Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
“I'd like a room for the night, please.”
“That'll be thirty-eight dollars and fifty cents,” she replied, as her pen fell greedily on the
word yup.
I was nonplussed. In my day a motel room cost about twelve dollars. “I don't want to buy
the room,” I explained. “I just want to sleep in it for one night.”
Shelookedatmegravelyoverthetopsofherglasses.“Theroomisthirty-eight dollarsand
fifty cents. Per night. Plus tax. You want it or not?” She had one of those disagreeable ac-
cents that add a syllable to every word. Tax came out as tayax.
We both knew that I was miles from anywhere. “Yes, please,” I said contritely. I signed in
and crunched across the gravel to my suite du nuit. There appeared to be no other custom-
ers.
I went into my room with my bag and had a look around, as you do in a new place. There
was a black-and-white TV, which appeared to get only one channel, and three bent coat
hangers. The bathroom mirror was cracked, and the shower curtains didn't match. The toi-
let seat had a strip of paper across it saying SANITIZED FOR YOUR PROTECTION, but
floating beneath it was a cigarette butt, adrift in a little circle of nicotine. Dad would have
liked it here, I thought.
I had a shower-that is to say, water dribbled onto my head from a nozzle in the wall-and
afterwards went out to check out the town. I had a meal of gristle and baked whiffle ball at
aplacecalled-aptly-Chuck's.Ididn'tthinkitwaspossibletogetatrulybadmealanywhere
in the Midwest, but Chuck managed to provide it. It was the worst food I had ever had-and
remember, I've lived in England. It had all the attributes of chewing gum, except flavor.
Even now when I burp I can taste it.
Afterwards I had a look around the town. There wasn't much. It was mostly just one street,
with a grain silo and railroad tracks at one end and my motel at the other, with a couple
of gas stations and grocery stores in between. Everyone regarded me with interest. Years
ago, in the midst of a vivid and impressionable youth, I read a chilling story by Richard
Matheson about a remote hamlet whose inhabitants waited every year for a lone stranger
to come to town so that they could roast him for their annual barbecue. The people here
watched me with barbecue eyes.
Feeling self-conscious, I went into a dark place called Vern's Tap and took a seat at the
bar. I was the only customer, apart from an old man in the corner with only one leg. The
