Room at the Inn
On the front porch the woman was screaming insensibly, he could only make out a word or two here and there. The nasty words. Her price for the night was absurd and in a most gentlemanly fashion he had tried to negotiate better terms.
“It’s not like this place is a bungalow overlooking the Mediterranean,” he said. He almost said When was the last time you gave this dump a coat of paint? but for sure she’d hit him with the broom that rested against the railing. Slatternly (a word he probably never used in his entire life) came to mind. This scraggly-haired middle-aged woman missing several important teeth. Riled up each time he suggested a lower rate.
“I hold all the cards!” She pointed at a sky that threatened even more snow. “You want the room it will cost you. I’m the only boarding house in a ten mile radius.”
The temps were definitely dropping. He pulled his knit cap tighter down his forehead and looked at the sky where she continued to point an aggressive crooked finger. He thought at that rate the least she could do was shovel the damn steps. Several times he started to slip while climbing up; had to grab onto the rusted handrail which wobbled.
“Suppose I make it two nights?” he said.
She let go her witchy laugh. “HA! No dice. You’ll pay the same price twice.”
“You really have the Christmas spirit going.” The wind had picked up and he was feeling colder by the minute. “Have you put up a tree with lights?” He figured he was stuck with her price and at least he could sit and look at a bright tree. He’d traveled a great distance and still had many miles to go. Selling Mary Kay Cosmetics door to door, in winter, was a tough gig. He’d heard the stories from the ladies who’ve been doing it practically their entire lives; hell bent on winning that pink Cadillac. The company thought it innovative to add good looking males to their sales force. He was good looking. Women came at him all the time. Not this one.
“I don’t believe in wasting good trees,” she said. “I’m green, all the way.”
Does that mean she also doesn’t believe in heating oil? The rooms could be bitter cold.
“You could get a fake one, they look almost real, probably your hardware store sells them. I could drive over and pick one up for you.” He was beginning to shiver.
“Skip it, buster.”
“Jesus!”
“Don’t use the lord’s name in vain!”
“I didn’t mean Jesus literally, it’s just a turn of phrase.”
The first new flakes were starting to come down thick. He wondered if all snowflakes being different from all others was just a marketing gimmick? He stuck his tongue out to catch a few. If he had a place to stay for the night they would almost feel magical.
Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty-year writer and the author of 11 published books of fiction and poetry and 3 stage plays. She has been nominated 19 times for the Pushcart Prize in both fiction and poetry. Her play The Crooked Heart concerning artist Jackson Pollock premiered on October 25, 2022 at the Irish Repertory Theatre in NYC. Adapted from an earlier novel, it was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. Another play, Lady in a Post Box, co-written with poet and writer Ciaran O’Driscoll is moving toward production in Ireland. Her third play, 28 Marvin Avenue is making the rounds. Tepper’s Novel satire titled Office has been released by Wilderness House Press. A new Novel Hair of a Fallen Angel will be out in the winter. Susan is a Brand Ambassador for The Galway Review.