CHAPTER 9
I pulled into the hotel parking lot and looked at it. It was a typical-looking motel in that it was built around a large parking lot—no cars in sight, though. The architecture had a very mid-century modern feel to it. You know the vibe: flat roof, those white, metal balustrades that run the length of the balconies, and, inevitably, there’s always a flamingo somewhere. In this case, the flamingo was perched in a pot plant by the entrance. I climbed out of my car and walked into the reception, only to be met with an interior I wasnotexpecting. Where was the wood paneling? The retro, orange wall tiles and pea-soup-colored carpet?
I looked up at the disco ball that was spewing out dancing dots of light across the black-painted floor. I looked at the tie-dye neon wall-hanging and the chandelier that seemed to be made with glow sticks.
“Right,” I mumbled to myself as I rang the bell at the counter. But, when no one came after ringing it three times, I leaned over the counter and called out.
“Helloooo! Anyone there? Checking in.” Suddenly, a door opened and a woman came walking through it. The first thing I noticed was her blue eyeshadow. Stretching like a great blue sea from her eyelids to her eyebrows, it was a glittery blue that shimmered when it caught the ultraviolet light in the room. Her brows were those thin, black, nineties ones that arched too high, giving a permanently surprised look. Her lips were lined with a black liner and filled in with a shimmery white pink. To top it all off, she was wearing a tie-dye neon dress with equally neon bracelets around her arm, and her blue hair was up in pigtails, with tufts sticking up like long, wild grasses.
“Hello, and what can I do for you?” she asked, leaning across the counter.
“I booked online,” I said, feeling somewhat wordless.
“Sure,” she said. “What room would you like? We are completely empty; the choice is yours.”
I shrugged. “What rooms do you have?”
“Depends what you’re looking for,” she said, pulling a brochure out from behind the counter. “We have a variety of different rooms here.” She tapped her bright neon fingernails on the desk as she opened the pamphlet and flattened it out in front of me. I looked at the brightly colored pictures of rooms and beds and strange decor that filled the pages.
She pointed at one of the pictures. “This is the Rave Room,” she said. She looked up at me and smiled a wide, toothy grin, and then looked back down at the pamphlet. “And this is the Jungle Room.” She pointed at another picture. I leaned in to get a closer look. The room looked like a chill room at a trance party. Neon mushrooms and faces of cats with the “om” symbol as their third eye were painted on the walls,and was that a teepee over the bed?
“Maybe something a little less . . .” I searched for the words, but couldn’t find them. “Do you have any rooms with a desk?” I asked.
“Desks . . .” she repeated, very thoughtfully. As if I’d asked the world’s greatest, most intriguing question. A philosophical question about the meaning of life, or why time was linear.
She finally started nodding, as if she’d silently answered the question in her head. “The House Room will be perfect for you, then.” She flipped the pamphlet over and tapped on a picture. The room looked more like a dance floor in Ibiza, but it did have a desk in it.
I looked up at her and smiled. “Perfect!” I mumbled, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to use a big pink beanbag as a desk chair.
I took my wallet out slowly and pulled my credit card out. “You know, you’re the only hotel in this whole town that has any openings. Everywhere else is fully booked. Is there something going on this weekend?”
She nodded again; this time, she looked somewhat forlorn, despite the fact that her pigtails were bobbing up and down, which only made her seem comic. “Yes, but the Persian crowd never seem to check in here, come the annual Persian parade.”
“The what?”
“Persian cats,” she qualified.
“Aahhh, I see.” I nodded and then stopped abruptly. “Persian cats?”
“Once a year, PCOS comes to our town. They have a ‘best in show’ contest and then they parade down the main road.”
“Polycystic ovaries?” I asked, in utter confusion.
“Persian Cats of the South. But they never check in to my hotel. I’ve even offered to put cat boxes in the rooms, but not even that tempts them. Honestly, I don’t know why. It’s a mystery.”
I shrugged, even though this didn’t seem like a big mystery to me. I passed my credit card over to her, hoping that the thing would be accepted.
“You would think that crowd would appreciate history. I am the oldest hotel in town. My grandfather built this place in the twenties and my dad renovated it in the sixties.”
At that, I perked up. “Have you lived in this town for long?”
“All my life,” she said, swishing my card through that dreaded machine that steals your money.
“Realllyyyy . . .” I ruminated for a while. This was perfect. “So, is it safe to say that you would know every nook and cranny in this town?” I asked.
She nodded. “And I’ve probably explored them all, too.”
“I’m looking for the big old willow tree that this town seems to be named after. You wouldn’t know where that is, would you?”
