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2
Port in a Storm
Just as Iwas contemplating the best way to go, my luck changed. At least it seemed like it did. Up ahead I saw an offramp, the first in many miles, and it was with teary relief that I saw those two wonderful blue little additions to the bottom of the exit sign, GAS and LODGING. Even if it were missing FOOD, I could at least ride out the storm inside a building rather than in my car.
I pulled off the freeway and I looked right, then left.
In one direction, the world was nothing more than a white sheet of precipitation. But in the other, I could barely make out two buildings. One was a truck stop and gas station, where I hoped I could pick up some snacks. The other was one of those products of a bygone era, the one wing motel. A refugee of mid-last-century, the Mile 89 Motor Lodge looked like it probably survived on tired overnight drivers and truckers, as well as idiots like me who were poorly prepared for… well, anything.
It quickly became clear that I wasn’t the only driver trying to get off the road. In fact, there were already cars parked in front of six of the twelve units, and as I got out, I was worried. If even a few of the units held truckers who’d left their rigs across the street at the truck stop, I could be in trouble.
The lobby was dingy, with fake wood paneling and a faded green sofa against the far wall. The lighting was dim, as each of the fluorescent banks in the ceilings only had half their slots full, maybe to save money, maybe to hide some of the lobby’s scars. We were so far out that there weren’t even pamphlets for local tourist traps.
On the small TV mounted on the wall opposite the sofa, the Weather Channel, because of course—the universe hadn’t already told me enough times what an idiot I was—was already broadcasting a wall of radar coverage that might as well have said ‘you’re fucked and oh by the way you’re an idiot’ to anyone watching, especially to me in particular. The sound was off, but the subtitles flew by, more or less confirming what the radar had said in fewer words. Knowing I didn’t have a choice, I looked at the clerk, sitting in a tired old office chair behind the counter.
“Please say you’ve got a room available,” I said in a trembling voice.
“Yup,” the bored man said.
He was wearing a Budweiser button down shirt like a brewery delivery guy, not too worried about taking pride in his job. In fact, he looked like he’d rather be just about anywhere else in the world at that moment. I kind of couldn’t blame him. I felt the same.
“It’s fifty a night plus tax,” he said, opening a stained and tattered guest register.
Fifty was probably way too much for what was most likely a shitty room with a coin operated ‘magic fingers’ bed, but I was in no position to argue. Instead, I had one question.
“You take cash?”
He chuckled. “Yup.”
I made a mental note to check the sheets, and not to sit on the bedspread as I passed him the cash. He didn’t even ask for my driver’s license, instead passing me an old school brass key from the board behind him. “Room eleven, down near the end.”
Creepy thoughts of the Bates Motel ran through my mind.
Please let there be a heavy piece of furniture to slide in front of my room’s door.
I thanked him and hurried out to my Honda, staggering as another harsh gust of wind nearly sent me careening into the vehicle next to mine. I found my unit, and with quickly chilling fingers, unlocked my door and stepped into my temporary shelter.
Thank. Fucking. God.
The inside of room eleven was pretty much exactly what I’d expected, with the slight scent of stale cigarette smoke regardless of the ‘No Smoking’ stickers posted in three places.
I dropped my bag and pulled the bed spread back. The sheets looked clean, and when I bent to smell them, I got a strong whiff of some sort of industrial laundry detergent. I never thought I’d be so happy to smell stinky chemicals.
So far, so good.
A closer review of the room revealed that near the bathroom was another door, and part of me dimly wondered why someone would ever want to rent interconnected rooms at a place like this. But a harsh gust of wind buffeted my room window and I remembered I had shit to do.
Tucking my room key into my pocket, I hurried across the street to the truck stop’s convenience store, shivering the whole way in my sneakers, yoga pants, and lame winter jacket.
I filled my hand basket to the brim with just about anything I thought I might need for at least two or three days stuck here in the ass end of nowhere. In addition to a cheap sweatshirt that might help me if the power went out, I grabbed a couple of big bottles of Gatorade, several gas station plastic-wrapped sandwiches, bags of chips in different flavors, and then went to town on the canned soups and even Spam before snatching a loaf of bread and a jar of mayo. Should the motel lose power, I’d still be able to eat.
I felt pretty damn good. I’d gotten myself into a lousy situation, but I was working my way through it. No longer in danger of dying in my car or starving to death, I began to relax and even think of this stop as a bit of an adventure. An intermission of sorts in my cross-country travel.
On a whim, I also grabbed a trio of microwave burritos, figuring that I’d be able to get at least one more hot meal in before the storm hit. I dumped my overloaded basket on the counter and the clerk started ringing up my purchases.
“You need a bag, ma’am?” he asked.
Really?
