to get him out of the room quicker. She had to be on deck for the rush after the game. The coaches and refs and other support personnel depending on the hospitality room being fully stocked in between the games. These tourneys could run twelve to fourteen hours a day so they needed a place like this to refuel.

The smacking sound came again from across the room. She took in a deep breath and let it out of her mouth as a way of letting the man know she was ready for him to vacate the premises. Where did his family go, anyway? Back on the bus? Were they waiting out there in the winter cold while he noshed on a roast beef sand?

She edged toward the utensil tub to make sure they had plenty for the next rush. That was one chore she could live without. She assigned it to another volunteer. “Make sure to get the clear plastic ones,” she commanded. “They’re the sturdiest.” She organized the whole thing like a drill sergeant out on the training field. So much depended on the other women taking care of the tasks assigned to them.

Hearing the wind slap against the window, she decided to get a quick breath before the next onslaught. Without grabbing her coat, she exited out into the hallway that led out past the athletic director’s office out into the night. The roar of the crowd let her know the game was a close one. She’d seen enough sporting events to read the crowd. Her son’s (her oldest) games were the best by far. Her second son played football and basketball, enjoyed his time playing, but didn’t take it as seriously as her oldest. She had to satisfy herself with her second son’s tight circle of friends. None of them great athletes by any stretch, they were loyal to a fault to her son.

And that mattered. Those types of things did.

She pushed the door open and felt the rush of the wind blow into her face. The bitter cold caused her to catch her breath. She watched her exhales turn to cloudy vapor in the night air. The noise of the crowd seemed far away out here. Stretched in either direction, the buses lined up the alleyway next to the school. She saw a policeman parked at the end making sure all went well with the traffic.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement in one of the buses down the lane. She peered into the darkness but could only make out shapes. It looked like a couple of kids playing at the front of the bus nearest the steering wheel. She could just make out the shadow of a head behind them. It had to be the bus driver’s family. He did make them go back to the bus to wait for him.

Wow. Who would do something like that?

She peered into the heavens but couldn’t see much past the mercury vapor light next to the school. She imagined a blanket of blackness dotted with stars. If you shut out the distant yells of the crowd, you could just hear the wind. The cold bit into her face again. She took a deep breath of it. Goose bumps popped up on her forearms.

Once upon a long ago, she stood out in a night just like this one waiting for her stepdad to show up and take a look at her broken-down car. It’s strange how when all the elements line up in similar fashion it brings to the surface a moment from the past. A time she wanted desperately to forget. But how could she?

Her senior year, right after a game, she ran out to her car to find it deader than a doornail. She watched in desperation as the car lot emptied quickly leaving her there alone. Finding a phone, she called begging for help.

“What’s wrong with it?” she remembered him asking.

“I don’t know about cars, dad,” she answered.

“It’s cold out tonight,” he muttered.

“Yes, I know. Please?”

Thirty minutes later, with her nose frozen and her teeth chattering, he arrived. Grumbling the entire time, he popped the hood and set about tinkering with caps and the belt. Apparently, he didn’t know too much about cars, either. She bounced on her heels trying to get warmth into her extremities. Biting her tongue, she refused to ask questions or offer help as he would immediately label them as “inane.” He loved that word.

More than anything she wanted reassurance. She craved a hug but knew better. A kind word would have been nice, too. He continued fiddling under the hood light casting dark shadows across the engine.

His sigh sounded like a growl as he found the problem. “You’ve let the batteries posts get corroded.”

“Oh, I didn’t know they did that,” she confessed hoping for some encouragement.

“They do, Deena. Hold on.” He disappeared to the rear of his car, opened the trunk, and found a pair of pliers. He came back to work on the battery posts. He loosened one of the connectors off and took his pocketknife out to scrape the inside it.

She closed her eyes tight. “I know this isn’t the best time, but it’s also been making a clacking noise lately.” She waited.

“No, this isn’t the right time,” he hissed quietly. He reattached the connector and tightened it back down with the pliers. He got to work on the second one.

“While I’ve got you,” he began, “I wanted to talk to you about your college fund.”

The tone told her everything. Before he uttered anything, she knew what he would say. He’d been her stepdad long enough for her to know when something good was about to be handed out to her.

“Are you interested?” he asked. He needed prompting and didn’t hide his disappointment that she stayed silent.

“Yes, sir?” she said.

“I know you’re about to select a college to go to,” he said while scraping the other connector with his knife. “We’ve had a tuition fund for you for a while now, which you know about…”

“Yes, sir.” Her heart thumped a hard, steady beat.

“You mom and I wanted to let you know that you should be applying for every scholarship you can find as we’ve decided to use that money for an investment that came up,” he said so matter-of-factly.

And there it was. She refused to react with a sob or with tears. She doubled up her fists. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. “Yes, sir.”

“Now get in there and see if this thing will start,” he ordered.

A stray snowflake brought her back to herself and into the reality of present-day, the tournament, and the hospitality room.

It took her and her husband ten years to pay off her student loans. Her half-siblings didn’t have to take out any loans while in college. They also had cars that were nearly new without any repairs needed. It seemed like hers broke down every other week during her entire time going to university.

She could just make out the pale faces of the bus driver’s kids in the light of the mercury lamp. Shaking off the memory, she took in a last breath and retreated to the hospitality room. She shook a couple of snowflakes off her jersey as she entered. Finishing up his free meal sat the bus driver. He didn’t lift his head to look at her.

Who in their right mind would feed his face while his family sat waiting in a cold bus? She couldn’t fathom anyone being so selfish. Didn’t he know that the snow had hit? Did he care? Would it really matter if he did? So many stupid questions for a stupid man she didn’t know. It is what it is, she reminded herself. An idiotic little phrase to whitewash miserable choices that awful people made in this life. And left the responsible ones to clean up.

