“More,” his housekeeper said.
“What?”
“More. For every sheet and pillowcase and towel there’s another for when they get dirty.”
“Jesus,” Ben said, “I didn’t even think about that. Twelve hundred pillowcases. Jesus. Two thousand towels.” He thought of all the other Travel Inns, of all the rooms in all the Travel Inns. He took a Travel Inn Directory from the registration desk and opened it at random. It opened on pages 120 and 121—Michigan, Grand Rapids to Kalamazoo. There were seventeen motels with 2,136 rooms. He multiplied this by the 204 pages that listed Travel Inns in the United States. There were 435,744 rooms. “That doesn’t count Canada,” he said. “That doesn’t count Japan. It doesn’t count Mexico or Zaire or Indonesia. That doesn’t count Johannesburg or Paris or Skanes in Tunisia or Tamuning in Guam.
“Almost half a million rooms,” he said. “Service for three and a half million. That doesn’t count Ramada, it doesn’t count Best Western. It doesn’t count Quality. That doesn’t count Hilton, Travelodge, Hospitality Inn. It doesn’t count Rodeway or the Sheraton motels or Howard Johnson’s or the Ben Franklin chain. It doesn’t count Holiday Inn. It doesn’t count Regal 8 Inns, Stouffer, the Six’s, Day’s Inn, Hyatt, Master Hosts, Royal Inns, Red Carpet, Monarch, Inn America, Marriott. It doesn’t count all I can’t think of or those I don’t know. It doesn’t count the independents. It doesn’t count hotels. And it doesn’t count tourist cabins in national parks or places where the Interstates ain’t.
“What are we up to? Twenty million rooms? Twenty-five? What are we up to? What are we talking here? Service for 250 million? A ghost room for every family in America? And almost every one of them air-conditioned, TV’d or color TV’d, swimming-pooled, cocktail-lounged, restauranted, coffee-shopped.
“How will they find us? How will they know? What’s to be done? Yes, and occupancy rates never lower or competition stiffer. Go! Reroute traffic. Paint detour signs. Paint FALLING ROCK, paint SLIPPERY WHEN WET, paint DANGEROUS CURVE. Paint CAUTION, MEN WORKING NEXT THOUSAND MILES. Paint BRIDGE OUT AHEAD. How will they find us? What’s to be done?”
He wrung his hands. “See?” he said. “I wring my hands. I am wracked. I chafe. I fret. I gall. I smart and writhe. I have throes and am discomfited. All the classic positions of ballet pain.”
“Mr. Flesh,” his housekeeper, Mrs. Befilicio, says.
“Yes? What? You know a way? Something’s occurred to you? Say. Mrs. Befilicio? Anyone. Everyone.” He speaks over her shoulder to Mr. Shoe. “A suggestion box. Have Mr. Wellbanks put a suggestion box together for the employees.” Mr. Wellbanks is the chief maintenance man. “Mr. Wellbanks, can you handle that?” He turns to his employees. “There’s bonus in it for you. How will they know us? What’s to be done? How will they find us? Yes, Mrs. Befilicio, yes, excuse me.”
“It’s just that…”
“What? What is it just? It’s just what? Just what is it?”
“Well, sir, it’s just that it’s past four-thirty and the maids go off duty.”
He stares at the housekeeper. “They’ll take their cars? Remove their cars from the driveway?”
“Well, yes, sir, that’s probably what we’ll have to do. Yes, sir.”
“Yes,” Ben says, “of course. We’ll see you in the morning.”
And at six the two desk clerks go off duty. His cashier leaves. Mr. Wellbanks does. John Shoe says he’ll stay on awhile.
Two people come in but it is only Miss McEnalem and Mr. Kingseed, his night auditor and night clerk.
Then his first guests arrive.
The couple are in their thirties. The woman, who holds the car keys, speaks for them. The waitresses, the hostess, the man from room service, the chef and her assistants hang about to watch them register. John Shoe glances peremptorily at his personnel and lightly claps his hands together, dismissing them.
“Have you a reservation, Mrs. Glosse?” the night clerk asks.
“No. Do we need one?”
“How long do you plan to be staying with us?”
“Just overnight.”
“Oh,” the night clerk says, “in that case I think we can fix you up then. Room 1107.” He gives the Glosses their room key and tells them how to get there. The instructions, as Ben has always found them to be, though he has slept most of his life in motels, are extremely complicated.
