Motel Stories by William Torphy

Author:William Torphy
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: torphy, motel stories, unsolicited press, fiction, novel in stories
Publisher: Unsolicited Press
Published: 2023-09-12T00:00:00+00:00

TOAD SCHOLARS

Edward sat staring at his glass of Scotch, lamenting his failure to square the motel’s books, the numbers crooked. The accountant had come on Monday morning and barely acknowledged him before snatching the ledger from his hands and leaving in a hurry.

His brooding was interrupted by the clamor of a battered white van hurtling into the parking court. Music boomed from its bowels and reverberated against the motel’s stucco walls. Screeching voices accompanied by dissonant wails and percussive thumps somehow made him imagine feeding time at the zoo. A montage of decals advertising rock groups competed for space on the van’s dented sides with the name Toad Scholars scrawled in big, black Gothic script. Edward took a quick sip from his glass to bolster himself for the imminent onslaught.

The van’s back door slid open with a bang. A young woman in her early twenties, flaunting spiky pink hair and a treasury’s worth of ear piercings, shimmied from her seat. Her black miniskirt slid up her thighs. Edward bet she wasn’t wearing anything underneath, and lowered his head to get a better perspective. She spotted his maneuver, and stuck out her pierced tongue before giving him a casual finger.

A young man, a boy with a blond buzzcut, scampered out onto the asphalt, laughing like an adolescent hyena. His midriff-baring, metallic T-shirt gleamed in the afternoon sun.

The girl swatted at him. “That’s so not funny, Casey. You’re such a fucking—”

“Dickhead?” someone with a deep voice in the front seat volunteered.

“More like, fag asshole!” she hissed.

Two guys clambered out from the front seats. Both wore washed-out flannel shirts, ragged jeans torn at the knees, and black Converses. Their tousled hair and unshaven stubble made them appear older than their bandmates. The driver, brown-haired, tall and lanky, sported a sparse, aspirational Vandyke. He peered at the surroundings critically. His shorter companion shook his head of curly black hair and exclaimed, “It’s fucking hot here!” before stripping off his shirt to reveal a muscular torso covered with a multiverse of tattoos.

Edward recognized the cliché. The female singer with conspicuous piercings, the androgynous blond pretty boy, the lanky, good-looking lead guitarist, and the bad boy drummer. The Sunset Inn was popular with second-rate bands looking for a cheap place to stay close to the Hollywood clubs.

The blasting music persisted. Edward flung open the door and shouted, “Turn that mayhem down!” The driver lowered the stereo’s volume to a level that was merely annoying.

The pink-haired girl stretched her arms to the sky, showcasing her thighs. “Amakhanian’s booked us into another crap motel again!” she complained. “I can’t wait to ditch these shitholes after we become famous.” Clearly stoned, she nearly fell while twirling on one foot.

The driver loomed over her. “Count your fucking blessings, Shannon. We’ve got club bookings up the ass. Hollywood, the Valley, and Long Beach.”

“I know,” she said, mimicking his voice, “Quit your dreaming and scheming.”

The brawny drummer glared at her. “Dream all you fucking want, but I’m done with your scheming.”

“Why, Mr. Craig,” she replied in a Valley Girl’s version of a Dixie Belle’s accent.

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