We carried the bags to the main office, passing the Chevy truck still sitting in the parking lot, its skin shimmering in the morning sun. The heat was already rising, and the sky was being burned bone dry. The main office was air conditioned, and the icy air pricked the hairs on my arms.
"You like coffee?" he asked. "Sure you do." I didn't answer, just nodded. I'd had coffee once, and I didn't like it.
"I drink a lot of it," he said. "Can't work unless I do. Just can't." We placed the bags next to a plastic plant by the front door, and he walked around the desk to the back. "I bet you put lots of cream and sugar in it," he said. "That's how I used to drink it, years ago. In the war we sometimes didn't have cream or sugar, so I got used to drinking it all on its own. Weird, isn't it? The things we get used to so easily when we don't have a choice." He came back around the front desk and handed me a cup. The coffee was light tan like his khakis. "Have a seat. We'll wait for your mom."
"What if she doesn't know where I am?" I asked.
"She will," he said. He shook his head. "They always do." He took a sip. So did I, sugary sweetness burning my throat. "So, where's home?" he asked.
"We're going there."
"And your mom's taking you there."
I nodded.
"Where you coming from?"
"Scranton."
"Pennsylvania, huh? Oh I've been there. Through there, actually. Too cold in winter, too humid in summer. Not for me. I need dry heat, you know?"
I didn't. I took another sip and coughed from the sweetness. A green figure walked through the parking lot, slowly making its way to the motel room, arms crossed. It walked with short, unsure steps. The heat bent it into crimps and waves. "My mom," I said. He walked to the door, opened it, and shouted: "Ma'am?"
He waved her over, and Mom quickly walked to the office, her hair mussed, her sweater tied loosely about her neck. She clutched her purse tightly to her chest. "Hi Baby," she said. "I just stepped out."
"Checkout's at 11," he said. "Had to let the cleaning lady in. If you want to stay another night you can have it—"
"Oh, no," Mom said. "No, we'll . . . we'll be heading out now."
"Heading home?" he asked.
"Seeing family." She handed him the room key.
He grabbed the key, looked over at me. "Like the coffee?"
"Yes," I lied.
"That's good. It'll keep you up for when you go home." He looked sideways at mom while stepping back behind the desk. "Hope you all have a safe trip—home." I handed him the cup, grabbed my bag, and walked to the door.
"Thank you," I said, my tongue feeling pasty and heavy.
"You're welcome, Son."
I brushed past Mom. She smelled of smoke, cologne, and staleness. I opened the door, and the man whispered: "For chrissakes, get that kid home. This ain't a place for a kid."
***
We sat in the truck behind a small grocery store just off the main strip. Around us, the city raged with electricity, heat, traffic, and white noise. Mom had turned the engine off and was looking through the windshield. Her neck had pink marks on it, her sweater was stretched at the shoulders. She dropped the sweater on the seat and said nothing as hot air passed through the cab.
I looked up, let the air pass between us, watched a silvery airplane fly a curved route to the east. We passed the rest of the day with glances and without words.
***
Evening rolled over the city slowly, imperceptibly.
We pulled into a motel lot decorated with a red neon Indian thunderbird, its blocky, stair step wings pointing east and west, its beak sharp and buzzing. Around the back was a swimming pool. I could smell the chlorine and hear a mother screaming at a child to stop his "damned running."
We carried our bags to the room. We placed them on the lone bed. We shut the door behind us.
Mom stayed at the door, locked it, and pressed her fingertips against its surface. She leaned forward, placed her forehead against the door, and whispered to herself. The room was darkening in twilight, and I sat on the bed's edge watching her stand against the door in her green dress as she whispered silent prayers to the gods of the neon age.
***
Dinner was bread and ham from a grocery store across the street and cups of water from the bathroom sink. Blue curtains were drawn across the room's window, but the thunderbird light seeped through fabric fissures like blood. The room had a small Philco radio atop the bedside nightstand playing classical music, violins and pianos wavering in the atmosphere, phasing in and out from random static.
"You're so quiet," Mom said.
"I'm tired," I said. "I feel tired a lot anymore, Mom." She put her arm around me, pulled me close, and kissed my forehead.
"I know, Honey." She stood up, walked to the window, and pulled the curtains open. The room filled with red light. A bright dot hung in the sky, and, just below it, a smaller, dimmer dot flickered. Mom folded her arms, stared out at the fiery thunderbird, its wingtips seeming to sprout from her neck.
The music shifted, faded, returned.
"Will we be at Uncle Daniel's tomorrow?" I asked.
"No, Baby," she said. "I'll look for work here. There's work here. Waitressing jobs. Cleaning jobs. We'll stay. I promise . . . we'll stay. No more running."
I got up and stood next to her, my white T-shirt and shoelaces ablaze in electric red.
"We'll find our own home," she said. "Just us."
***
We slept cramped on the lone double bed, Mom's arm wrapped around me tightly as if afraid gravity would stop and let me float to the ceiling. She snored lightly, a slight whistle sounding from her nostrils. She stirred, muttered sleepwords, then fell silent.
Through gaps between the curtains, the thunderbird buzzed and burned, its shape a coal-hot brand burned into the sky's black skin.
Suddenly, the night became white and brilliant as a flash and a fireball over the horizon wiped stars from the sky. The distant mountains, sharp peaked, cut into the ghostly light that, within seconds, faded. The Philco crashed with sudden static, and the music dropped into silence. Slowly, the music returned, as if rising from deep waters, and the room became dark, and then red again. The thunderbird throbbed, the music played, and the night darkened again as a thunder-like rumbles shook the window and walls before fading into silence.
I fell asleep after midnight, neon wrapping around my dreams . . . and stars churning overhead.
###
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Vincent C. Martinez was born in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, and obtained his MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Texas at El Paso. He currently lives in the southwestern United States.
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Gods of the Neon Age: A Short Story Page 2
