The sun is all but down. Jezebel is on the deck in front of the office, which suits Harb absolutely fine, given it means she isn’t in the office. He does look up, though, when he hears her rap the barroom door. Not his, and Jezebel calls, “Marie, hey, Marie!” and doesn’t call for him. He looks up.
Obviously there’s nothing like jealousy in it, Harb is only ever glad when Jezebel inflicts herself on somebody, anybody, else. He looks up to see what all the noise is about, that’s all.
“Marie, come see this crazy car!”
If Harb gets up, and goes to look alongside them, it’s only because he has something of an interest in crazy cars. In addition, he can’t hear Marie moving, and Jezebel is likely to keep yelling until she’s got someone’s attention. In the long run, he’s saving himself some trouble to go see the crazy car.
The car is a convertible, top down, electric blue paintwork and leopard interior. The back seat is piled high with no less than nine pieces of matching white leather luggage. Jezebel hangs on the porch rail like a woman in love and sighs at the details of the driver, a woman sitting tall as the top of the windshield, with oval sunglasses, raisin-dark lips and a double-breasted suit of Barbie pink with huge brass buttons. Not so overwhelmed by the look of the whole thing, Harb opens his mouth to pass comment, only to find Marie calling out the same thought from behind the bar – “Driving like a maniac,” she shouts, and Harb can only nod in agreement.
Driving like a maniac, and hanging a wide squealing right off the road and into the parking lot, screeching to diagonal stop not two feet from where Jezebel is gently melting over the rail. She looks as though she might greet the driver. Then, in the last second, her eyes find something special and she draws back instead, little nose twitching with disgust.
Seeping through the woman’s hair, from a crater in the foot-high bouffant, white liquid bird shit.
In a voice shrill as her tires were, the driver cries, “I need a bathroom!”
Harb pushes the office door open again, “Right this way.” He goes ahead of her. Those few steps to the counter, it occurs to him, there’s a small bathroom in the back. That’s his own home back there, of course there’s a bathroom. And Marie uses it, she changes there every night and again in the morning. It occurs to him. He really does consider it.
Then he sits himself back down, looks at the ledger, “Just for tonight?” The new guest grits her teeth, pays her money, signs the book. He reaches round to take the key from the wall, “You want to get that out before it dries any; tough to get anything out of a wig.” She snatches the key from him and runs.
