After leaving the theater Joe drove for two hours, his stomach sour from popcorn and whiskey. He considered getting a motel for the night – the boss wouldn’t complain, given the sales he’d made, and it beat driving all night feeling your stomach somersault every time you hit a pothole. He found a place an hour after dusk, a seven-unit Mom and Pop motel called The Wayfarer. According to the sign the big draw was telephones in every room, but he couldn’t think of anyone he wanted to call.
The parking lot was empty. Good. He’d get a nice quiet night without someone in the next room snoring holes in the wall, or a couple doing some free-lance mattress testing. Joe pulled up to the office and went inside, blowing on his hands. The manager was sitting in the lobby looking at a small TV tuned to a variety show; he looked up at Joe just as the audience erupted in laughter, and his head swiveled back to the tube by instinct. But he’d missed it. He stared at the TV for a few more seconds, as if expecting Milton Berle would repeat the joke for his benefit, but the moment had passed.
“Howdy,” he said, getting up. “It’s three dollars.” He winced and limped over to the desk.
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