Back to 80, then Cypress Street, past the river. This is the region of forgotten motels: ancient neon and stuttering "Vacancy" signs. The names: Mab's Shady Oaks, the Century, the Canary Court, Green Gables, all U-shaped stucco buildings around festering-green pools.
The Grotto has a new night clerk. 60-ish and haired only in scabrous patches above the ears, he offers grudgingly "Vincent" as Mac introduces himself. Vincent accepts the completed registration slip and cash without rising from his stool, eyes trained upon his counter-top set. Mac grasps the key and watches along for a while, waiting for break in the exercise program, maybe chat a little.
At the commercial Vincent hurriedly switches to an episode of Hogan's Heroes, one eye upon wristwatch until the leotard aerobic dancing returns. No chat with Vincent.
Mac thinks he has been in 104 before. The wood slats of the floor sag and creak as he undresses.
Just as the warm red figures begin to appear beneath his eyelids he hears the noise. He perceives grunting and heaving from some adjacent room. Lying still, he tries to extinguish the sounds so reminiscent of extreme bodily discomfort, clamping his eyes shut, fingers in ears, but the couple's staying power is remarkable.
Minutes pass with the weight of entire days. Having paid already, he gets dressed and drops the key upon the rumpled bed.
Mac will ride around for a while, getting a breakfast biscuit somewhere with the loose dollar bills left in his pocket before heading to the warehouse to begin his day of work and more driving.
Morning accomplishes itself, among its routine sounds the grunting itself. Around ten o clock Vincent lets himself into the empty room, looks around, finding the key. He notes the sound. He walks to the wall, listens to the cavity, envisioning the hidden aging water pump and its contingent creaky attachments. He gives the wall one stiff kick, rattling the pipes. Silence.
