Suzie’s House 387 : After Noon in a Motel Room

When James opened his eyes, a hang-over headache nailed him right in the middle of his forehead. He fell back against clean sheets with a groan.

Odd. He was pretty sure his sheets had become a bit crusty over the last couple of weeks. He didn’t let Mom in to clean because he was afraid she’d find his pot stash, but he wasn’t willing to do it himself, either.

There was something nice about lying in a clean bed. Almost, it made it worth being alive. He’d have to thank whoever put him there. Not that he really needed to, but it was good policy to be nice now and then.

He lifted his head and forced his eyes open against the glaring shaft of sunlight on the off chance he might actually see who had taken him in last night. In the misty recesses of his mind was the hope it was a chick.

There was no one around. In fact, from the starving artist painting to the tatty bedspread, he’d guess he was in a cheep hotel room.

He ran over everything he could remember from the night before. There’d been a bunch of guys at a friend’s house, which is where he started drinking. Then some chicks wanted to go to a dance bar. No one wanted to go out with him, though, because he never had any money and wanted them to pay for his drinks. Then a couple of guys and him went to the lake and drank some more. Then…”

It all came back to him. He’d gone home. His father said something useless about him moving out, and then the floor had hit him.

James sat up in the bed, put a hand on his forehead, and groaned in earnest. A crinkle of paper made him aware that something had been pinned to the front of his T-shirt. He yanked it off, then swore when it put a hole in the fabric.

It was a note that said, “Don’t go home. You said you wanted to see the world. Might as well start now. Love, Dad.”

In James’s lap was a small stack of bills – maybe a hundred maybe two hundred dollars.

So they’d really done it. They’d really kicked him out.

Well, they could think that if they wanted to. That didn’t mean it would stick. Hadn’t they tried to kick him out once already? He’d just go right back home and wheedle his way back in. No big.

He swung his legs off the bed, then regretted moving too fast. His shoes were on the floor next to the bed. He carefully reached down and put them on.

He’d have just carried them, but walking very far on pavement made his feet hurt too much. Knowing Dad, he’d been dropped off some place a good distance from the house. It could take some walking.

As soon as he had his shoes on, the money in his wallet, and his feet under him, he stepped outside. Might as well get going.

Only, he didn’t recognize anything. The parking lot, the hotel, the cars, everything was standard, Americanized fair, but none of it fit in his memory. He still had no idea where he was.

The door had locked behind him and he didn’t have the key card. Not that anything in the generic room would help. He went to the front office where there was an old man reading a newspaper behind the check in counter.

“Hey, Buddy. Where am I?”

The man looked up with so little interest that for a moment James thought he might not even help. Then he answered.

“You’re in Des Moines Iowa.”

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