Marie said she had better be gettin’ on home, it had been fun but her mother was sick and would worry - a lie, thought Donnell; her mood had changed markedly since visiting the ladies’ room, and she was not as tolerant of Richmond’s affections. They left during the credits of the second feature and dropped her at a white stucco house a mile from the motel. The front yard was lined with lawn decorations for sale: stone frogs, plastic flamingos, mirrored balls on pedestals, arranged in curved rows facing the road, like the graduation grouping of an extraterrestrial high school. Richmond stole one of the mirrored balls and stared gloomily at his reflection in it as they drove towards the motel. Donnell suggested they try for the car, and Richmond said that he was hungry.
‘I’d like to go back to the room,’ said Jocundra firmly.
Richmond hurled the ball against the side of the van. Silvery pieces flew into the front seat, and Jocundra swerved.
‘Be fuckin’ reasonable!’ yelled Richmond. ‘You been stickin’ to the room so damn much, Sealey’s gonna think we kidnapped you! I ain’t boostin’ no car ‘less I eat.’
Sealey’s was frigid with air conditioning, poorly lit by lights shining through perforations in the ceiling board. A plate glass window provided a view of highway and scrub. The kitchen was laid out along the rear wall, partitioned off from two rows of black vinyl booths, interrupted by the entrance on one side, a waitress station and cash register on the other. A long-nosed, saw-toothed fish was mounted above the grill, and there were photographs stapled beneath the health classification, all yellowed, several of children, one portraying a younger, less bulbous Sealey in Marine blues. At the end of the aisle a juke box sparkled red and purple, clicking to itself like a devilish robot. They took the booth beside it. Sealey remained behind the register, indifferent to their presence until Richmond called for service; then he stumped over to them. Donnell asked to see a menu.
‘Ain’t got no menus,’ said Sealey. ‘I got burgers and fries, egg salad. I got fish, beer, Pepsi, milk.’
He clanged his spatula on the grill as he cooked, clattered their plates on the table, and dumped their silverware in a pile. He folded his arms and glowered at them.
‘You folks leavin’ tomorrow?’
‘Yeah,’ said Donnell, and Jocundra chipped in with, ‘We’ll be getting an early start.’
‘Well, I don’t mind,’ said Sealey, regarding them with a mix of superiority and distaste.
‘What kind of fish is that?’ asked Donnell, pointing to the trophy above the grill, meaning to placate, to charm.
Sealey pitied him with a stare. ‘Gar.’ He scuffed the floor in apparent frustration. ‘Damn,’ he said; he scratched the back of his neck and refolded his arms. ‘It ain’t that I don’t need the business, and I don’t give a damn what you do to each other…’
‘We ain’t doin’ shit, man,’ said Richmond.
‘But,’ Sealey continued, ‘that don’t mean I got to like what’s goin’ on.’
‘I think you’ve got the wrong idea,’ said Jocundra meekly.
Sealey sucked on a tooth. ‘If you was my daughter and I seen you with these two in some motel…’ He shook his head slowly, staggered by the prospect of what he might do were such the case, and stumped back to the register, muttering.
His professed hunger notwithstanding, Richmond did not eat. He fed quarters to the jukebox, syrupy country and western music welled forth, and he danced in the aisle with an imaginary woman. ‘Broken dreams and heartsick mem-o-rees,’ he howled, mocking the sappy lyrics as he dry-humped his invisible partner. He ordered beer after beer, taking pleasure in stirring Sealey off his stool, and each time the man brought him a fresh bottle, Richmond would weave threats and insults into his rap. ‘Some people you can just fuck with their minds and they’ll leave your ass alone,’ he said, squinting up at Sealey. ‘But some people’s so dumb and ugly you gotta terrorize them motherfuckers.’ Sealey either ignored him or did not catch his drift; he retook his seat behind the register and thumbed through a magazine whose cover showed soldiers of different eras marching beneath a tattered American flag.
It would soon be necessary, thought Donnell, to part company with Richmond; he was becoming uncontrollable. Richmond would not mind them deserting, he only wanted to flame out somewhere, but the idea bothered Donnell; he felt no loyalty whatsoever to Richmond, and this lack reflected on his inhumanity. They should share a loyalty founded on common trials, the loyalty of prisoners and victims, yet they did not; the bonds of their association were disintegrating, proving to be as meager as those between strangers traveling on a bus. Perhaps loyalty was merely a chemical waiting to be released, a little vat of sparkling fluid hidden away in some area of his brain as yet uninfested by bacteria, and when the bacteria spread to it, he would light up inside with human virtues.
‘Some people you gotta waste,’ said Richmond, deep into his rap. ‘You gotta go to war with ‘em, otherwise they won’t let you be.’ He had untied his pony tail, and his hair spilled down over his sunglasses; his skin was drawn so tightly across his bones that whenever he smiled you could see complex knots of muscle at the ends of his lips. ‘War,’ he said, savoring the word, and drank a toast to it with the last of his beer.
Jocundra nudged Donnell’s leg; her lips were pressed together, and she entreated him silently to leave. Donnell glanced at the wall clock; it was after one. ‘Let’s go, Jack,’ he said. ‘We want to hit New Orleans before dawn.’
They were halfway along the aisle, slowed by Donnell’s halting pace, when a grumbling roar came from the highway and a motorcycle cop pulled up in front. ‘Just keep goin’,’ said Richmond. ‘Dude’s just comin’ off shift. He was in this afternoon.’ He laughed. ‘Looks like a damn nigger bike… all them bullshit fenders and boxes stuck all over.’
The cop dismounted and removed his helmet. He was young with close-cropped dark hair and rabbity features; his riding jacket was agleam with blue highlights from the neon sign. The record ended, the selector arm chattered along the rack, stopped, and began clicking.
‘Couple of burgers?’ asked Sealey as the cop pushed on in, and the cop said, ‘Yeah, coffee.’ He gave them a brief onceover and sat at the booth beside the entrance.
They waited at the cash register while Sealey tossed two patties on the grill and brought the cop his coffee; he sipped and made a sour face. ‘I can’t get used to this chicory,’ he said. ‘Can’t a man get a regular cup of coffee ‘round here?’
‘Most of my customers are dumb coon-ass Cajuns,’ said Sealey by way of apology. ‘They can’t live without it.’ He moseyed back to the register and took Jocundra’s money.
Donnell glued his eyes to the countertop.
‘Hey, Officer,’ said Richmond. ‘What kinda piston ratio you runnin’ on that beast?’
The cop blew on his coffee, disinterested. ‘Hell, I don’t know diddley ‘bout the damn thing. I’m on temporary with the highway division.’
‘Yeah?’ Richmond was aggravated. ‘Man don’t know what he’s ridin’ don’t belong on the road.’
Surprised, the cop glared at Richmond over the edge of his cup, but let it pass.