Page 1 of Hunting Ground

1

The key card is slapped down in front of me on the desk with a loud, almost hollow thump. The man’s hand remains covering it, like he’s scared I’ll snatch it away and leave him with nothing, but I just sip my iced coffee and look at him plaintively.

“The door. Doesn’t. Work,” he says, not for the first time. But this time he enunciates every single word as if I need help understanding.

It certainly doesn’t put me in a better mood, and it doesn’t make me like him better. “I heard you the first time, the second time…and now the third time. I promise you, I absolutely assure you, the door to Room 7 does in fact work.” I can’t make my voice friendly or chipper or anything. I don’t have enough coffee in my body, or enough fucks to give.

The older woman standing behind him looks embarrassed to be there, and that only makes me feel worse. Normally I wouldn’t mind drawing this out a little, and wasting his time like he wants to waste mine. After all, at almost midnight on a Wednesday, what else am I going to do? At least, until the Halloween fuckery starts Friday morning and I find any reason in the world to not be around for the inevitable trick-r-treaters, prank pulling teenagers, and adults that drive faster than their IQ on their way to ruin my night.

I smile painfully at the older woman, noting her silvery grey hair and the way her long, thin fingers with inflamed joints grip the handbag she holds in front of her like a shield. “I’m so sorry,” I tell her, purposefully speaking over the man in front of me like he doesn’t matter. “I don’t mean for you to have to wait. Sir, could I get her checked in, please? Before I show you how the door works?” I just narrowly avoid saying ‘how doors work’ to imply he can’t even figure that out.

But that would be rude.

And I’ve already been chastised this month for that.

“Oh, it’s all right. I’m just–” The woman begins, only to be cut off by the man sidestepping to cut off my view of her.

“I was in line first,” he snaps like a fucking toddler not getting his uppies. I expect him to stomp his foot next, and I’m surprised when he doesn’t break into a full tantrum.

For a few moments, I only give him a withering look. But then I let out a breath, deciding that getting rid of him is probably my main concern. “Please feel free to have a seat, ma’am,” I say sweetly to the older woman, half just to prove that I can be polite when the situation calls for it. “There’s coffee on the sidebar if you’d like some. I will be back super quick.”

I push off the counter and walk around it, adjusting my name tag that says night manager as I do. With one last glance at the man, I open the door, ushering him through it like he’s important instead of just whining. He, of course, has the audacity to look pleased with himself, and comments loudly about the falling standards of customer care across America.

“Do you travel across America often?” I ask sweetly, and watch as he takes a moment to try to decide if I’m being sincere or not.

“Used to,” the man grunts. “Back when customer service was alive and well.”

“I see. First time in New Jersey?”

But he doesn’t get to answer. Thankfully, the walk to room 7 is short enough to prevent the need for real conversation, and when we stop outside of it, I lift my hand, palm up, to take the keycard from him. “If I may?”

He hands it to me, and his scowl returns. “I did what you said,” the man snaps, wiping sweat off the rolls of his forehead. Which, I have to stop and admire, because I never knew one could get fat rolls like this on their forehead.

“Did you?”

“Yeah. Scanned the card, and immediately turned the handle to the right. Even jiggled it around a little. Tried it to the left too,” he grunts.

“Oh, I’m so sorry–if I said turn it to the left, I didn’t mean to.” I hadn’t, and he knows it. But the man just stands there without confirming or denying what I’d said.

But that’s okay. Because we both know that I’m right, and that will help me sleep when the sun comes up. Slowly, to demonstrate to my least favorite guest of the month, I press the key card to the reader. It beeps and I quickly turn the handle up to the right…prompting the door to pop right open.

The only sound in the night air is the creaking of the hinges as it swings inward, and I hold the card out between two fingers before meeting the man’s gaze again. He, of course, doesn’t say a word. His lips are pressed in a flat line, and already more sweat is gathering on his forehead, even though it’s the middle of the night in October near the shore. It isn’t warm here, that’s for sure. It’s cool enough that I’m in a hoodie and leggings, with my plain green t-shirt barely peeking out over the zipper with the faded words ‘Rest Easy Inn,’ still visible in pale yellow.

“Have a good night,” I tell him, when an apology is not forthcoming. Not that I expected it would be. “If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to come see me at the front desk.” I’d rather he did hesitate. “Rest easy!” I chirp the stupid little slogan that’s also the name of the motel, before turning and heading back up front. It’s only a few seconds later that the door slams behind him, and another door opens in response, the man inside blinking blearily as the scent of marijuana precedes him into the night air.

“Open a window, Joel,” I sigh, not looking at the old stoner who comes here twice a week to get away from his nitpicking wife. “I don’t want to have to tell Miranda that you were smoking in there again.”

“Sorry, Sable,” he laughs apologetically. “Forgot. Hey, you gettin’ the cable fixed this week?”

“He should be coming out tomorrow. Why? Got a Halloween marathon planned on pay-per-view?” I cast a look over my shoulder to see him take a long drag off of a sloppily rolled joint. “Or just the usual?”

The usual, of course, being copious amounts of porn that I have to manually list on his receipt. If I’d had any sense of naivety left before coming here, then writing the words, ‘Sperms of Endearment,’ or ‘Ocean’s 11 Inches!’ would’ve knocked that right out of me.

Joel gives an awkward little chuckle, but before I can round the corner back to the office, he calls, “Can you tell the guys in the red truck to turn down their music? Or at least park somewhere else if they’re just going to sit in their truck and smoke?”

Red truck?

I search my memory for a guest that had checked in with a red truck, before or after my shift had started, and I pause with my hand on the brick facade of the building.