They rode down out of the desert just at dusk, two approaching dust plumes letting anybody who cared know that they were coming. The town, tucked in its little valley between the mountains and the high desert plateau, seemed indifferent to their arrival: it was preparing for something which seemed to occupy everybody and require that they all be out in the street, wandering around with festive trappings.

The two men piloted their motorcycles slowly down the main street, carefully steering around the crowds of people who seemed to be wandering around in the road. There was plenty of parking; cars, in this town, were apparently a working necessity, not a normal way for people to get around. They pulled the big bikes tail-in in front of a building just at the center of the main drag whose sign said TAVERN in big letters and then Rooms To Let in smaller letters below that.

The bartender pointed them toward a little window at the back of the TAVERN, which looked like a coat check but turned out to be the office of the little Rooms To Let business which shared the premises. The two men laid identification on the counter at the window without a word; the young woman behind the counter, whose body language clearly indicated that she was far too cool to be Letting Rooms, barely looked at them or their IDs before pointing, languidly, at the rate sign, which also carried the message “Cash Only.”

That was fine with the two motorcyclists, who had cash in big leather wallets on the ends of chains. They plunked the asked-for amount for two rooms down on the counter — it was a very reasonable rate — and got keys in exchange.

“Say,” said one of the men, the shorter one whose face didn’t sport quite so many scars, “I can’t help but notice that there’s some sort of festival underway. What’s that all about?”

“Electrification,” said the girl, languidly. Something about the way she pronounced it was off, like it had a different meaning than they were used to. She was dressed all in black, like a caricature of the rebellious teenaged daughter from an old sitcom: black dress, black makeup, spiky-bouffant black hair. Something about her threw the old-fashioned-ness of the rest of the town into sharp relief.

“Electrification,” repeated the shorter biker, smiling encouragingly. “What’s that?”

The girl reached over and pulled a chain, and the single lightbulb illuminating her little behind-the-counter area turned off. Another pull of the chain and it turned back on.

The money they’d laid on the counter managed to disappear, in the brief interlude of darkness.

“Electrification,” she said. “It was a big deal, here. There’s a festival every year. There’s a parade, and then a little play, in the park in front of city hall, at midnight.”

“Midnight.” The shorter biker looked at the taller biker, who looked like he was only listening because he hadn’t figured out how to get them to shut up yet. “How about that. I suppose everything’s open and doing business, until then?”

The girl shrugged, a gesture that eloquently conveyed ignorance and indifference in one economical motion.

“Fuck it,” said the shorter biker, “sounds fun. What do you say,” he glanced at the IDs, still sitting on the counter, “Ozzy, let’s put our stuff away and go see the festival?”

Ozzy didn’t give any indication that he’d heard, but both men collected their IDs and room keys and walked up the narrow stairs beside the little window.

The rooms were spare but clean, each one featuring a small window that looked out on the town’s main street and the people milling around in it, many of them carrying drinks. Several groups of men seemed engaged in hanging lights up from the street posts — which already had lights, but the long string of lights being festooned along them seemed to have special significance.

The two men met back in the hallway and went back downstairs together, seeming to know what they were about without the need for much conversation.

They did stop back at the window, though. Something about the girl’s total indifference seemed to pique the shorter man’s urge to prod.

“Say,” he said again, “Where’d be a good place to get some dinner?”

“There’s fish,” said the girl, pointing out the door and then moving her index finger one way, then the other, indicating either direction out the front door, “In the restaurants.”

The sheer effort put into not engaging finally got a hint of a smile from Ozzy.

“Okay,” said the shorter man, “Thanks for that. While we’re here, though,” he leaned on the little counter, which forced her to step backwards a little in order to maintain her obviously-cherished personal space, “I wonder if you could tell us if there’s anybody else staying here just now?”

She looked at him steadily. “Mister Osbourne,” she said.

The shorter man’s grin increased, and he said, “Axel, please.”

She stopped, looking back and forth between them. “Axel,” she said, meeting his eyes, then shifted them to the other man. “And Ozzy.”

“That’s right.” Another big grin, like they were all now in on the same joke.

“Well,” she said, not quite smiling in just the right way to let him know that she’d gotten the joke with the names, “I’m not allowed to give out any information about any of the other guests. I’m sure that you appreciate that I wouldn’t be able to give them any information about you, to any of them.”

She paused.

“If there were any.”

Axel used two fingers to tip an imaginary hat at her.

“Thank you,” he said, and turned to go out the door in search of a restaurant; then he turned back suddenly.

“Say,” he said, “Are there any other places to rent a room for the night, in this town?”