William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
I hung up the phone and looked back at the desk clerk, who was still watching his television screen.
“Can I pay with cash?” I asked.
“Eighty-five dollars,” the clerk said, reaching for the plastic key to pull it back toward his side of the counter.
I opened my leather wallet, my eyes scanning the small green bills inside the leather fold. I had two tens, a ten, and some ones.
“I only have thirty-four dollars in cash,” I said.
The clerk took the key back and hung it on a small brass hook behind him.
“There is a diner down the road that might take a check,” the clerk said. “But we do not.”
“I just need one night,” I said.
“Eighty-five dollars,” the clerk repeated, looking back down at his television screen.
I turned and walked back out into the cold air of the parking lot.
I paid for a smaller room at the back of the motel with the last of my emergency cash, the clerk there not asking for a deposit card after I showed him my college identification card. The room smelled of damp plaster and old wool, the single window looking out at a gravel lot where an old school bus was parked.
