moment to adjust. Then she sees there is a card table in the corner of the room beside the door, and seated at it is an old man with a board of Chinese checkers in front of him. He is bald and gray-bearded, and his pock-marked skin is so dark that initially his gray beard appears to simply float in the darkness. In one of his hands is a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee. He wears a gray zip-up sweater, red-and-black-striped pants, and alligator shoes, and he watches her over a pair of half-moon spectacles with calm, reserved eyes.
“Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t see you there.”
The old man sips his coffee but says nothing, as if to mean—
Obviously
.
“I’d like to rent a room, please, sir. Just for tonight.”
The old man looks away, thinking. After nearly a full thirty seconds of meditation, with nothing but Hank Williams to break the silence, he says: “Here?”
“What?”
“You want to get a room here?”
“What? Yes. Yeah, I want to get a room here.”
The old man grunts, stands up, and goes to the keys on the wall. There are about twenty hanging there on the corkboard. He surveys them very carefully, as if searching a bookshelf for the appropriate tome, and with a quiet
aha!
he selects one from the bottom corner of the board. What marks this key as different from any of the others,Mona cannot tell. Then he lifts it to his lips and blows. A significant cloud of dust flies up from the key to dance around the ceiling lamp.
“Been a while since you guys had customers?” asks Mona.
“It has been a very long while,” says the old man. He smiles and holds the key out to her.
Mona reaches for it. “How much?”
“How much?” He pulls the key back, confused. “For what?”
“For… the room?”
“Oh,” says the old man, a little irritated, as if this were a needless formality he’d forgotten. He lowers the key, grunts again, puts his cup of coffee down, and begins to sort through the papers on his desk. As he does, he notices the dead plant on the floor. He stops and leans forward, examining it. Then he looks up at Mona and sternly says, “My plant has died.”
“I’m… real sorry to hear that.”
“It was a very old plant.”
He seems to be waiting for her to say something. She ventures, “Oh?”
“Yes. I had it for nearly a year. It was my favorite plant, because of this.”
“Well. That’s understandable.”
The old man just looks at her.
She adds, “You get attached to things if they’re around long enough.”
He keeps staring at her. Mona is beginning to feel quite disturbed. She wonders if he is senile, but there is more to it than that: it feels very unsafe in this big, dark office, where only one corner is lit and tangible, and the rest is hidden from her. For some reason she gets the sense that they are not alone. When the old man returns to his papers, Mona checks the corners—still nothing. Maybe it’s just a weird feeling she got from seeing that funeral.
“I am not sure what to do with it now,” he says grudgingly. “I liked the plant very much. But I suppose these things happen.” He sniffs, and produces a tiny note card from the mountain of old papers on hisdesk. This he consults carefully, as if it is the ace in his poker hand, and pronounces, “Twenty dollars.”
“For a night?”
“It seems so,” says the old man solemnly, and he places the card back on the desk.
“So… you don’t know how much your own rooms are?”
“There are several rooms, with several prices. I forget them. And we have not had any visitors in some time.”
Mona, glancing at the piles of paper and dust, can completely believe that. “Mind if I ask how you stay open, then?”
He thinks about it. “I suppose you could say,” he concludes, “that there is no shortage of goodwill around here.”
For some reason, Mona feels he is telling the truth. But this does not exactly comfort her. “Just curious—is this the only motel in town?”
Again, he
“Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t see you there.”
The old man sips his coffee but says nothing, as if to mean—
Obviously
.
“I’d like to rent a room, please, sir. Just for tonight.”
The old man looks away, thinking. After nearly a full thirty seconds of meditation, with nothing but Hank Williams to break the silence, he says: “Here?”
“What?”
“You want to get a room here?”
“What? Yes. Yeah, I want to get a room here.”
The old man grunts, stands up, and goes to the keys on the wall. There are about twenty hanging there on the corkboard. He surveys them very carefully, as if searching a bookshelf for the appropriate tome, and with a quiet
aha!
he selects one from the bottom corner of the board. What marks this key as different from any of the others,Mona cannot tell. Then he lifts it to his lips and blows. A significant cloud of dust flies up from the key to dance around the ceiling lamp.
“Been a while since you guys had customers?” asks Mona.
“It has been a very long while,” says the old man. He smiles and holds the key out to her.
Mona reaches for it. “How much?”
“How much?” He pulls the key back, confused. “For what?”
“For… the room?”
“Oh,” says the old man, a little irritated, as if this were a needless formality he’d forgotten. He lowers the key, grunts again, puts his cup of coffee down, and begins to sort through the papers on his desk. As he does, he notices the dead plant on the floor. He stops and leans forward, examining it. Then he looks up at Mona and sternly says, “My plant has died.”
“I’m… real sorry to hear that.”
“It was a very old plant.”
He seems to be waiting for her to say something. She ventures, “Oh?”
“Yes. I had it for nearly a year. It was my favorite plant, because of this.”
“Well. That’s understandable.”
The old man just looks at her.
She adds, “You get attached to things if they’re around long enough.”
He keeps staring at her. Mona is beginning to feel quite disturbed. She wonders if he is senile, but there is more to it than that: it feels very unsafe in this big, dark office, where only one corner is lit and tangible, and the rest is hidden from her. For some reason she gets the sense that they are not alone. When the old man returns to his papers, Mona checks the corners—still nothing. Maybe it’s just a weird feeling she got from seeing that funeral.
“I am not sure what to do with it now,” he says grudgingly. “I liked the plant very much. But I suppose these things happen.” He sniffs, and produces a tiny note card from the mountain of old papers on hisdesk. This he consults carefully, as if it is the ace in his poker hand, and pronounces, “Twenty dollars.”
“For a night?”
“It seems so,” says the old man solemnly, and he places the card back on the desk.
“So… you don’t know how much your own rooms are?”
“There are several rooms, with several prices. I forget them. And we have not had any visitors in some time.”
Mona, glancing at the piles of paper and dust, can completely believe that. “Mind if I ask how you stay open, then?”
He thinks about it. “I suppose you could say,” he concludes, “that there is no shortage of goodwill around here.”
For some reason, Mona feels he is telling the truth. But this does not exactly comfort her. “Just curious—is this the only motel in town?”
Again, he
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