The Boy Who Invented the Bubble Gun by Paul Gallico Page A

single street of the small town that was almost like a movie set.
    The sign read INDIAN FALLS MOTEL, R. GRADY, PROP., and the motel name was repeated in vari-coloured electric light bulbs that blinked on and off. It was a rather fair-sized establishment since, although Indian Falls was no great shakes of a metropolis, in fact hardly a dot on the map, tourists coming through at nightfall preferred to stay there and run the twisting roads of the pass in the morning. R. Grady was known as Pop and naturally his wife was Mom. Pop had been dried out by the sun until he was as stringy and tough as a slab of jerked deer meat. Mom, on the other hand, had two Mexican girls to do all the dirty work and so had blown up into a rotund and comfortable butterball with three chins and specs worn mostly on top of her head.
    The cabins were gathered, in a U-curve, around the court in which there were planted flowers and cactus and yucca, with the office at one end of the U and the dining-room at the other.
    Behind the counter Pop booked the passengers in, and Mom billowing over a high stool handed out the keys. At the end of the line Marge and Bill and Julian were waiting to be assigned rooms, with Julian barely visible over the top of the counter. Neither Mom nor Pop noticed him.
    Pop looked queryingly at Marge and Bill, spotted the ring on Marge’s finger and said, “Mr. and Mrs. . . . ?” He looked up at them and when neither said anything, chortled, “Newlyweds,” and then to Marge, “You’re gonna have to get used to having your name changed ma’am. Never mind, the room’s on the bus company anyway. Mr. and Mrs. Newlywed.” He turned to his wife. “Number twenty-five, Mom.”
    Mom said, “Welcome, folks. Now, where did that number twenty-five get to? I thought I had it in my hand.” She began a search for the missing key which seemed to be neither in its box nor on the counter before her. “. . . I could of swore I had it in my hand.”
    Pop said, “Use your specs, Mom. You’re blind as an old gopher without ’em.” Quite suddenly he became aware of carroty hair, a forehead and half a pair of steel-rimmed glasses showing above the counter. Julian was standing on tiptoes so that he would be noticed.
    Pop said, “Well, hello, buster. Where did you come from?”
    Julian replied, “The bus. C-c-can I have a room, p-p-please?”
    “Ain’t you with nobody?”
    Julian shook his head in negation.
    Pop glanced at the key rack. “Right now it looks like we’re fresh out of rooms. Ain’t that so, Mom?”
    Mom was now engaged in frisking her ample person. “That’s right. Everyone’s took. Now where did I put that dratted key?”
    Pop said, “What do we do about this shaver here? Kid’s all by hisself, but he’s on the bus.”
    Mom leaned over the counter for a look at Julian. “All by hisself, is he? Well, there just ain’t any more rooms.” Suddenly she looked sharply at Marge and Bill and an edge crept into her voice. “Say? You two are a young married couple. You’re gonna have to get used to kids sometime. How about taking him in with you? Number twenty-five’s got a foldaway bed in it.”
    She had flipped her glasses down from the top of her head and from behind them her eyes glared at them. The boy and the girl could only exchange one miserable glance before Mom challenged them again. “Well?”
    Marge said, “All right, you can put him in with us.”
    Mom said, “Well, that’s right nice of you. Oh, for land’s sakes, here’s the key all the time right in my pocket. Now what on earth did I put it there for? Here you are.” She handed it to Bill and then said to Julian, “There. Now you go along with them, sonny. You got any luggage?”
    As Julian exhibited his little suitcase Bill had moved Marge off to one side and fiercely angry, muttered, “What the hell did you say yes for?”
    Anguished Marge replied, “Bill, what could I do? Don’t you see? They saw this,” and indicated the wedding ring.