“Excuse me,” Ben says, “I happen to be in the room next to yours. I was just going there. I’m the blue Cadillac. You can follow me.” They walk along with him as he goes toward his car. “You’re lucky,” Ben says, “that room happens to be poolside. The water’s terrific. I took a dip before dinner. Dinner was great. The prime ribs are sensational. They do a wonderful Scotch sour. I’m going to watch television tonight. There are some swell shows on. It’s color TV. The reception is marvelous. I may doze off though, the beds are so comfortable.” He drives around to the rear of the long central building, stops and waits for them to make the turn. When they are abreast of him, he lowers his electric window. “Yours would be the fifth room in from the end of the building.” They nod and drive on to where Ben is pointing. Flesh slips his car in just next to theirs in the otherwise vacant parking area. “It’s convenient, isn’t it? The parking.”
“Real convenient,” Mr. Glosse says.
“Well, you folks get comfortable,” he tells them. “Maybe I’ll see you in the lounge later on. They’ve got a super combo. Really excellent. Young, but real pros. The kid with acne on drums is something else.”
The Glosses stare at him. “There’s free ice,” he says lamely. “In the corridor. Very cold.” Ben lets himself into his room and turns on the television set. He waits a few minutes, leaves by the door that opens onto the corridor, and returns to the lobby.
“Did anyone check in while I was gone?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” John Shoe says. “Some people named Storrs. A couple with kids.”
“Teenagers? Babies?”
“No. About ten, I guess. A girl ten, a boy about seven.”
He bites his lips. Teenagers would have been $3 extra apiece. A baby would have meant another dollar for a crib.
Ben sat with his manager in the small office behind the wall of room keys. He could hear everything that happened at the front desk, could hear the switchboard operator as she took wake-up calls. It was not yet midnight.
Ultimately twenty-seven rooms were let. Five to individuals, nine to couples, four to families with two children, five to families with one child. Four doubles went to sisters or to friends traveling together. There were seventy-two guests in the motel. The last room had been rented at twenty minutes to ten. It was an 18 percent occupancy rate. They broke even at 60 percent.
“Why don’t you get some sleep? Anyone traveling this time of night would just keep on going, I expect.”
“We’ll be killed,” Ben said.
“No,” his manager said. “They told me at school that unless you overlook a place like Niagara Falls, or you’re in one of the big towns, and only then if it’s some skyscraper setup that gets a lot of advance publicity and makes a mark on the skyline, you can’t expect to do much business the first month or so. At service locations like ours it could be three or four months before an inn takes hold.”
“Eighteen percent?”
“Eighteen is low.”
“They’ll kill us.”
“We’ve got fifteen reservations for tomorrow night, Mr. Flesh. That doesn’t include what comes in off the highway. Like today, for example. Only eleven rooms were reserved. We picked sixteen up off the street. Two rooms are staying over. We do just as good off the highway as we did today, that’s thirty-three rooms occupied. And you’ve got to expect we’ll get another ten reservations at least. That’s forty-three rooms.”
“Twenty-eight percent,” Ben said. They would kill him. It was so. This was the busy season, when people went on their vacations. It was different with his other franchises. Convenience foods, for exam
ple. Appetite was a constant. Appetite was seasonal, too, of course. It had its rush hours, its breakfasts and lunch hours and dinners. But it also had its steady increment of whim, the sudden gush of appetite, the cravings of highs and pregnancy, its coffee breaks and gratuitous lurching thirsts, its random sugar-toothedness, all the desiderata of gratification and reward. How had he so miscalculated? They would kill him. The 18 percent would climb to 28 percent, the 28 to 35, to 40, the 40 to 50 or 52. And level off. Things could be done, he knew, measures taken. The break-even point could be lowered, perhaps even met. There could be cutbacks among the staff, maids could be let go, some of the waitresses and kitchen help, one or two bookkeepers made redundant. People could double up on jobs. His debt could be slowly amortized by the piecemeal selling off of his other franchises. There were plenty of things that could be done. They would kill him. He would be killed.
“Why don’t you?”
“What?”
“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Shoe asks kindly.
“No no. You. Kingseed’s out front. He can take care. It’s interesting. Go home. I’d prefer it. It’s interesting to me. To be on this end of the motel. I figure I sleep 250, maybe 300 nights a year in them. But lobby life—This I know nothing about. Go get your rest. Tomorrow’s another day. I read that somewhere. This way, the both of us up, it’s too much like a deathwatch. Go on. Kingseed doesn’t need either of us. It’s just that I feel more comfortable minding it through its first night. Go on. Why should your wife be alone?”
