2021-12-07 - This Room Smells Like Corpse Feet

(TXT to Iris) Houston : Buy every 🍋 you can get your hands on. I'm not kidding. This motel room smells like corpse feet.

(TXT to Houston) Iris : You should have come with me. You keep adding things to the grocery store list.

(TXT to Iris) Houston : Corpse. Feet. I swear from my crystal tiara to the tips of my vintage witch boots, I better not walk into that store later tonight and find a single goddamn lemon left.

(TXT to Houston) Iris : Or what, I'm grounded? Biiitch. I'm buying lemons. I'll get two. Two is plenty. If it were whole corpse, I'd buy more. Feet only require two.

(TXT to Iris) Houston : Two is not going to do it. Bring me twelve. And a hot plate. And a stock pot. Don't forget the decongestants. I hasn't stopped raining since we hit the state line. Whose idea was this? Why is it so cold here?

(TXT to Houston) Iris : Twelve?! A hot plate?!!! Okay okay, I'm making notes. Looks like I'm going to the OTHER store too. This was your idea, numbnuts.

(TXT to Iris) Houston : You said the cards were favorable. You said the PNW looks lush this time of year. I'm getting a sinus infection and I need soup. Do they have lemongrass soup?

(TXT to Iris) Houston : Iris, what's in your buggy right now?

Houston slides off the still-made bed, the tacky generic bedspread, leaving her laptop and pile of notes on tiny legal pads behind. A mess of pens is scattered in her wake, markers, and even a pack of stickers. She drags over a surprisingly sturdy chair to one corner, grabs a fat bundle of sage, and hops up to light it, smudging heavy smoke into the corner. She drags the chair across to smudge the opposite side too. She stands there on the chair in jean shorts, a U of T at Austin hoodie, slouchy leg warmers and flip flops, with her airpods in. "Did not help."

Now the room smells like corpse feet and burnt herb.

(TXT to Houston) Iris : Do you need a picture, Mom?

A picture does indeed come in, there is a bag with twelve lemons, she even put numbers on the picture, the cute comic sans ones. There are bananas, some cereal, milk and a big ass hot plate. The second picture that is sent is Iris making a face into her phone camera, a peace sign held up. The third has an old man in it with her, he's giving the camera the bird, he's also holding up a can of lemongrass soup.

(TXT to Houston) Iris : You're very whiny today.

(TXT to Iris) Houston : The vibes in this place are giving me hives. You know how I feel about polyester. Thanks for the pic, you whore. 🥰

(TXT to Houston) Iris : You're welcome. Anything else her highness needs? Speak up now or I'm checking out and never shopping again. Shopping is hard.

(TXT to Iris) Houston : Cinnamon gum. I’m burning this out. I finally got us connected to the rickety internet, btw. We can upload on schedule unless the whole place burns down when I plug in the tv.

(TXT to Houston) Iris : One problem down, two dozen to go. Did you look around town, find a place that might work for a storefront? Or did you stay in corpse feet territory all day so you could complain?

(TXT to Houston) Iris : Also, cute guys? Any? C'mon, give me good news.

(TXT to Iris) Houston : Sinus. Infection. I’m not going out there until it stops raining. I made it to the ice machine and back before making contact with the local axe murderer. I need a spa. How are you calm about this?

(TXT to Houston) Iris : You're such a baby. Take some sinus meds, and haul your ass out and do some work.

(TXT to Houston) Iris : I WENT SHOPPING. This is a TWO WOMAN operation. Betch.

(TXT to Iris) Houston : I vlogged from the bathtub about the unholy abundance of serial killers in the PNW in the last fifty years, you monster.

(TXT to Houston) Iris : A thirst video. I guess that works. You better rest up tho, you're helping me carry in the groceries, and you are coming with me to look for buildings tomorrow.

(TXT to Iris) Houston : I hope you bought some wine.

(TXT to Houston) Iris : I asked you if you wanted anything else. So no, I don't have wine.

(TXT to Iris) Houston : I’ll just drown my sorrows in this orange Crush. Do they even make this anymore? It’s so nasty good.

(TXT to Houston) Iris : You're two turns from getting tetanus or slamming your head off of a vending machine. I never know what shit you're going to get into. Save me some soda.

(TXT to Iris) Houston : I got you a grape one. Remember. Yellow doesn’t mean speed up. I have a feeling. Be safe.

(TXT to Houston) Iris : Almost home. Shift your ass to help me carry in these bags.

(TXT to Iris) Houston : I uploaded the last of the crystal pendants into the shop. You’re welcome. See you in 5.

Houston finishes smudging before Iris returns, lines crystals along the window sills, puts out a few small potted plants, and strips the motel bedding to shove all of it into the closet before kitting out the beds with linen sheets. They may not be freshly dried in the sun, but they smell faintly of lavender, which is almost good enough. The bathroom already looks like it was invaded by an army of candles and bath salts. If you ignore the cracked tiles and weird stain around the tub drain, it could almost be homey.

Iris doesn't beep the horn when she arrives, though she probably did think about it a time or two. No, there are probably other people living here and that would be rude. She does knock with her feet, giving the door two swift kicks as she waits for Houston to open up.

Once inside she huffs and sets down bag, flopping on the nice clean bed. She blinks, pushes herself to a sitting position and glances around. "Oh, so you haven't just been hanging out while I was gone? Good."

Houston has the good grace to pull the door open with little lag time between kicks. Her messy hair is up in what was once a knot, her hoodie is wrinkled, legwarmers slouchy, nose red, eyes watery. She really might have a sinus issue. The whole room smells like crisped sage and aromatics. "The ring around the bathtub is all yours. I couldn't shout it out or whatever." She waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the tiny bathroom. "Your video call keeps going off. Did you forget to cancel your remote clients this week, or did you give someone else on Tinder your ID?"

Houston shoves the folded up hotel-issue bedding out the door, left for the cleaning crew or any hobo who wanders by and fancies some polyblend. "... I can't believe you didn't bring back alcohol..." And so the evening goes.