Bed Fellows

Friday

The aptly named Budget Hostel was sequestered within four floors of a 16-floor high-rise building in the downtown district of Hong Kong, and was serviced by a single, sluggish elevator. The rest of the floors appeared to be dominated by other hostels with fanciful European names like Paris and German Hostel. It wasn’t the most pleasant accommodation, but Michael had selected it because of it’s price and its location.

Michael had been given a top bunk in a six-bed dormitory on the sixth floor. The concierge was kind enough to guide him to his bed, but had neglected to supply him with the rope, harness, and safety helmet which would allow him to reach it. This was a forgivable oversight, considering Michael had arrived from the airport at about three o’ clock that morning. The room he was ushered into was curtained in almost perfect darkness, save for the soft glow of a laptop screen that bathed the face of one nocturnal occupant.

Michael had gone to Hong Kong with the purpose of running in a popular road race, and had booked a room in Budget Hostel because it was only several blocks from where the race was due to start on Sunday morning.

Even though he was in a new country, Michael’s priority was to get as much rest as he possibly could before the big day. He had arrived two days early, with the intention of recovering from the flight and investigating the route before the race actually began. In many ways, he was travelling for business rather than for pleasure; he didn’t want to do much sightseeing, for fear of straining his legs, nor did he want to sample too much exotic food for fear of shocking his gut. In essence, Michael’s brief was simple: Stay put, eat carbs, and rest.

In the evening following his arrival, Michael returned to the dormitory after collecting his race number and taking an early dinner, and found the nocturnal occupant awake and puttering around. The rest of the room was deserted at this time of day, but messy beds and strewn clothing indicated that at least four of the beds had been booked for the night.
The nocturnal occupant was well-dressed, with a sharp haircut and an open face that made him rather easy to talk to. As is the way in places such at this, the first question asked was one of origins.
“South Africa,” said Michael. “How about you?”
“South Africa? I’m from North Africa.” His smile reflected Michael’s own amusement at the word play. “Actually, I’m from Cameroon.”
The nocturnal occupant’s name was Mohammed, and he lived in mainland China. He had been stuck in Hong Kong for three weeks while he waited for his work visa to be renewed.
After initial introductions, Mohammed rummaged around in the nest he’d made of his bed before pulling out a foil packet and pressing it into Michael’s palm. “Here, have a snack,” he said. It was a bag of chestnuts. “That’s how we do in Cameroon, we always share food.”
As Michael ascended the ladder to his bed, chestnuts in hand, Mohammed threw on a jacket and said “Okay I’m going to go smoke a cigarette and then I’m going to go pray.”

At around ten o’clock that night, Michael put down his book and observed his bed fellows. Mohammed was still out, but the other two occupants had since drifted back into the dormitory and had slowly settled down for the night. Both were reclining in their respective beds and gazing into their phones.
As Michael began the long and arduous task of climbing down from his bed to brush his teeth, it occurred to him that groups of individuals in hostels were a curious thing indeed. When there is no unity, everyone is hesitant to take action. Michael could foresee these tenants browsing their phones for another few hours before trying to fall asleep under the blinding glare of the single florescent light, with no one brave enough to suggest turning it off for fear of upsetting the other guests. So when he returned from his ablutions, Michael declared to the room at large, “I’m going to turn the light off, if that’s alright?” Feeling fairly certain that no other person in the room understood English, he pointed a single digit ceilingwards to illustrate his point. There was some confused nodding, and before anyone could protest, Michael killed the light and struggled up into his bed in the dark.

Saturday

It was the night before the race, and Michael was determined to get a decent night’s sleep. By eleven o’ clock, he was ready to turn in, but his bedfellows were restless. Everyone was moving around, repacking bags, and coming in and out of the room. At some point in the day a new person had arrived. The lethargy from the night before was absent, and Michael felt that the majority of the tenants would not be happy to have the lights turned off just yet. So he fashioned an eye mask out of a shirt, and did his very best to drift off to sleep. This might have been possible (the shirt provided quite a decent barrier against the light) if it hadn’t been for the noise. Some of the others had begun talking to each other at a volume usually reserved for windy days outside. Michael felt that he should say something, but he didn’t know what. He didn’t want to mark himself as the enemy of the dormitory, and he didn’t even speak their language.