Her phone buzzed in her hip pocket. She slipped it out, punched in her passcode, and read the frantic text from her daughter at the concession stand reminding her of the crisis with the “not working” soda canister.

“Hospitality room first and then the spigot,” she typed hoping her offspring would sense the gentle chiding.

She sauntered out of the hospitality room, down the hallway, and up a short stairwell to check out the game clock. The hammering of the basketball against the polished wooden floor echoed through the gymnasium. The thundering herd of ball players slammed down the end closest to her. She could smell the sweat in the air. The heat of bodies overpowered her. If one of her kids wasn’t suited up, she couldn’t care less. She needed to know how much time the game had left…and how much time the bus driver had to exit the premises.

“Less than two minutes,” she whispered to herself. She caught sight of a couple of her volunteers who were engaged in the game. She could set off a stick of dynamite and wouldn’t get their attention. “It always comes down to me,” she groaned as she spun on her heel to check on the food supplies. She’d already checked, but she didn’t know of the bus driver had tried to sneak some food out while she wasn’t there.

Still there, she glared at the bus driver as she re-entered the hospitality room. How long did it take to gobble down a plate of food? Get your food, eat, and move on, she thought. Why did the simplest things in this life stump everyone? She would never do that to someone. Respect the space. Give due diligence to following the rules of the house. And this was her house.

Checking the utensils, she banged some forks in hopes of sending a message. The spoons were fine, but she ran a little low on plastic knives. She grabbed a box from a sack underneath the tablecloth she brought from home. Ripping the box with the intention of creating as much noise as possible, she wondered what kept the bus driver sitting there. She’d sent every signal possible, including her signature sighs her kids dreaded.

She watched him in her peripheral vision as he fumbled for the phone in his coat pocket. He read something that he didn’t like, bowed his head, and placed the phone on the table as he gathered up his plate. He swept the crumbs off the table onto the plate and threw it away in the corner dumpster. The light glinted off at what appeared to be a tear seeping from the corner of his eye.

Just as Deena turned, the man exited. She heard the slam of the heavy security door next to the athletic director’s office. He finally left. She could hardly believe it. Her shoulders dropped as the tension she’d held the entire time he was in the hospitality room eased up. She did a quick scan of all the crockpots, pans, containers, and tubs for food levels. Popping her head over the side of the buffet table, she double-checked the power strip with all the devices plugged into it.

All was well in her corner of the universe. She heard another roar of the crowd from the gym. She received another text from her daughter but ignored it. With the game ending, she needed to keep focused on the hospitality room. The buzzer from the game board vibrated through the hallway. The fragrant aromas from the plethora of food choices wafted throughout the room. She needed her volunteers to show up but could manage without them if she had to.

Had the bus driver read something off his phone that upset him? His entire demeanor changed after he looked at it. He immediately got out of there after he read it. Was it his family on the bus? Had something happened? Was the text about her stepping outside and glaring at them? Had she somehow caused his quick departure?

And why had their preacher just given a lesson on charity? She re-checked the dessert table for the thousandth time that day. Another buzzer broke her concentration. The coaches and refs would be down there in just a couple of minutes. She could feel it.

She glanced at the time on her phone. She had time. She didn’t want to have the time but she did. Something about his countenance reminded her of something. It didn’t come to her but it was something. She re-checked her time. Another buzzer blasted through the hallway. The crowd seemed more subdued after this one. She had time.

Without analyzing it anymore, she grabbed a couple of plates and started filling them with beans, cornbread, slivers of roast, cooked carrots, green salad, and bread. Of course the man’s family could have eaten there in the hospitality room. What had she been thinking? She silently chided herself as she grabbed a couple of glasses for iced tea.

She wouldn’t tell anyone. No one needed to know. Her volunteers wouldn’t really care, anyway. Those two kids and mom could have something to eat. Maybe the driver got bad news about a relative, or maybe the mom sent lamentations for their state in the cold bus. It didn’t matter. Not at this point, it didn’t. When she needed charity for herself, she didn’t get it. Her broken-down car kept breaking down and her student loans piled up, which hobbled her and her husband for years. Getting plates of food for people who were hungry didn’t seem that big of a thing suddenly.

The final buzzer hummed long and loud partially masked by the cheers of the crowd. The pounding of hundreds of feet echoed down the hallway into the hospitality room. She heard voices of a couple of refs she knew by name. Their laughter filled her with anticipation and excitement over her contribution to the tournament. The heard the athletic director laughing. They would be here within just a few seconds.

She set aside the plates she prepared. Quickly, she edged around the table to serve the folks who came to depend on her so much. It didn’t take five minutes for her to forget the plates prepped for the bus driver’s family. It took less than ten for her to block him and his out of her mind completely. She would only be reminded of them after she got home when she unloaded her days events on her hubby.

“Deena, it looks like you’ve got a great spread going on here,” a coach remarked as she handed him a plate.

“I appreciate it,” she said with a grin planted on her face. Someone else complimented her to which she laughed.

In a matter of seconds on the clock, Deena regained control of the room. Her room. Her hospitality room. A couple of the volunteers appeared ready to take their orders from her. She joked, she made haste to wait on folks, and she felt again about her work here. Her contribution. Here she could be appreciated, well thought of, and fawned over. In moments like these she knew that everything good that happened she carved out for herself.

All of this in this space. She felt centered, finally, in her corner of the universe. In her hospitality room.

Bret Jones is a former Professor of Performing Arts at Wichita State University. He is a novelist, filmmaker, voice actor, and audio fiction producer. He has five published plays, produced several film and audio projects, two mystery novel series with Cozy Cat Press, and three short stories published by the Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. He lives in Goddard, KS with his wife and family.