Furiously I flipped up the other switch. That, it developed, lit up the
red "office" sign outside and above the office door.
It was a beautiful evening. After the hot day the breeze was cooling
and refreshing. The branches of the slender little Chinese elms waved
gently.
When I had put the children to bed Grant said, "It's too nice to be
inside. Let's go outside once." We sat on the curb of the front island
of grass and watched our sign proudly. The island in which the sign
stood was planted in myrtle and bright Martha Washington geraniums, and
now, with the reflection of the soft neon light on them, they were a
mass of color.
Cars were thick in front of the cocktail lounge across the street.
Every once in a while a car, leaving, would make a turn in the highway
preparatory to going back to the business district, and we'd catch our
breaths.
"I thought sure that one was coming in," Grant remarked, at intervals,
about five times while we sat there. And then suddenly the neon lights
flickered and went out, leaving a complete and utter blackness.
We sat there, horrified. Without a neon sign, there wasn't the
slightest possibility that any of the cars on the highway would stop at
our motel . . . indeed, their drivers couldn't possibly realize that
there was a motel here at all.
By the light of a match. Grant called up the electricity company. No
doubt twenty other people were calling them, too, but he wanted to be
sure they'd have the lines repaired at once. I happened to remember
that I had put some candles on one of the shelves under the kitchen
sink. We lighted two candles, setting one in a saucer on the desk in
the office, and the other in the living room.
The electricity was off until after eleven-thirty. It wasn't the whole
city of Banning that was affected; just an area of about two blocks,
starting with us and extending west, toward the business district. The
Peacock's sign was blazing twice as brightly beside all that darkness,
and every once in a while a car left the surge of traffic and slipped
into the Peacock's driveway.
And then, at nearly midnight, our sign flashed on again. Of course all
the other signs did too, but ours was the only one we saw, even though
its modest, steady colors were put to shame by the flashing red, white
and blue eye of the Winking Eye, the second motel to the west of us.
The lights hadn't been on ten minutes when a sleek black sedan nosed
into our driveway.
"A customer!" Grant exclaimed.
"You go, you go," I chattered, wondering how on earth I'd manage when
he went back to Los Angeles and I'd have to overcome my shyness and
talk to our customers myself.
But Grant was already approaching the driver.
I was sitting on the curb of the island, and I couldn't quite hear
their voices. But after a few seconds of conversation the man got out
of the car and followed Grant into one of the cabins. Then he went back
with Grant into the office. "He's registering!" I thought with awe.
Presently the man came out of the office, got back into his car and
drove into the garage adjoining the cabin he had looked at. I could see
now that there were two people in the back seat.
I hurried into the office, where Grant, with a dazed expression, stood
looking at a five dollar bill and a fifty-cent piece.
"Our first money from the motel," he said. "Shall we frame it?"
There was no door between the office and our living room. The whole
interior of the cabin was lighted up by our neon sign. When we lay in
bed we could see the desk in the office; and, conversely, people
standing in the office would be able to see us.
Grant hung a filmy curtain over the doorway, fastening it at the top
with thumb tacks. When the office light was on and the living room
light was off, we discovered by experimentaion, it was possible to see
from the living room into the office, but not the reverse.
That, I reflected as I lay in bed, would be very cozy. I'd be able to
lie in bed and watch while people filled out registration cards (which
would be a soothing agent to my rather abnormal curiosity)--but they
wouldn't be able to see me. This seemed like the ultimate in privacy.
And to have a real bed, a soft comfortable bed again, seemed the
ultimate in luxury.
After we went to bed people began driving in, thick and fast. Grant had
to hop out of bed so many times that finally he decided to stay up. He
put on his robe and slippers and sat in a chair in the office doorway.
I watched avidly as he rented cabins, admiring again the ease and
sureness with which he did something he had never done before.
I had dozed off, in spite of the lumbering of trucks and the zipping of
traffic along the highway. I felt someone shaking me. "Come and look
once," Grant said.