I roll over my silk kimono with the desk chair, trapping myself when I get up and jerking my body back down into the cracked plastic seat. My arms slam down on the front desk that has been living here longer than daddy. I kneel to pull myself loose from the wheels and the cigarette burns and vomit stains on the carpet start to look like a Rorschach.

I can hear Daddy’s BiPAP machine fighting with his lungs from the back room we’ve converted into two small studios. One for him and one for me.

He sat behind this desk for over 25 years greeting families that had crept bumper to bumper down Highway 17 to the Grand Strand of Myrtle Beach. Highway 17 used to be our version of Route 66. Except instead of the Cadillac Ranch, we had Little River, Calabash, and Pawley’s. 

If I squint hard enough, I can picture this place as the destination it was meant to be. Back when people could afford to bring their families to a wholesome weeklong vacation full of corndogs, sand, and beach music. You might even find a treasure at the Gay Dolphin.

The high rises killed that dream and have been tightening their hands around the Beverly’s neck for the past ten years, choking her out slowly. Once the dream started dying, so did Daddy. 

The Beverly is supposed to be my inheritance. I want to sell her for cash and buy myself a condominium down at Cherry Grove. Sip jeweled drinks by the community pool while crossing my legs at the ankle to give the local men the best view. But there’s how you plan it out and how it turns out to be, and here I sit behind this old desk with no jeweled drinks, chained to a man suffocating in the back room.

I reach under the counter, and my fingers find the cool metal of the flask. I take a swig and the brown liquor bites at the back of my throat, settling in my belly and spreading like a wildfire. I run my finger up and down the reservation book, stopping at the last name from someone that stayed here three years prior. No one makes reservations anymore. The Beverly’s not that kind of establishment now.

As I slip the flask back under the desk, my hand brushes up against my 20 gauge. Daddy wanted me to have something smaller. But I wanted something with stopping power that won’t kill any guests in the next room. Although I’m not sure the guests we have now would give me the same courtesy. 

When the high rises started choking the Beverly, they also started stealing the sun. The Beverly went from vibrant and buzzing to dark and seedy. No more sun meant no more families swathed in color, looking like pieces of wrapped hard candies. 

The Beverly is home to the freaks, the degenerates, the down on your lucks, those that have even less than the have nots. We rent rooms by the hour. People have a right to make a living. But those pastel soft boys coming around here flush with cash don’t want our kind on the strand. 

The Beverly saw all the firsts in her time. Bikinis led to boogie board crazes that led to neon beachwear and airbrushed t-shirts. Now she’s a temporary home to hookers and dealers, gifting the clientele with any kind of hit they’re looking for.

I’m the last holdout on this block. Really one of the last on the strand. The developers are salivating like rabid dogs and chasing me with higher and higher offers. Having something they want is satisfying to me. Daddy doesn’t want to sell, but he has no say now on account of signing this place over to me a few years back when he thought he was ready to kick the bucket. 

I leaf through the pages of the contract that I’ve had for a week. I grab a Bic from a coffee cup on the desk and tap the signature line in time to the BiPAP alarm going off in Daddy’s room. 

I make my way to his bedside and see the mask has slipped from his face. Gathering up the kimono so I don’t step on it, I bend down and unplug the machine. 

I sit back down at the front desk and sign my name complete with a small heart.