Chapter Text
Tonight we are a motel. I find myself dressed in a polo shirt and un-tailored slacks with chunky sneakers. The shoes are an indignity, but less offensive than other choices the Hotel has made tonight. The wallpaper, for one thing. Zig-zagging stripes of yellow and orange weary the eye before it even reaches the grimy burnt-umber carpet. My check-in desk is made of an outdated faux-chestnut. The warm tones all seem to magnify the heat which presses in on me despite the wheezing of an unseen air conditioner.
I need only turn around to complete my assessment of the “lobby”. It’s barely large enough to house my desk, two chairs, and a potted plant. There is no place for the Lobby Boy to stand which won’t either crowd the guests or breathe down my neck. Behind me, the door to the back office is beige and unassuming. From behind it I can hear the Owner typing with that agonising hunt-and-peck rhythm he somehow hasn’t shaken even after an eternity of practice. The force with which he hits each key suggests he’s in a bad mood already.
The reservation card for tonight’s guest has already been placed in the centre of the guestbook. The guestbook itself is nothing more than a cheaply-made exercise book with ‘STARLIGHT MOTEL ~ SIGN-IN’ scrawled across its cover in thick black marker. There are enthusiastic stars drawn above the “i”s. The pages are wrinkled as if from water damage. The card, of course, is as plain and functional as ever: in the Owner’s heavy hand it reads MS HAZEL CHIBA, ROOM 7. I rub the card between the fingers of my left hand as with my right I ring for the Lobby Boy.
The bell is warm and somewhat greasy to the touch. The supply closet door is not in evidence here, but it is near enough that I hear it opening outside. Shuffling footsteps and a faint jingling sound make their way to the front door. When I first lay eyes on his “uniform”, my first thought is that the Hotel must be taking revenge for last night’s performance. Night Vale Spiderwolves, says his faded t-shirt. He’s got a ball cap on his head and a pair of acid-washed denim shorts. The jingling sound comes from a ring of keys hanging near his hip.
The Lobby Boy wrings his hands as he takes in the room. He meets my eyes, but I’m afraid he’s on his own here. I haven’t got an extra standing space to offer him. After a couple of moments’ thought he crams himself into the narrow space between my desk and the wall. Minutes or hours pass in silence broken only by the sighing of the air conditioner and the Owner’s arrhythmic typing from behind the office door.
I don’t often indulge in small talk with my fellow staff, but the cramped quarters make it somehow more difficult for me to recede into the place in my mind where I go to wait. Turning my head ever so slightly I ask my Lobby Boy: “Ms Chiba’s room is ready?”
I already know that it is. My good boy has done his job like he always does. But I raise my eyebrows a fraction to let him know I would like him to tell me what it’s like.
“Y-yes, ma’am. It’s got the. The moth cloud.”
We’ve done that one before. That or something like it. He must see dissatisfaction in my face because he drops his gaze to the floor and starts wringing his hands again. I suppress a sigh; they can’t all be winners. Oh, I’m sure that Ms Chiba will die slowly and in agony and the Owner will write his little report about a death well done. But I won’t need to watch this one play out. It’s going to be one of those dull nights on the job.
I let my body go statue-still and allow my focus to drift inward. I think another VIP room is in order. Once we’re finished here, and this tacky place is gone, I think I’ll have the Lobby Boy build something special. Moving gears with interlocking teeth. Cold metal pistons, rough to the touch, juddering unevenly enough to plant the false hope that they might stop working altogether so the guest might wriggle free. The rumble of an engine that coughs back to lurching life just a moment before they manage it, and the smell of burning diesel as they’re sucked back into metal jaws. Yes, I think that will do nicely.
The sound of a real engine running brings my focus back to the check-in desk. Showtime. The Lobby Boy crosses the tiny room to get the door for Ms Chiba. As it opens, the outside air sweeps in like some creature’s hot breath. It’s getting darker, but the heat shows no signs of abating. I shift my weight in my ridiculous shoes and smile a welcoming smile.
“Ms Chiba, good evening.”
“Hi.”
Ms Chiba has short dark hair and a motorcycle helmet under one arm. She swaggers in with easy confidence and puts her helmet on my desk. “We talked on the phone?”
“Yes. Room seven has been made ready for you.”
“Great.” She takes the blue biro from my hand and and signs her name in the guest book in spiky, cramped letters. She scans the other columns; room number, date of check-in, date of check-out, mobile. “You need my number?”
I place the key to room seven in front of her and incline my head slightly. “Only in case of emergencies.”
Ms Chiba grins. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
I have no reply to this, so I merely smile a little wider.
“May I take your helmet, ma’am?”
Ms Chiba straightens up, turns to my Lobby Boy, and quips: “only if you promise to give it back.” She chuckles at her own wit and takes her key from the desk. She spins it around one finger as she strides past my Lobby Boy and out into the growing dark. He follows her meekly, helmet clasped to his chest. As the door swings shut behind him I see Ms Chiba disengaging the kickstand of the bright red motorcycle parked outside.