Bicentennial Summer

The plump middle-aged front desk clerk looked up from her register at the  Super 8 Motel and blandly announced our total. “$14.95, sir, plus tax.” The four of us stood in a row, tallest to shortest, on the other side of the reception desk in the lobby, our luggage lined up with us. We’d had a little powwow in the parking lot about what to say, how to present our case.

Dad eyed her shiny Super 8 name tag and gave her a big smile. “It’s pretty late, Sandra . . .”

“Sir?” Sandra’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m just saying that it’s so late. Doesn’t look like you’ll be getting any more business tonight. No one else will be checking in, and we really need a place to stay.”

“We have vacancy, sir. You can stay here. No issue with that.” Sandra wasn’t having it.

“But we’ve run out of money—our car broke down in Amarillo, Texas,” Dad went on, laying it on a little thicker this time. “We’re far from home, and we’re tired.” He spread out his flower-filled hands in supplication.

“What are you asking, sir?” She looked at our pathetic appearance, mismatched hodgepodge luggage, and hands overflowing with beautiful flowers. I thought I saw her cringe.