Well, at least the Ashtabula Hotel’s matchbook was accurate, Joe thought. The grill was air conditioned. Damn shame it was January.

It had been a very good day. He’d sold a nice order to a gas station. The owner was a fat man in greasy overalls who kept spitting in a bucket every few minutes. They sat in the cramped office and went over the samples; the man wanted one of everything. Joe hated to tell him he couldn’t order 100 different matchbooks, unless he wanted to pay for 100 batches, minimum lot of 500.

“That's a lot,” the man said. Ptui. “Too many. You’re right. I don't want to sit on something that don't sell. I don't have the room. I take up too much!" He grinned.

Don’t sell? Joe thought. “You’re going to sell them?”

“Sure, why not?” Ptui. “A penny per. Look across the street. What do you see? I’ll make it easy. You don’t see nothing. There’s not another station for ten miles that way and seven miles that way. Someone coming through has no idea how long it’ll be before he gets to another station, okay?” Ptui. “So he sees my sign, he swings in, he fills up. He buys a Zero bar, he buys a Coke, pays the bottle deposit. If he needs matches, he’ll pay. He doesn’t need matches, he won’t.”

“That’s an interesting way to look at it,” Joe said. “Most businessmen use them for promotion. Advertising. You know, something to keep people coming back.”

“Eh.” Ptui. “They’re not coming back. And if they do, they’ll think, oh ho, this is the place where I got that spicy matchbook. Anyway they’re mostly for my friends. Something to pass around at the barbershop, no?” He winked.

“So you want to go with the girlie numbers.”

“Yah, I want to go with the girlie numbers. The ones with the little dogs pulling the slips. How many of those you got?”

“Twelve designs.” Twelve tiny pieces of art licensed from B&B. Cheesecake in sliver form. “And on the front?”

“Herman’s Auto Garden.” He spat a thick wad of tobacco into the pail. “And a slogan. Let me think.” Herman fished around in his pocket and came up with a battered bag of Mail Pouch; he tore off a chunk and paused. “Gas That Hits the Spot.” Can you do that?”

“Gas that hits the spot,” Joe said, writing in his notebook. And they shook hands.

Gas that hits the spot, Joe thought, sipping his coffee in the hotel grill. Well, why not. That would be one for the collection. The other one he’d sold that day – a diner – had gone with “Food You Will Like,” which seemed almost touching in its gentle hopefulness.

He produced a pack of Luckies, lit one, and went back to his order forms. Get this done down here so he could go upstairs and read before bed.

The waiter wandered over with the coffee pot, topped him off.

“I used to work there,” the waiter said.

“What? Sorry, I -"

“Your matchbook. The Auditorium. I used to work there.”

“Oh. I’ve never stayed there – I, ah, live in Cleveland. Picked these up at the smokeshop in the lobby.”

“I remember those. Always had them in my pocket for a year. Brings back some memories.”

“Sure it does. But you know I’m not too crazy about the design. Let me tell you something. See these three lines? Everybody used to put the three lines somewhere, because it makes it look modern. You see three lines and no pictures on a hotel matchbook today, it tells you that the matchbook is the only thing they’ve redesigned in the last 30 years. And the design’s all wrong. The big black thing here is too heavy, looks like it’ll fall over and crush, you know, Cleveland, I guess. I suppose it catches your eye, and the black and red is nice, but it’s clumsy. I would have put the lines horizontally.”

The waiter nodded.

“They had mice,” he said, and he walked away.