Ellen sat waiting in the Buick while Fr. Dean Finn checked in at
the motel office. He always registered them as Mr. and Mrs. George
Adams of Syracuse, New York. There was no objection to a couple
without luggage taking a room for a couple of hours at the
Hit-the-Sack. The desk clerk, a poorly-shaven, perpetually smirking
man of thirty-five lewd years, had managed, in the midst of an
ambiance of sexuality which should have inoculated him against
disgust, to cultivate a urinal of a mind. People came to his office
thinking of their affair as a matter of love or fun or nature or
bawdry or even mystical oneness. The desk clerk never allowed these
patrons to raise him to their level of innocence. Rather, he saw to
it that their ecstasies were not unashamed. His grin evoked for
them the puritanism of their parents, the prurience of the
adolescent gang, the hellfire of the preachers, the chancres of sex
hygiene movies, the self-consciousness of the stag party. Finn
hated the man; he was always tempted to sprinkle holy water on him.
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