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9
RECALL
Lucky
When I round the corner of the block where my motel is located, my practiced stance of head-down-body-hunched is fully in place, so I don’t see the brewing commotion until I almost trip over it.
“What the hell do you mean, I gotta leave?” A half-dressed guest is shouting at the manager.
“I don’t know how else to explain it to you, mister. Department of Health says I have to shut down immediately, so yeah, you and every guest here need to pack up your shit and leave. The inspector is coming back in an hour. With new locks.”
An icy rock drops into my gut. My feet freeze on the uneven parking lot tarmac as I absorb the words.
“Bullshit! I’ve been staying in this shit hole for years because my company is too cheap to put me up in a better motel when I come into town for business. I’m more than familiar with your complimentary rodent-per-room standards. So what’s changed? And since when does the DOH toss people out after hours?”
The manager shrugs. “Fuck if I know. Look, I’m just the manager, okay? I follow orders from on high, just like you do, so quit busting my balls.”
“Dammit! So what am I supposed to do?”
“Hell, I don’t know, find another place to stay and expense it?”
“Fuck you! I want a full refund, buddy, and I want to be compensated for the inconvenience. Or I ain’t leaving.”
The manager scratches his beer belly. “I can only refund seventy-five per cent of the remaining rate of your stay. You’ll need to take up any further claims with the parent company.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” The guest is growing redder in the face.
The manager, who doesn’t seem one little bit upset by the gathering crowd of disgruntled guests, shrugs. “Nope. Everything I’ve said is in the small print. Feel free to read it. Present your booking receipt when you check out and you’ll be given what you’re due.” He takes a step back and addresses the crowd. “That’ll be all, folks. Remember, the guys with locks will be here in an hour. If you ain’t outta here, you’ll be thrown out.”
“Yeah, try it and I’ll sue the pants off you,” One guest, an ageing woman with pink curlers in her hair, points an arthritic finger at the manager.
“I’m just doing my job, but go ahead, give it your best shot, lady,” he sneers.
A few other patrons voice their anger, but the manager shrugs it off. I wait till he’s heading back to his office before I sprint out from where I’ve been standing next to a banged up Corolla.
“Excuse me, sir?”
He stops and glances over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“I don’t know if you remember me—”
“Sure, I remember you.” His gaze slides over me. I pull my backpack across my body. He sees the action and his expression sours. “What do you want?”
“I paid you two hundred dollars this morning. To cover my stay till the end of the week?”
“Yeah. And?”
My grip tightens on my strap and I plead with karma to give me a break. “I…obviously, since I can’t any longer, I need my money back.”
His gaze slides once more over my body, slower, sleazier this time. A smile I’ve seen more times than I care to count eases over his pudgy features. “Of course, sweetheart. Like I said, bring me your paperwork and I’ll sort you out.”
The ice expands in my gut. “You know I don’t have paperwork.” My voice shakes and I despise myself for it.
His face contorts in a show of false regret. “Ah, I’m sorry. No paperwork, no refund. Company policy.”
Anger dislodges the ice. I want to fly at him, claw that sick look of glee off his face, but I force myself to remain calm. For one thing, there are too many people around to witness it and possibly clock it on their camera phones if I do anything stupid. For another, I want no part of me touching the shit bag in front of me. My days of allowing men like him anywhere near me are over. Well…nearly over.
“Look, I’m asking you to show some…mercy.” The word sticks in my throat. The idea of having to beg this piece of shit to give me back money that’s rightfully mine burns a hole in my chest.