Bruce and the Missing Claw

 

Near the end of his overnight shift, while vacuuming the large rug in the Beryl Hotel lobby, its maroon and marigold floral patterns repeating in dizzy rows, Bruce knelt down to inspect the clawfoot on one of the armchairs.

There were four armchairs in the lobby.

Four armchairs. Sixteen legs.

Four claws to a leg, making sixty-four claws.

Except this one was missing a claw.

“Sixty-three. A claw’s gone missing.” Bruce said out loud. No one heard him though, on account of the vacuum, which was still running next to him.

Miss Jacquline marched over from behind her post at the reservation desk and tore the vacuum cord from the wall . Then she told Bruce to hurry along and finish up, that his presence took away from the sophisticate and balanced atmosphere of the Beryl, which the guests rely upon during the stay.

When he finished vacuuming the carpets and mopping the floors and dusting the light fixtures and polishing the brass knobs on the table lamps, Bruce went to the basement storage to look for a replacement chair leg, the words “sophisticate” and “balanced” rolling between the shores of his ears. He found lamp shades, he found door knockers, he found ashtrays. He found cases for throw pillows, pull-knobs for night tables, and shoe horns. But no chair legs.

It was almost sunrise when he came back to the lobby. All was quiet, except for the sound of a percolator, somewhere, beginning its daily work.

A sign was posted at the reservations desk. “Will return in 15 minutes. Please make yourself comfortable in the lobby. Sincerely, The Staff at the Beryl Hotel.”

“Sophisticate and balanced.” Bruce said, taking a rasp out of his took kit. “It shall be so.” He knelt down on the carpet, just in front of one of the armchairs, and began filing.

When Miss Jacquline returned, there were still four armchairs in the lobby. There were still sixteen legs on the armchairs. Bruce wondered if she were sophisticate enough to notice the newly restored balance: forty-eight claws.