Ben insisted and Shoe left.
“I think I’ll walk around a bit,” he told Herb Kingseed after a while, and went through the lobby past the closed lounge and closed restaurant to the long central building where all the guests had been given rooms. He walked along the corridor and came to 1109, his room. Through the door he could hear the television set still playing. He opened the door, went in, and turned the set off. He was about to go out again when he heard voices behind the thin wallboard.
“Suck me, suck me,” Mr. Glosse says.
“What’s this?” Ben says softly.
Mr. Glosse groans. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he cries. “I’m coming in your mouth. I’m shooting my dick off inside your face.”
“What’s this?”
“No no,” he pleads, “swallow it, swallow it. Don’t spit it out, what’s wrong with you? All right. It’s all over your lips. Kiss me, kiss me now.”
“What’s this?” Ben says. “What’s this?” He listens but can make out no other words.
He returns to the hall. Now he is conscious of the sounds that come from behind each door. He hears Mr. Kith, a single in 1134. He is talking to Elke Sommer. She is a guest on Carson’s program. He’d seen her when he went into his room to turn his set off. “Take that, Elke. Take that, you German bitch. How do you like my cock in your hair?” What’s this? Is he beating off against Nate Lace’s television set? Flesh puts his ear to the door and hears what sounds like meat being slapped against glass. He hears growls and the falsetto whimper of masturbate orgasm. What’s this? What’s this?
And blazes a trail down all the long corridor, stopping at each occupied room. He is able to remember exactly who is where. He listens at 1153. The Renjouberts’ room. A couple in their forties with a son about fourteen or fifteen.
“Shh,” Mrs. Renjoubert says softly. “Hush, darling. Be very quiet. Oh, that’s good. That’s very good. But be quiet. Oh, that’s lovely, sweetheart. Rub the other. Oh, oh. Shh. Hush, you’ll wake Daddy.”
What’s this? What’s this?
It is twelve forty-five when he goes to the Inn-Dex machine and sends his first message. He has the Travel Inn Directory open like a phone book beside him. He depresses the Enter button, sees the top light go on, and knows he is on the air. He punches the Inn-Dex code number and painfully taps out his message:
MAYDAY. MAYDAY. RINGGOLD, GA. TRAVEL INN CALLING VINELAND, N.J. IT’S LOVE NIGHT. IT’S LOVE NIGHT. AND HERE’S WHAT’S HAPPENING.
He tells Vineland about the Glosses, about Tim Kith in 1134, about the Renjouberts. He describes the goings on between the Buggle sisters in 2218. Finally it is too uncomfortable for him to type. His paresthetic fingers vibrate like flesh tuning forks and he asks Kingseed to take over for him. “Tell Vineland,” he tells Kingseed, “that Elly and Nestor Pewterball make love in the shower.”
“But, Mr. Flesh—”
“Send the message,” he commands.
“What do I say?”
“Dear Vineland, New Jersey, Travel Inn,” he dictates. “Elly and Nestor Pewterball of St. Paul, Minnesota, who checked in at the Ringgold, Georgia, Travel Inn at approximately 7:15 p.m. driving a—just a minute.” He goes to the records, slips out the Pewterballs’ charge sheet and registration form. “—driving a 1971 Olds Vista Cruiser, Minnesota plates J7 5-1414-R2, dinner charges $12.47 with tip, representing—let’s see, can you make this out, Kingseed? Does that say ‘Crossroads Furniture’? It does, doesn’t it?—representing Crossroads Furniture and paying by BankAmericard—am I going too fast?”
“Was that $12.47 with tip?”
“Right.” He repeats himself slowly, waits till Kingseed catches up. Talking so slowly he is aware of a certain thickness in his speech, the words slightly distorted, as if the sides of his tongue were curling, rolled up like a newspaper tossed on a porch. With effort he is able to flatten it again. “Mrs. Pewterball is a tall, slender, gray-haired woman, almost as tall as Nestor, who is perhaps six foot. Though I couldn’t hear all they said due to the interference of the shower, adjusted, I should say, to something like fine spray, full force, I was able to make out a good deal, Elly’s ringing yelps, Nestor’s laughter, Elly’s desire to have her genitals soaped, Nestor’s predilection for lathered buttocks. I take it that they were standing face to face. I take it that they used washclothes. I only hope they remembered to close the shower curtain and put it inside the tub. I only hope there was a bathmat on the floor.
