Motel Hell

I arrived at a motel in Amarillo, Texas tonight, bone-weary from thirteen hours of driving down Interstate 40, heading west toward my future. It was a Motel 6, which I usually have good luck at. They generally have fast internet, comfortable sheets, and sometimes even a washer and dryer. I pulled my car up to the front office, and went inside.

The man at the counter reminded me of Dwight Schrute, but only in an indefinable sort of way. “Howdy,” he nodded at me.

“I’d like a room, please. Just for myself. AAA discount if you’ve got it.”

“I can only give you one upstairs,” he replied, flashing me a look of genuine sorrow. “All of ‘em on the ground floor are taken.”

“That’s fine,” I nodded, and he seemed genuinely surprised that I was willing to accept a room that I had to walk up a flight of stairs to get to. Incredulous, he pulled out a map of the grounds.

“Actually, I’ve got this one here. You can pull right up to it an’ park out front. It’s real close. Or I can give you this nice big handicapped room down around the other side. First floor, real easy to get at.”

I looked down, wondering if I had missed some obvious physical handicap somewhere on my body. A missing limb, perhaps, or a third leg. All I could see was my stomach, which didn’t seem all that large by Texas standards. “I’ll take whatever,” I murmured, not really caring much where I ended up just so long as I didn’t have to drive down any more of that godforsaken interstate to get there.

“I’ll give you the handicapped one, then. You’ll like that one.”

After a prolonged hassle that involved handing fake Dwight my credit card and driver’s license several times each, I hastened off to find my room. I hadn’t noticed from the road, but the motel looks EXACTLY like the one from No Country For Old Men. I half expected to find Llewelyn Moss’ body waiting for me on the carpet when I opened the door.

Instead I found way too many cigarette burns and a handicapped bathroom the size of a cattle ranch. The floor is tiled over, the shower is nothing more than a hose and a drain, and a fan makes a terrifying “WHOOSH!” noise whenever I turn on the light.

I also had to pay three dollars for the internet connection in order to write this.

But I am now only two days away from beginning my new life.