A Night At The Motel

There's value in getting a hotel instead of a motel. I'm not sure why I'm just now reminded of this, as I have traveled in some sticky locations.

So I get this motel. It's just for one night. I'm alone in my home town. I chose a motel close to the court I have to visit tomorrow and it seems good enough. It's just one night.

I walk into the room and immediately grab the corner of the bedspread with the tips of my fingers to fold it back. There is a large but faded blood stain on the white under-belly of the quilt, a small dead spider on the pillow. Normal?

I turn on the heater and go to take a shower. I turn on the faucet and leave it running, checking with my palm every so often for warm water. No hot water. So I go to the phone to call the front desk. No instructions on what to dial and I already tried 0 which continued to ring. So I walk to the front desk and tell them about the water. They guy comes in to fix the water. I sit at the edge of the bed, being careful not to touch the comforter I had moved to the side. The water problem is fixed. It was reversed. So the guy leaves and I take a hot shower while expecting someone to rip the curtain open and stab me with a knife. You know, like the scene in Psycho. I get out and for the first time, found out why motel towels can be useful. Exfoliation. They were so stiff I actually exfoliated my heels with them.

I plop on the bed sheets to watch The Office and I lean back, noticing pieces of my hair sticking to the headboard. And how did my hand become sticky? I just took a shower. It must be from the TV remote. Now, I'm pretty grossed out, knowing there is spankavision. I pull the bed spread completely off the bed. Back to back episodes of The Family Guy. Brush teeth. Sleep. Try not to imagine gun shots in between the echoing rants of Santa Maria teens after midnight.