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t had been an intense training, during
which time Martha turned twenty, making her the hotel’s youngest manager.
“Juanita,” said the hotel’s
new manager of three weeks, “we are expecting the oil rig crew today. Would you
and the other girls make sure the rooms are ready?”
“Yes, Miss Daniels,” the pleasantly-plump maid of Mexican
descent continued with her dusting. Juanita wore a white uniform, and a hairnet
kept her dark curly hair in place. With a twinkle in her dark-brown eyes, she went
in search of the other girls.
The hotel lobby was decorated in overstuffed couches and chairs
from the late 1800s, when the Mexican cowboys moved cattle to the nearest
railroad. Pictures and animal heads hung on the walls that were reminiscent of
Texas. Behind the registration desk, stood Martha.
Martha was happy with her position as manager and even happier
to be off the farm. She spent her young life working in the field—not to
mention helping with her younger siblings and chores around the house. It was
just what families did.
She now helped her family differently by sending part of her
earnings to them. She knew how difficult it was to make a living as a sharecropper.
Long hours working on a sharecropper's farm, hoping for good weather and crops,
left one exhausted and discouraged. One of the benefits of her manager position
was free room and board. This allowed her to send money to her parents and to save a little for herself.
Hearing the front door open, she looked up to see a tall, lanky
young man walking in her direction. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties and well
built. “Welcome to the Prairie Hotel. Judging from your physique you must be
part of the oil rig crew that we are expecting.”
“Thanks,” said the six-foot-three young man, as he smiled at
Martha. She’s sure cute; I wonder if
she’s
seeing someone, he thought.
“My name’s
Joe—Joe Clayton. You were correct;
I am with the oil rig crew. Mr.
Reed has reserved some rooms for his men.” He ran his fingers through his hair
and smiled.
“Clayton. That name sounds vaguely familiar. Are you from around
this area?” Martha took in his blue eyes, wavy-blond hair, and dimpled smile. Please say yes.
“My folks own a thirty-acre farm about twenty miles outside of
town. I live with them to help out on the farm when I’m not on a job. Mr. Reed likes for his crew to stay close
when working a rig; it saves travel time, and if we run into a problem, it’s best to be in the same hotel.”
She checked the register, running her index finger down the
page. “Room 218, second floor, first door on the right at the top of the
stairs,” she said, as she handed him the key.
Their hands touched as he reached for the key. She jerked her
hand back, wondering if he, too, felt the jolt of electricity between them. His
face didn’t show it. Perhaps she imagined
it.
Taking the key, Joe grabbed his bag and climbed the stairs to
the second floor. Martha couldn't help but stare at his firm backside as he
walked away—and smiled. “We hope your stay will be a pleasant one.”
Standing in front of room 218, he put the key in the lock and
turned it. The door opened to a room like most hotel rooms, small but adequate.
The white two-inched
fringed cotton bedspread on the double bed brought a feeling of
home. An antique ash dresser, with attached mirror, was large enough for
his scanty belongings. Opening the two-door armoire, he placed his bag inside,
hanging his shirts on the hangers. He then dropped in the brown leather chair sitting
near the double screened-windows which faced the street.
His mind drifted to the girl behind the registration desk. He imagined
what it would be like taking her out to eat, to a picture show, or… What was he
thinking, he had just met her; he shook his head. Most likely, she would
already have a steady beau.
Looking at the wind-up clock on the dresser, he saw it was 5:45
p.m.; supper time was approaching. Joe’s
stomach rumbled, confirming his hunger and need for food. He slanted the
dresser's mirror up to check his appearance before going to supper. Satisfied with
his mirrored-image, he heads to the lobby where he sees the hotel manager.
“Excuse me, Miss—can you tell me where a guy can grab a decent meal
around here?”
“Sure, if you take a left as you exit the hotel, go down one block,
and you’ll see it on
the left. It’s a
white building with four screened-windows in the front and a bus station next
door. I like the country atmosphere; the prices are reasonable, and the food is
quite delicious. The Corner Café’s
sign is above the door; you can't miss it.
He followed Martha’s
directions to the nearby Corner Cafe. The tiny, clean, café had square tables.
Each covered with red-checkered cloths; in the center sat a napkin holder and
salt and pepper shakers. The café had a relaxed small-town feeling about it,
which Joe appreciated. Noticing an empty table in the back, he walked across the
wooden floor and sat down.
A petite, red-haired waitress with emerald eyes brought him a
menu. “Welcome to the Corner Café,” she said, handing him the menu and giving
him a broad smile.
“What can I get you to drink?”
“I’ll have a large glass of
iced tea, please.” She disappeared, only to return with the iced tea and ready to
take his order.
“The chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with gravy, and southern
green beans sounds good. I'll also have a big slice of homemade apple pie,” he told
the waitress, handing her the menu.
This seemed to be the favorite spot for the townspeople—young
and old. A seasoned couple sat by the windows, enjoying apple pie and coffee.
The gentleman wore khaki trousers with suspenders and a blue shirt. His
slight balding gray hair, he combed neatly and parted on the left side. The
woman dressed in a delicate pink outfit, silver hair, and blue eyes sat across
from her mate. It touched Joe's heart seeing the couple holding each other’s wrinkled-with-age hands.
Joe noticed one teenage couple, sitting to his left, eating
burgers and feeding each other catsup-drenched fries.
The perky brown-haired girl, dressed in a dark-blue print skirt
and a matching short-sleeved blouse was around sixteen. She giggled, as she
wiped a smudge of catsup from her date's mouth on her napkin.
The curly, sandy-haired boy, about eighteen years of age,
dressed in khaki trousers and a plaid shirt—smiled.
Joe thought about the job ahead of him as he sipped his iced
tea…and of the hotel manager. She must have suggested the same café to the
other crew members because three of them were headed his way.
He motioned to them, “Bill, you guys come join me; I hate
eating alone.” They walked over to Joe’s
table and pulling out the ladder-back chairs, sat down.
Making her way back to Joe’s
table, the waitress asked, “What can I get you boys tonight? Our special is chicken-fried
steak, mashed potatoes, southern green beans, and homemade apple pie.”
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