Exorcism at Motel 6

I get the call around 10:38pm. Roll out of bed, light a cigarette, and drink what is left in a bottle I don’t remember. I look behind me; no one’s bleary head is on the other pillow. Father with daughter on the other end, no place else to go, no one else to call, so on and so forth. They were holed-up at Motel 6 off Highway 80, Exit 11, Room 112, “on the end, by the soda machines,” he says frantically. “Come quick!” He didn’t have to be so eloquent; I knew that motel pretty well. Hookers require attention. Father sounded frantic enough; I could hear his daughter in the background screaming violently, in tongues, working up a terrific climax. She was having orgasms like hiccups. Sounds of broken glass and demonic possession were clear; I believe she said something vulgar about The Pope in Latin. “Be there in five minutes,” I say coolly. Piss. Put on black suit, white collar, grab keys.

My Dodge Omni knocks like a Motel 6 headboard. I push it to 80 and think of the speeding ticket I hadn’t paid. My copy of that exchange is stuck to a coffee ring on the dash. Who gives a Priest a ticket? That officer will burn in Hell, if I have anything to do with it. The Mother Mary air freshener sways scentless from the rearview. Jesus dashboard ornament next to a hula dancer. I’ve never been to Hawaii. Mother Mary doesn’t smell like rose pedals anymore. Cigarette smoke fills the car, mixed with engine smoke and carbon monoxide—smells of gasoline fumes and transmission fluid leak in through the cracked-window. Breaks screech as I take the exit at 60mph. Tie-rods groan. Bald tires squeal. It suggests 25. Fuck 25. I don’t do 25 in front of schools. Motel 6 of all places! Been here many nights. The owner, Jorge, is a good Catholic from Santa Domingo. Doesn’t speak a lick of English but the rosary at the front desk is always a welcome sight. I sometimes come just for the continental breakfast, see who’s checking out. Do confessions over donuts and coffee. My collar gets me free nights. Christ is hung in every room, against Motel 6 corporate policy. He waves and smiles when I come and go, works nights (Jorge, not Christ). His wife works days. When do they make time to screw?

Room 112. Door is wide-open. Light is out. Daughter is on the bed levitating comfortably, a foot off the bed. Father is knocked out, apparently by the table lamp that was once bolted down. The door shuts behind me, violently. It locks. I fend off the lamp attack with a right forearm. The curtains are ripped from the window and the comforting glow of the Motel 6 sign is all over the child’s naked torso. She is fifteen, sixteen, maybe. Beautiful. Pale body, soft delicate thin features, doe-brown eyes and russet hair, lips chapped and bleeding. She is not yet ruined. Satan always has chapped lips. Her body is laced with cuts that look like train tracks. Satan’s latest poem is carved on her stomach and chest. I don’t care to read it. He’s a hack and I know he does poetry nights in New England bars. I pull my Bible but Satan is quicker and it is torn from my hand and shot across to an opposing wall where it explodes like a dead bird. Pages fly like feathers. The child laughs, tells me I have a little dick and degrades my mother, in Dutch. The father comes to. “Father,” he begs, pulling my pant leg. “She’s been this way since noon!” He looks at my missing arm. The phone is off the hook. Satanic voices are chanting on the other end.

His daughter calls him daddy and tells him to get more men and fuck her brains out. She talks worse than a phone sex operator. “Darling!” he implores crying like a baby.

“You’re wasting your breath. You’re talking to Satan, pops. Your daughter isn’t there.” He sobs in the corner. Daughter makes fun of him. Says he too has a little dick. Says he fucks little girls and licks men’s assholes in public restrooms.

            “Alright, bitch,” I say coolly, “enough small talk.” Good Book in my only hand. I grabbed the Gideon’s from the nightstand when she wasn’t looking. “Time to go back to Hell.” She gets pissed. Groans. Mirror shatters. TV turns on, full blast, Martha Stewart baking apple-turnovers. It explodes. Toilet flushes, shower turns on and steam comes from the bathroom. Radiator howls. The daughter is lying on the ceiling. She forms a pentagram with her outstretched limbs. Blood gushes from the sad Jesus hanging behind the bed. Daughter laughs and spits on my face. Then she has another orgasm on the ceiling. Dad cries, “Oh, good God!” She laughs. I stand there and say the Lord’s Prayer defiantly. Then I say the magic words in Latin, what has been taught to me, passed down for a thousand years to men like me. The girl screams through it. Her head spins. She crashes down, bounces twice off the blood-stained bed. Her body smokes, blisters. She rolls over, writhing in agony. I repeat the verse. I repeat it again. She calms down. Jesus stops bleeding. Father stops bawling. Lamp returned to nightstand, I even bolt it back in place so Jorge wouldn’t be upset doing his morning once-over. I find the TV remote and stick it to the Velcro strip. Devil is gone. To another girl somewhere. To a murder on 27^th Street. A rape in a dorm room. A molestation at a basement sleepover. To a war for oil, land, power. To a terrorist attack. To a betrayal of somebody somewhere. An adultery. The girl is fine, cries for her daddy, sleepily. They hug. Satan’s poetry no longer on her, it’s back on a New England open-stage where drunken people pretend to listen. She covers up modestly. I stare. She is the only perfect thing I have seen in months. Not ruined. I stand in the doorway and light a cigarette. Dad comes over to discuss compensation. “1500,” I say plainly. He gives me a look and writes the check.  “Where did you get my number?” I ask.

“The owner gave me your card.” Jorge was standing behind me, shaking, that rosary in his hands which were cupped in prayer. Tears in his fat eyes. I nod at him. He says something in Spanish. I think he wet himself. The card says: For a Good Exorcism Call Father Michael... Linda Blair’s face is on it, about to spin. I laugh. I had forgotten I gave those out. Must have been drunk. “Not to sound cheap,” he asks gently, looking over his shoulder at his beautiful resting daughter, “but 1500? The card says 750.”

               I exhale. “You’re lucky I answered my phone. After hours calls are always double. And I’m going to Hawaii. Well, hookers require attention...” I take the check, smile and leave. My rod-knocking Dodge Omni takes me to the liquor store two blocks over where I cash the check with my collar and buy a bottle of bourbon. It’s still early...