What You See in the Dark - Manuel Munoz [38]
“I suppose you’re right,” the driver said, putting his hands in his pockets.
“You know, I really can’t imagine that I’m going to need you to drive me anywhere for the rest of the day. Why don’t you check into your room?”
“I’m not staying at this hotel, ma’am. Me and the crew find places over off the highway, where the truckers stay.”
She knew what those places were, the side motels she’d seen along Highway 99 leading into Bakersfield, work trucks parked patiently in their gravel lots while the drivers rested for the night, a long row of identical doors, identical rooms, meager by comparison to her own hotel room across the street, simple as it was. The Sleep-Tite Motel. The Knight and Day. The Star-dust. Their neon signs off during the daytime, but as the highway approached the outer edges of Bakersfield, they sprang up closer to each other, and she pictured how they might look to a weary driver, a cluster of safety in the darkness, and such a long day of driving that sleep would come with alarming ease, no matter the endless traffic droning on through the night, just outside the door.
He led them across the avenue, and she peered down the road one more time but knew the afternoon was now lost. She wondered briefly—then stopped herself—if there might have been an accident, and by wishing the thought away, she removed it as a possibility. They were running late was all, and when the Director finally arrived, he’d prepare everyone with a new schedule for the brief, decidedly private shoot. It was just the beginning of work on the film—the preliminary stages—and the hard work and the curiosity from the public was yet to come.
“Well, I suppose there’s not much else to do but go up and take a nap.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You should probably go on ahead and check into your room. Save yourself some time. I honestly won’t need you this afternoon.”
“Only if you’re sure, ma’am. I can wait here until the Director arrives.”
“No, no,” she begged off, and started toward the hotel door, and he moved with her, then ahead, in order to open it for her.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll call the front desk on the hour, so if you change your mind, let them know. I’ll drive right back.”
She smiled in thanks and was about to step into the lobby. “Driver,” she called out. “Listen, I feel terrible. I’ve never even asked you for your name.”
“Carter,” he said, returning her smile, and he bowed his head a little.
“Thank you, Carter, for everything this morning,” the Actress said. She stepped into the lobby, knowing he wasn’t going to follow, but disappointed still when his footsteps failed to sound behind her. The desk clerk nodded at her in greeting and also in silent affirmation that he had heard nothing yet from the missing guest, the lobby completely empty of any sound, any movement, and she walked to the tiny elevator and waited in the quiet, while the desk clerk turned a single page of newspaper to sink into his afternoon reading.
No one in the carpeted hallway, no maid’s service cart to inspect and memorize in passing, no maid with a downturned look of exhaustion. No one, she began to believe, on the entire floor. The Actress entered her room and took off her shoes, sitting on the bed to massage her feet. It had been a long morning, and she’d been up so early for the driver to bring her all the way here, only to wait.
A nap would come easy in this silence. She walked over to the door to double-check its lock, and once she was done, she removed her skirt, her blouse, and the constriction of her bra and lay on the bed. She closed her eyes, replaying the conversation she’d had with the driver, regretful of how she had described the role. Could she have told it to him in another way? Would it have mattered? It had been the only moment, really, when the driver had been anything but cordial, kind, respectful, the look that had washed over his face when he realized she would be doing something wrong in this picture. She opened