Stanley Elkin - The Franchiser

“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 example. 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.