Running the Bulls by Cathie Pelletier Page A

a hand at Larry, pretending to be embarrassed by the whole thing, and the waitress would bring the celebrating couple a drink on the house. And then, Larry would finally play “It’s All in the Game” by Tommy Edwards, knowing the words well. Many a tear has to fall but it’s all in the game. Larry had played that song on their anniversary for almost twenty years, ever since the Holiday Inn had opened its doors. The first notes on the piano would be Howard’s cue to whisk Ellen to her feet and waltz her onto the little dance floor. It used to be you could go to the Holiday Inn, eat egg rolls and weenies on a real glass plate, drink a good martini, and feel like a million bucks. But after Eva Braun arrived, there were no more complimentary drinks, no matter how regular the regulars had been over the years, and no matter what the occasion. Expenses were being cut back, or so she had informed the piano man, the bartender, and the waitresses. “And no more free drinks for you between sets,” she’d told Larry, who by then had learned to guard his ass as though it were a piece of his front lawn. The same went for Wally. “Only water is free. Everything else you people pay for.”
    â€œWe got two rooms left, a double and a king,” Howard heard someone say. He turned and saw that the receptionist had finally materialized behind the reception desk, where she was supposed to be all along. She smelled of smoke, and Howard realized that she must have sneaked into some back area for a cigarette. He stared at the No Smoking sign over her head. Why do people who smoke think they can fool people who don’t smoke? Howard had always wondered. “You want one?” she asked, her breath finally reaching him with its sour tobacco odor. At first he thought she had meant a Winston or a Marlboro, until he remembered where he was.
    â€œWell, now that you mention it, I am here for a room,” Howard said. What had happened with civility? With good manners? With a business treating its customers as though they were, well, important to the company? Maybe politeness was being cut back these days, too. After all, it takes less time to be rude. “Is one of those rooms nonsmoking, by any chance?” The receptionist banged a few keys on her computer board and stared at the monitor as though she were looking into some crystal ball. Or maybe she envisioned herself on the Enterprise, gazing forth into other worlds. The new Holiday Inn just starting up on Mars, perhaps. A moon of Jupiter. It was just a matter of time, after all. Howard rocked on the balls of his feet while he waited for a reply.
    â€œYup,” she finally said. “The room with the king, right next to the ice machine. What credit card will you be using?”
    ***
    Howard had no doubt that room seventeen, next to the ice machine at the front of the building, and with a king-size bed that looked more like a sad shrimp boat, might be considered a nonsmoking room by a heavy smoker. He, however, smelled the aftermath of countless cigarettes the moment he opened the door. Smoke clung to the curtains, the thin towels, the worn bedspread, to every fiber of the shoddy rug. He saw nothing that reminded him of the welcoming room that had been there in 1978, when he and Ellen spent one of their anniversaries in a king-size bed. It had been a splendid room, he remembered, not fancy but brightly new and still proud of itself. A bucket of champagne had been sent ahead and was waiting for them, Compliments of Larry, Wally, and the Gang in the Lounge. And there was a vase of flowers on the desk, from the Holiday Inn itself. And a coupon for a complimentary breakfast in the dining room, two free drinks in the lounge, all part of the big Getaway Weekend offered by the motel.
    Howard stood in the doorway of the small bathroom and stared down at the single bottle of shampoo and conditioner, two chunks of manna in one. Next to it lay the fragile