My New Oldest Bed

So I slept on my new hotel bed for the second time the other night. I can no longer move my neck to the left. Bottom line I feel like Bob Saget on Full House, i am absolutely rigid. i don't know if it is the undulating spring ridges in the mattress, where I find myself in a dyke or valley when I wake, or whether the bed is so old that is it mad at whoever sleeps on it. You know how sometimes you can smell if something is rusty, like a chain-link fence or a old set of nails, well i use another sense, i can actually hear the rust in this bed. The large steel coils inside the mattress squeak with every subtle movement; as if it is an old woman with hip trouble shuffling down some stairs. My neck is so sore. Someone has just walked in the door however, i can not see them b/c they are to my left side and in order to make that kind of maneuver, i have to physically stand and turn my entire body. Yeah, it is fantastic.
I thought that I could work it out in a warm shower. Well since the water from my shower is either boiling or off, the nice warm stretch shower was pretty much out of the question. It is like an old British woman is cooking spaghetti and I stand under the colander with some soap and shampoo in my eyes. It has one of these removable heads, which seem like a good idea upon installation, but become practically worthless after twenty years of day to day use by thousands of different people. The water pressure is nice and absent, if you tilt the shower head up only steam comes out, i am over here working on getting the wrinkles out of my shirts. It is a shower stall with a glass door, right, but its like 2 feet off the ground. I have to sit on the threshold and swing my legs up to get in this bitch. Once i am in it is like a fiberglass coffin, which is nice when trying to escape the 3rd degree burns on my lower torso and genitals. What kills me is that there are no shelves or corners or overhead ledges to place soap/shampoo/a razor. It is like a dull white bullet with no handles, i have to drop the soap when i am through with it, and then picking it up i have to do the "slippery squat." Once the agony is finished and my wet hot funeral is almost over, it is time to deboard this fiberglass pedestal of fear. Try stepping down from the top of a 3 foot solid marble bar stool, completely naked, cold and wet. I need a parachute and runway to make this landing. Fortunately the flooring is red carpet, which would have been my choice. With carpet throughout the bathroom, you can bet there is no smell whatsoever. Like washing a dog whom has been just been sprayed by a skunk, the first hint of humidity in that room brings out the most rancidly sweet odor. If would not be that bad, if, previously, I lived in a dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant.
What i enjoy the most is the toilet. It is old, but nice, blue water, but almost natural looking. So the first time nature calls, like 30 seconds after i arrived, I answer the call and then position myself to push the toilet lever in order to watch my poo be sent to poo heaven. Well the interesting thing about this particular apparatus is that it required a full 180 degree half revolution to achieve maximum flushing power. As I am only familiar with the hi-tech, hi-performance toilet knobs in the States, this catches me by surprise. In order to garner the extra force needed to complete this simple task, i have to bear down over the toilet to position myself in a manner that is not completely awkward. It is like the beginning of Conan the Barbarian, when the little slave Conan is forced to push the big rotunda around until he is the older Arnold Conan, i was like that exactly.
The force and velocity with which the water jets out of the side of the toilet absolutely astounds me. One would think that because the water pressure in the shower is so infinitesimal, that the toilet would be along the same lines. Oh No, A cold blast of freshly pooed in toilet water showers my face like a front row ticket at the Killer Whale show in Sea World. And because i was so astonished by the fountain show i was witnessing, my jaw was slightly ajar in awe. Disturbed by this most unfortunate event, I went to the sink to assess the damage, spinning the cold water faucet I thrust my hand under the icy water only to notice that much like the toilet the water pressure yet again impresses. I desperately fumble to turn off the Niagara style levee break now intermittently spitting from this possessed faucet. After the monsoon had subsided, I appraise the aftermath, my sleeves and the front of my pants are sponges and everything on the counter top is floating. Okay this is still manageable, I think, I am wet, yes but during the storm, i managed to rinse my face and neck of the commode water and although soap would have been nice initially, I planned on showering very soon.
Almost dripping wet, I try to calm myself, so i sit on the edge of my new oldest bed in the world. I look down at my jeans and my shirt and make the light hearted attempt at laughter, because after all no one made me drink toilet water, or run a river wild through my counter top. To clarify, this hotel is really a pub with rooms, and being old, footsteps, doors and banter are megaphoned through out the hallways of this ancient structure. I hear some now. Well before I can even react the nice old woman, I earlier asked for an iron from, has suddenly popped her head in my room, like some sick fucking jack in the box that turns its own crank. I mean, what if I had been in the bathroom or asleep, instead I am sitting on the edge of my bed smirking with a wet crotch, face and set of sleeves. Obviously rattled by the parameters by which i was soaked and the odd contentness on my face, she says, "I can not find the iron...son, are you alright." With my dartingly sick self-loathing sense of humor, I quickly find this situation too funny to not laugh; my smile gets bigger and my eyes open wider, and I reply with a simple goofy nod. Surveying the room, she slowly pulls her head back behind the door and I hear here footsteps briskly shuffle towards the stairs; no doubt to tell her fellow bar maids about the retarded young American that just checked in.