cashier’s cage. Tucked in one corner was a glass cigar counter, presided over by a shimmering blonde wearing a tight turtleneck sweater punctuated by two Saturn nose cones.
The elevator bobbed to a stop. The gate squeaked open. I moved out. I had the feeling of stepping into the past, a scene of fifty years ago, caught and frozen. Old men slumped in dusty chairs stared at me over the tops of newspapers. The clerk behind the desk, another baldy, looked up from sorting letters into cubbyholes. The creampuff behind the counter paused in the act of opening a carton of cigarettes and raised her shadowed eyes.
It was not a memory, since I was too young to recall an ancient hotel lobby like that, smelling of disinfectant and a thousand dead cigars. I could only guess I remembered the set from an old movie, and any moment Humphrey Bogart was going to shamble over to the enameled blonde, buy a pack of Fatimas, and lisp, “Keep the change, thweetheart.”
I shook my head. The vertigo vanished. I was staring at a shabby hotel lobby in a small town that had seen better days none of the citizens could recall. I went to the front desk …
“My name’s Samuel Todd.”
“Yes, Mr. Todd,” the clerk said. “Room 3-F. Everything all right?”
He resembled the night clerk, but all bald men look like relatives.
“Everything’s fine,” I told him. “There was a letter waiting for me when I checked in last night. Could you tell me who left it?”
He shook his head.
“Can’t say. I went back in the office for a few minutes. When I came out, the letter was laying right there on the register. Wasn’t it signed?”
“Didn’t recognize the name,” I lied. “Where can I buy a stamp?”
“Machine over there on the cigar counter. Mailing slot’s next to the door. Or you can take it to the post office if you like. That’s around the corner on River Street. Go out a lot faster if you mail it from there. We don’t get a pickup till three, four this afternoon.”
I nodded my thanks, and walked over to the cigar counter. The machine sold me a 15-cent stamp for 20 cents. Nice business.
“Good morning, sir,” brass head said throatily. “You’re staying with us?”
She was something, a dazzle of wet colors: metallic hair, clouded eyes with lashes like inky centipedes, an enormous blooded mouth, pancaked cheeks. The red sweater was cinched with a studded belt wide enough for a motorcycle ride. Her skirt of purple plaid was so tight that in silhouette she looked like a map of Africa. Knee-high boots of white plastic. Tangerine-colored fingernails somewhere between claws and talons. A walking Picasso.
“Good morning,” I said. “Yes, I’m staying with you.”
I came down hard on the you, and she giggled and took a deep breath. It would have been cruel to ignore that. It would have been impossible to ignore that. I bought a candy bar I didn’t want.
“Keep the change, sweetheart,” I said.
The seediness was getting to me. All I needed was a toothpick in the corner of my mouth, and an unsmoked cigarette behind my ear.
I started for the doorway under the neon Restaurant-Bar sign.
“My name’s Millie,” the cigar counter girl called after me.
I waved a hand and kept going. Women like that scare me. I have visions of them cracking my bones and sucking the marrow.
One look at the Restaurant-Bar and I understood how the Coburn Inn survived without a season. There were customers at all twenty tables, and only two empty stools at the long counter. There were even three guys bellying up to the bar in an adjoining room, starting their day with a horn of the ox that gored them.
A few women, but mostly men. All locals, I figured: merchants, insurance salesmen, clerks, some blue-collar types, farmers in rubber boots and wool plaid shirts. They all seemed to know each other: a lot of loud talk, hoots of laughter. This had to be the in place in Coburn for a scoff or a tipple. More likely, it was the only place.
The menu
The elevator bobbed to a stop. The gate squeaked open. I moved out. I had the feeling of stepping into the past, a scene of fifty years ago, caught and frozen. Old men slumped in dusty chairs stared at me over the tops of newspapers. The clerk behind the desk, another baldy, looked up from sorting letters into cubbyholes. The creampuff behind the counter paused in the act of opening a carton of cigarettes and raised her shadowed eyes.
It was not a memory, since I was too young to recall an ancient hotel lobby like that, smelling of disinfectant and a thousand dead cigars. I could only guess I remembered the set from an old movie, and any moment Humphrey Bogart was going to shamble over to the enameled blonde, buy a pack of Fatimas, and lisp, “Keep the change, thweetheart.”
I shook my head. The vertigo vanished. I was staring at a shabby hotel lobby in a small town that had seen better days none of the citizens could recall. I went to the front desk …
“My name’s Samuel Todd.”
“Yes, Mr. Todd,” the clerk said. “Room 3-F. Everything all right?”
He resembled the night clerk, but all bald men look like relatives.
“Everything’s fine,” I told him. “There was a letter waiting for me when I checked in last night. Could you tell me who left it?”
He shook his head.
“Can’t say. I went back in the office for a few minutes. When I came out, the letter was laying right there on the register. Wasn’t it signed?”
“Didn’t recognize the name,” I lied. “Where can I buy a stamp?”
“Machine over there on the cigar counter. Mailing slot’s next to the door. Or you can take it to the post office if you like. That’s around the corner on River Street. Go out a lot faster if you mail it from there. We don’t get a pickup till three, four this afternoon.”
I nodded my thanks, and walked over to the cigar counter. The machine sold me a 15-cent stamp for 20 cents. Nice business.
“Good morning, sir,” brass head said throatily. “You’re staying with us?”
She was something, a dazzle of wet colors: metallic hair, clouded eyes with lashes like inky centipedes, an enormous blooded mouth, pancaked cheeks. The red sweater was cinched with a studded belt wide enough for a motorcycle ride. Her skirt of purple plaid was so tight that in silhouette she looked like a map of Africa. Knee-high boots of white plastic. Tangerine-colored fingernails somewhere between claws and talons. A walking Picasso.
“Good morning,” I said. “Yes, I’m staying with you.”
I came down hard on the you, and she giggled and took a deep breath. It would have been cruel to ignore that. It would have been impossible to ignore that. I bought a candy bar I didn’t want.
“Keep the change, sweetheart,” I said.
The seediness was getting to me. All I needed was a toothpick in the corner of my mouth, and an unsmoked cigarette behind my ear.
I started for the doorway under the neon Restaurant-Bar sign.
“My name’s Millie,” the cigar counter girl called after me.
I waved a hand and kept going. Women like that scare me. I have visions of them cracking my bones and sucking the marrow.
One look at the Restaurant-Bar and I understood how the Coburn Inn survived without a season. There were customers at all twenty tables, and only two empty stools at the long counter. There were even three guys bellying up to the bar in an adjoining room, starting their day with a horn of the ox that gored them.
A few women, but mostly men. All locals, I figured: merchants, insurance salesmen, clerks, some blue-collar types, farmers in rubber boots and wool plaid shirts. They all seemed to know each other: a lot of loud talk, hoots of laughter. This had to be the in place in Coburn for a scoff or a tipple. More likely, it was the only place.
The menu
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