“When they were finished they dried themselves off. From what sounded like the crinkle of tissue paper, I would say that Nestor was probably wearing new pajamas. This impression was reinforced by a compliment I heard Elly pass on to her husband, perhaps not a compliment so much as an affirmation of her own judgment and taste. ‘See’ she said, ‘those checks aren’t at all loud. They’re quite elegant, really. I like a pajama top you don’t have to button. With everything wash-and-wear, the buttonholes get all out of shape, Ness.’ She calls him Ness. I’m not at all certain that Elly wears anything to bed. At least I couldn’t hear her poking about in their suitcase and it seemed to me from the angle and pitch of her voice that she may have been the first in bed. I distinctly made out a sort of grunt when she removed the bedspread. This was before I heard the crinkle of tissue paper. What follows is rather personal and more than a little touching.
“When they were both in bed—and they slept in different beds, incidentally, for I heard Ness pull back his bedspread—and had turned off the lights—I could see the little strip of light go out where the door just barely misses meeting the carpet—and I was just about to go down the corridor to see what was with Marie Kripisco in 2240, I suddenly heard Mrs. Pewterball’s voice.
“ ‘Ness?’ she said. ‘Ness? Are you awake, darling, are you still up, dear?’
“ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘what is it, Elly?’
“ ‘I’m frightened,’ she said.
“ ‘Oh, El,’ he said, ‘I promise it will be all right.’
“ ‘But Florida, Ness.’
“ ‘It’s three years yet before I retire, El.’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘The St. Paul winters.’
“ ‘I know.’
“ ‘All that snow.’
“ ‘I know.’
“ ‘We’ll make friends, El. There’ll be people there. Why, goodness, 95 percent of the people in those condominiums are from up north. People like us. And we’re just looking. Though I’ll tell you, El, prices ar
e going up all the time. If we find something we really like, I think we ought to snap it up, make a down payment. That way, too, darling, we could take our vacations in the winter and rent it out when we’re not using it. And don’t forget, there’s a Crossroads branch now in North Miami Beach. With my discount we could furnish the whole place for under two thousand dollars. Golly, El, if we did rent it out, our tenants would be making the down payment for us.’
“ ‘It isn’t that, Ness. I get just as cold in the winter, I know we’ll make new friends, I even agree about the economics of the thing. It isn’t that.’
“ ‘Then what?’
“ ‘The water, Ness. The water’s so hard down there. Do you know how much effort it takes to work up a good lather? People our age? Sweetheart, have you any idea what the heck that’s going to do to our love life?’ ”
He contacts Huntsville, Alabama, contacts Lumberton, North Carolina, contacts Fort Myers, Florida. He tells on the Glosses, tells on Mrs. Renjoubert, on Kith and the Buggle girls and the Pewterballs, and relates the normative one-on-one passions of the Marshes and Mangochitnas. He has Kingseed patrol the corridors of the motel and sends the news to Wilmington, Delaware, that Ron and Minnie Cates, talking in their sleep, each call out the name of different lovers. “Oh, Hubert,” Minnie pleads. “Sylvia, Sylvia,” Ron Cates cries out.
“Wilmington, Wilmington,” he has Kingseed ask their Inn-Dex, “what’s this? I recall,” he has him spell out on Travel Inn’s world-wide reservation system, “coming across scumbags in forests, panties in wilderness, love’s detritus on posted land, everywhere the flotsam and jetsam of concupiscence scattered as beer can, common as litter. What’s this, what’s this? Everyone everywhere is evidence, datum. The proof is all about us. We’re the proof. Everyone at the Super Bowl a fact of fuck. Every schoolboy, each senator, and every officer in every army, all the partners in law firms, and anyone on a mailing list or listed in a phone book or cramming for the written part of his driver’s exam. Each civil servant and every Pope and all the leads in plays and films and all the walk-ons and everybody in the audience. Everyone with anything to sell and anyone with money to buy it and all the faces on the cash exchanged for it, and every old man and all the dead. And also every representation, every sketched face in the funny papers, and every piece of clothing on every rack in every store in the world. And even furniture. Every chair or table or lamp to read by and all the beds. Every sideboard where the dishes are put away and every dish as well as every machine ever made, the toaster and the nuclear submarine, and every musical instrument and every rubber comb and each piece of chewing gum and all the pot roast. As though the world were merely a place to hold it all, as if gravity and Rumania and history were only parts of some great sexual closet. The world as Lovers’ Lane, drive-in, back seat, front porch, park bench, and blanket on the beach. Am I right about this Wilmington, Delaware? How’s your love life? Over.”
The Franchiser Page 36
