Orlando Magic Preview: "Western Hotel"

In an effort to gear up for the NBA season, we will view the upcoming season through the eyes of Edward Hopper. Feel free to add your thoughts on the 2010 Magic in our comments section.Ms. Carter sits in the hotel room like a Venus fly trap. She is a snare for men's passions, laid out on a bed, or draped over a chair, like a sports jacket. She is something for them to put on, to impress and strut in front of the mirror with, like peacocks, with their plumes erect.

And the fact that most men are willing to treat a hotel, from lobby to bar and lounge to restaurant table, like a stretch of barnyard, in need of a rooster, makes Ms. Carter's job all the easier, like a cool autumn morning, in Niagara, or a weekend trip to Atlantic City, in Jersey. Ms. Carter runs the trick with a brutal consistency. She saunters into the cocktail lounge; a picture of grace. She times her entrance with precision, making sure her stride cuts into the path of the busboy's at a wrong angle. The scalpel snips an artery as it makes its incision, and blood spills onto the floor, splashing on the tiles like the clanging of silverware and the breaking of plates and the contents of a woman's purse. A tube of lipstick rolls across the floor, striking a man's brown dress shoe. The fly is in the ointment.

Stan Van Gundy stoops to pick up the lip stick. He glances at it, as if he just found a quarter heads up. He takes a few steps forward and squats, resting his elbows on his knees. Despite his porn star mustache, he resembles a prince trapped inside the body of a frog, and, with more grace than one would expect, he croaks, "I believe you dropped this."

"Oh, thank you. I saw him coming, but I thought I could just step in front of him real quick. On my way to the bar."

Van Gundy waves to the bar tender, "And whatever it was you needed from the bar is on me."

"Oh, thank you. I'll have a margarita. I am parched."

Van Gundy smiles like a meat cleaver, "A margarita it is." The two order several more drinks over the next three hours. For the first two, Ms. Carter orders margarita after margarita, and Van Gundy orders scotch on the rocks after scotch on the rocks. They spend the last hour sipping beers. Beads of water soak into the coasters like droplets of blood into butcher paper. Van Gundy's hands shakes ever so slightly, and he remembers how is brother Jeff always teased him about being squeamish at the sight of blood. He lets out an awkward laugh; after all, these are drops of water, not even red.

"Yeah, it's a real shame how one can be married for so long, wake up, roll over, and find the bed empty. She left me a note, saying, 'Gone to the beauty parlor. Back by five with your boss Mr. Riley. You better be gone. Make sure you change the sheets.' Saddest day of my life. But without it. You and I wouldn't be here. Would we?" He caresses her hand, and Ms. Carter grins like a needle closing a cut. The fact that she's even listening gives Van Gundy the confidence to ask, "Care for a dance?"

Ms. Carter takes her bow, "Sure," and then commences to lead Van Gundy from the table, through the dance floor, and up to her room. When she lets her dress fall to the floor, Van Gundy feels like he just moved to the top of the organ donor's list, but, just like in surgery, a lot can change in just a few minutes. Still, some things remain the same for eternity. Giving a man a new heart does not grant him immortality, and, outside the realm of fantasy, a tadpole becomes a frog; but a frog stays a frog.

After a little more than just kissing refuses to transform Van Gundy into a prince, he hops off the bed and into the bathroom, not even grabbing an undershirt or a pair of boxers. For the first time in his life, Stan Van Gundy is comfortable with his warts exposed. He lifts the lid of the toilet for his postcoital piss. Then he pauses as the shower curtain is flung back, revealing a large, grizzled man, with an afro, holding a gun. Van Gundy's fear does not cause him to wet himself, but, instead, not have to use the bathroom at all.

"How's it going, Stan? Don't mind me. Do what you have to do."

"Wuh wuh what ah ahh ah are yoo yoo you duh doing here? Hoo hoo who are you?"

"My name's Vince," says the man in the bathtub, raising the gun to Van Gundy's face. Most men might have run or even tried to resist, but Stan Van Gundy, the used car salesman, just turns his head towards the mirror, where he sees the reflected silhouette of a woman on the bed, taking a long drag from a cigarette. Then everything goes black, and his naked body crumples to the floor, like a toad underneath a car tire. Vince then precedes to step out of the bathtub, pull the shower curtain shut, and step over the body, on his way out the bathroom, careful to shut the door behind him.

"Put the cigarette out and grab his wallet."

"You sure you don't wanna have a go on the bed first, Vince?" cracks Ms. Carter, exhaling a mouthful of smoke, appearing as if she were outside in winter as opposed to sitting inside at room temperature. Vince turns away and heads for the door. He finds no pleasure in the choices he's made, only a means for survival. As he walks down the hallway, draped in maroon carpet, his feet beat against the floor like a pulse, and the blood on the bottom of his shoes seeps into the carpet, making unnoticeable stains. When he arrives at the stairwell, he thinks, "Coming home was supposed to change me. It was supposed to make me good again." Ms. Carter rubs the cigarette out on the nightstand, gets dressed, and follows Vince's thuds down the hallway. Her own steps fall like snowflakes, and her face resembles a doctor's after surgery--cold, alert, and ready for the next patient.