Noise and anger kept sleep at bay. Michael envisioned himself sitting up and saying “YOU FELLOWS ARE BUSTING MY BALLS, DO YOU KNOW THAT? JUST BUSTING MY BALLS!”
But they wouldn’t understand. They would just see him as a grumpy, incoherent man. Besides, Michael couldn’t seem to summon the courage to say anything at all. Instead he entertained himself with the thought that, when his alarm went off at five o’ clock in the morning, he would let it ring and ring until these night owls were thoroughly awake. Then he would make a great show of switching off the alarm, but before he did so he would point an accusing finger at each tenant and cry, “NOW I BUST YOUR BALLS!” and they would be powerless to protest, because inside their weary hearts they would recall the pattern of that sentence from the night before, and even though they wouldn’t know what it meant, they would understand that they had been inconsiderate, and they would feel ashamed.

But none of that happened. Instead, Michael lay, and drifted, and listened to the boisterous chatter from down below. He lay that way for perhaps an hour before conversation died away, and Michael chanced to look up from under his shirt. Most of the tenants had gone back to their phones, and this time Michael leaned down from the foot of his bed and shut off the light without announcing it first.

The race itself proved quite hallucinatory.

Sunday

The race had gone well, but Michael had exhausted himself. Afterwards, he had come in and had fallen asleep instantly, and when we awoke several hours later, Mohammed was there, putting his laptop away and getting ready to go out.
“How was the race?” he asked, smiling.
“It wasn’t too bad,” said Michael, “but I am dead now.”
He could easily have slept longer, but if he did then he’d struggle getting to sleep that night. He was also famished. He hadn’t eaten after the race. He slowly got dressed, and headed out for some food.

That night, the hostel was mostly empty. There were still people staying there, but they had gone out for the evening. Despite his nap earlier, Michael was still on the cusp of collapse, so he switched off the light before anyone else came back in. Even though the race was done, he still had to wake up quite early the next morning in order to catch a plane home.

Monday Morning

Mohammed is a betrayer.

This was the first cogent thought that drifted into Michael’s head. He checked the time on his cellphone. It said 03:08 a.m.
Moments before, there had been a bustling within the room. Someone new had arrived, and from the sound of things, Michael concluded that it was a drummer who took his instrument everywhere. They moved with all the stealth of a person wearing a suit made of balloons and plastic packets. This was frustrating, but it was forgivable. Hadn’t Michael himself done almost the exact same thing only three days prior? The newcomer was a man, and he was pulling luggage into the room with him. Michael couldn’t see him, but he felt his presence. This new tenant was large and out of breath. In his half-asleep state Michael was delighted at the prospect of having a rhino for a roommate.
Mohammed, ever the nocturnal occupant, was awake and at his laptop, and he was offering assistance. At first, Michael couldn’t make out what was being said. All he could discern was that they were speaking in English, and at a volume that completely disregarded the hour. It crossed Michael’s mind that Mohammed might have been speaking with headphones on his head, and therefore was unable to judge his own volume, and perhaps the new tenant was simply mirroring his intensity.
All of this flashed through Michael’s mind in an instant, and the first sentence that became intelligible to him was one spoken by Mohammed: “You can turn the light on if you want.”
For whatever reason, betrayer was the only word Michael could conjure to describe the man he had grown to like and trust. Mohammed has betrayed me.
He wanted to sit up and rail against him.
“IT IS NOT ALRIGHT TO PUT THE LIGHT ON!” he wanted to say. “UNDER WHOSE AUTHORITY?”
The lack of consideration was outrageous, but Michael was too tired and too nervous to do anything about it. There was a click, and blinding light flooded the room. Mercifully, it did not stay on for long, but by the time darkness returned Michael was already quite awake.

Three hours later, after a sleepless night, Michael’s alarm went off. He opened his eyes and stared blankly at the ceiling. There was a long journey ahead of him. He was not good at sleeping on airplanes, or on trains for that matter, but today he reasoned that he would probably succeed at passing out while in transit. Meanwhile, his alarm continued to screech its melody. Michael simply lay, staring at the ceiling.
Let it ring, he thought.