Mise en Scene of the Crime

It had been a post-pandemic bureaucratic decision to get rid of the ice machines in hotels and motels, because of sanitary issues. Like buffets, it was deemed a risk to have people digging in themselves to fill their buckets and deposit their germs. Mr. Passi had decided that the kitchen would fill orders for ice from the room service line, and so today it was Guy’s task to turn off the pipes leading to the machines in the hall on each floor, dig out the ice from each machine into the deep plastic wheelbarrow purchased especially for the task, and dry out the machines, in preparation for their removal.
He had completed the process on 2, and 4, thankful that an earlier management had decreed there would be machines only on every second floor of the hotel. He wheeled the wheelbarrow back into the elevator, having dumped another load of ice cubes onto the growing glacier in the back alley.
The shut off valve on 6 was a bit sticky, but nothing a shot of WD40 and a few minutes couldn’t solve. In the meantime, he began to shovel out the ice, careful to prop the door open with the shim he had fashioned from a broom handle after the door of the machine on 2 had almost cost him a finger. Never trust old hydraulics. That would be something he would impart to his child, if he ever had one.
A couple two doors from the ice machine alcove came out into the hall, laughing, and headed to the elevator. He nodded as they passed and the woman smiled at him in passing. It was nice to see peoples’ faces again, even though he wasn’t sure it was safe yet to go without a mask. Tourists seemed to feel they could wander about with impunity, he had noticed, as if infecting people in a foreign country whom they’d never see again was no matter. He supposed in a way, people had always felt that way. Maybe that was how the fear of strangers began, not with distrust first, but a knowledge that strangers would never have your safety as a consideration.
He turned back to the job at hand. The valve should be ready to roll, and it was. What had someone once said? Everything could be solved with either duct tape or WD40. The machine fell silent as the water ceased to seep into the icemaking section at the top. Guy unplugged the electrical cord from the wall. By the time he had dug out the ice from the cooler section, the ice tray section would have dripped down and could be opened and dried with a chamois. He got back to work with his plastic shovel he had picked up in the automotive section of the Castorama when buying the wheelbarrow. He had one like it in the back of his car, for digging himself out of ruts in case of an accident. This one was bright pink, because that was all that was left in stock. The one in his car was neon green.
Micheline, one of the housekeeping staff, stepped off the elevator, pulling the slotted tray holder, to pick up the room service trays left out in the hallway. Guy approved of housekeeping’s system in the Grand. They cleared the halls early before check out time, so that business people heading to their important meetings didn’t have to skirt around sloppy trays of leftovers, and families checking out could pull their luggage cleanly down the halls. It helped out the maids pushing their massive cleaning carts, too, not to have to navigate around the detritus from the previous evening’s meals.
“Hey Guy, how’s it going?”
“Not bad. Not a job I’d want to do every day, but I’m getting into the swing of it. Should be done all of them by the end of tomorrow, I figure.”
“You’ll have a mountain of ice built up by then! It will be a good place to stand this afternoon when the temperature hits 27, no? We’ll all be thanking you for that.” She smiled and lifted a tray to slot it into place, before waving and pushing on down the corridor.
Micheline was one of the nicer people on staff, Guy thought. Maybe he should go out and find her on his break, and ask her out while they were standing cooling by his ice cube mountain. He watched her work her way down the hall to the bend, and then turned back to the job at hand.
Another two shovels worth of ice went into the wheelbarrow. He turned back to the machine, keeping his elbows close to his body to keep from pulling a muscle, and pushed the pink shovel into the ice. It bit and went in four inches before stopping, meeting resistance. Guy had felt this happen with the machine on 4, where a block of ice had formed from older ice cubes, probably when a kid had left the door open too long. Or not a kid. An irresponsible adult could have just as easily been the culprit. He pushed a bit harder, but still couldn’t budge the blockage. He moved his shovel five inches to the left and pushed in, and took away a scoop. He did the same thing five inches to the right. And once again on either side. Pulling on his suede work gloves, he reached in to the machine to dislodge the ice in front of the blockage. If he could manage it, he would lift out the ice block, and then scoop out the rest of the ice cubes.
The ice in front slid easily away as he ruffled at the surface with his hands, leaving visible something entirely unexpected. Guy heard a guttural gasp, a sound from deep in the gut, and it took a moment to realize it had come from him. He gulped and blinked, and then backed away from the ice machine, and reached for his cellphone, to call Mr. Passi, the manager of the Grand.
In the center of the ice, bluer than the centre of any of the cubes he had been shovelling, was a human foot, severed about six inches above the ankle knobs. From where Guy was standing he could make out the big toe, and while he waited for Mr. Passi to answer, he noted that it was a left foot.