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Klaus hadn't gotten what he meant by 'once in a lifetime', but Roger had said to shut up and hear him out.
Stan and Steve were arguing loudly upstairs. Every few seconds, Klaus caught a few words. He made a game of trying to connect the bits he could hear into a story. Something about a party in another town with a deer who could talk, but only to Steve. None of it made sense. Roger sat at the kitchen table, his tablet on the surface next to him. He was tuning out the noise Klaus had been engrossed in, attention fixed on the bowl where the fish floated as he divulged his plan. Roger's head looked a lot more bulbous than usual, his eyes shrinking and growing unevenly in the distorting water. Klaus didn't need to hear any more. He was convinced.
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After they crossed the border into Tennessee, the road flattened out. Roger's lament steadily picked up steam over the following half hour. The zeroes would change them, he'd said. Seeing something this rare was like seeing a centennial comet, you'd only get one chance. He said Klaus should be excited, seeing all of this from a stupid bowl. Klaus thought that was rich coming from him. Roger would live much longer than it could take to fill that dinky odometer, why was he so excited? On the road with him though, Klaus knew he didn't need an answer. It was a good afternoon to be trundling along the interstate in his friend's beat up car.
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On the weathered exit sign, an upcoming hotel was indicated by a bed in a little blue square. Normally Roger would just hole up in the car for the night. He'd recline his seat, pull a sunhat down over his eyes, go to sleep with his foot on the brake. But Klaus had insisted. Being closer to the city's light meant attractions, new sights, and junk food. Roger just hoped Klaus would be entertained by whatever brightly-lit commercial trap they could find open this late. He took the exit, suppressing a yawn.
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The new road was quiet until the car jolted abruptly, water splashing, but Roger kept his foot on the pedal. He shifted into reverse, a grumble turning into a barely contained shout, and shifted gears. When the back bumper cleared the curb, Klaus let out a tired sigh of relief. They'd pick up the upended sign in the morning. The dim parking lot combined with a stained windshield made the neon sign unreadable as the car rolled into an empty spot. Roger with his suitcase in tow grabbed Klaus' bowl under one arm, nudged the passenger door shut. In the cool night air, they could see. Vacancy.
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Inside, Roger had covered every flat surface in the room with his clothing. What do you want to do, Klaus?
Klaus turned over in his bowl. He'd dozed off for a minute on his own large bed, bowl sitting squarely in the middle of the comforter. The glass pressing on the navy blue looked like a pond out of a painting, somewhere he could dive in and enter another world. He almost got there, too, seven hours trying to keep his eyes open with gentle shocks going through the car had lulled him. What? You were asleep at the wheel in the parking lot. They're going to charge that crap to our room.
No man, let's hit the pool! Come on.
Fine. Roger was already dressed for it, trunks and goggles on, a blue and white striped inner tube around his waist. He must have blown it up at the last rest stop in anticipation, stashed it in the unoccupied backseat. Now it would just be more trouble to try and dissuade him. He'd probably make Klaus sleep in the bathroom if he pushed back. Klaus rolled his eyes.
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Guests were avoiding the pool at this hour. It seemed a lone man with sallow grey skin and dark circles was playing Marco Polo alone, talking to a shifting spot in the water.
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Being more concrete than tile, the patio wasn't one they would find in a magazine. A vending machine was the only source of light, half of the hostas by the opposite gate disappearing into a deep swath of dark. Roger plopped onto the metal bench, putting Klaus' bowl barely in the light of the machine. Roger's inner tube scuffed, hitting the ground next to the bowl. Wallet in hand, he got up to read the listings and codes through the glass. One bill. Roger looked behind the tiny swinging door, then shook the machine. Another. He punched in the same code, harder this time, then waited. One long grey arm snaked into the outtake, Klaus was hiding a grin. Loud expletives had not convinced the machine Roger deserved his purchase, and he tried kicking.
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Roger sat in a patio chair with his cola, facing away from the now fractured light. His eyelids half closed, a growing bruise framed one eye. The reception desk had enough gauze in their first aid kit, and the box lay open on the ground. Roger took an even sip with his uninjured hand, the sound filling the heavy silence. You were loving that.
Klaus didn't hide his smile. Yes.
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Sitting on his bed, Klaus' bowl on the breakfast tray, Roger dialed again. He knew they'd pick up. Stan would be so happy to hear from them, maybe he'd get off of Steve's case about their current spat. Dial tone gave way to the Smith's answering machine recording for a second time. Roger cursed them loud enough for the neighbors to hear. He slammed the receiver down, again and again.
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A menthol slim stuck out of Roger's mouth. The smoke didn't seem to want to leave through the open window, it caught a new current as soon as the wind started to draw it out, curling back behind Roger's headrest and into the empty back seat. Klaus held his tongue. The last time he'd shot Roger a barb about the habit, something like, Wow, you two are getting serious. Sure you're ready to settle down, Roger?, he'd been startled by the hiss of a dying ember next to him in the water.
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Klaus tried Roger's cell phone as they passed the words Welcome To Mississippi. The family still wouldn't pick up.